Page 7 of Hook, Line, and Tentacle
I don’t know either. That’s the problem.
“Ineedto be alone,” I say. My voice shakes. I dig my fingers into my arms, leaving white fingertip grip stains. “How about this? I respect your boundaries. You respect mine. Okay?”
He doesn’t move. I grit my teeth, then launch upright so fast I sway a little on the uneven rock. I was right—my ass is soaked through the seat of my jeans.
I stomp up to him and jab a finger into the center of his chest, which is stupidly firm under my touch, but we’re not dwelling on that. He doesn’t deserve it when he’s pissing me off like this. “Are you hard of hearing or just stupid?”
He quirks a dark brow. “Neither.”
“Then what part of this do you not understand?” I snap. “Get thehellout of here and leave me alone.”
“No.” His voice is firmer now, less patient, but still maddeningly even.
My whole body flushes with heat. I think I might be made of lava, at this point. “Why the hell not?”
He looks right at me, unblinking. Those dark gray eyes are as stormy as the sea, but they aren’t ugly at all, and for some reason that irritates me more. “You don’t want to be alone.”
I shove him. He barely moves.
“I don’tknowwhat I want,” I yell. “But it’s not this!”
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even raise his voice as he asks, “What would help?”
My breath hitches hard in my chest. I’m breathing too fast. My hands clench, and tears sting the backs of my eyes even though Idon’t want them there. I press my fingers hard into his chest again and again and it’s not enough. Nothing’s enough, even when I’m almost clawing at him.
“I don’tknow,” I say, almost choking on it. “I don’t know, I just—”
I shove him again, but this time his arms move. They wrap around me, quick and warm and unshakably strong. He pulls me into his chest like I weigh nothing. My face presses into the front of his hoodie, damp in the humid air and smelling of salt.
The panic goes quiet. All the pressure in my ribs just… lets go. His arms tighten slightly. Just enough to tell me I’m not going anywhere. His hand comes up, slow and sure, brushing over the back of my head.
“This,” he murmurs, low and soft, “is making you feel better.”
I let out something between a laugh and a sob. “Well, I’m not immune to a good cuddle.”
He exhales against my temple and holds me tighter. For a moment, I forget how to be sharp.
But then something shifts—not in me, in him. His body tenses, but it isn’t restraint. It’s more like something underneath all of this pulling uncomfortably taut. The air is suddenly oppressively warm and wet. My skin prickles where it touches his, and a pressure at my lower back pulses once, like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to either of us.
Cal jolts like I’ve poked him with a cattle prod, letting me go all at once and stepping back fast. His hands flex at his sides, and he dips his chin, refusing to meet my eyes.
“I shouldn’t—” he starts, then cuts himself off. “I’m sorry.”
He turns before I can say anything, shoulders tight and posture uneven. Then he’s gone, leaving the space around me humming, and my insides humming even louder.
I don’t plan to follow him, but my feet move anyway.
The beach is behind me, but the wind sting clings to my skin. My chest feels hollow and overfull all at once. I tell myself I’m just going back to the attic—that I’mnotfollowing the broad line of his shoulders or the storm still rippling beneath his skin, because for some reason I can feel it too. But my steps stop abruptly in the hallinstead of going for the stairs, and I let them. I let myself linger at the bait shop door.
Then I let myself push it open.
The hinges creak open with a reluctant whine. The shop is dim, so for a second, I think he isn’t in here. The tank in the back casts an eerie green glow through the gloom, pulsing soft and alive.
Then I hear movement behind the partition. Not loud. Just a kind of wet slap, saturated fabric or water rippling somehow, even though it shouldn’t be possible, because the tank is nowhere near. There’s a low, muffled noise like someone breathing too hard or not enough, or possibly both.
“Cal?” I feel stupid for calling out for him, and for following him. Like I wasn’t the one who stormed off in the first place, then shoved him and yelled at him to get away from me.
There isn’t an answer, but the movement stills.
