Page 56 of Fire Island
I decide honesty is my only path forward at this point.
“Course you do.” He sighs, searching the forest around us.
I push to my feet. “I can go back to the mainland, if it would be easier.”
He turns on me, stepping into my space. “Why would that be easier?”
“For you, I mean,” I breathe.
“You think being away from you would be good for me?”
“You did,” I whisper. “Better for me, that was the idea.”
This complicates things further, and I need to shut the hell up. Maybe if he has a reason to send me away...
But the doctor said he had to have someone with him. Surely, Iris could find a real live-in caregiver?
“Eve.” He lifts my chin with a finger. I’m looking into those blues with nowhere to go. No refuge when he says, “I don’t want you to leave. Now, or when my memories return.”
That takes my breath away.
“That might change.”
He searches my gaze before he leans in, and his breath caresses the shell of my ear. “Come home.”
Emotion floods my senses. Him this close, I can barely manage a solid inhale.
He puts a little space between us.
I hate it.
I want the distance to disappear again.
“Lunchtime,” Cal says, walking back the way he came.
He leaves me gasping for air, back pressed against the rough bark of the tree, my body alive from one small interaction. If it was possible to fall in love all over again with this man, consider me tumbling down to earth at speed. Only this time, the chance of splattering all over the ground on impact is a solid possibility.
Because to lose this man twice would render me unrecoverable.
Cal pulls out the chair at the table. All I can do is stare at it. The image of being tied to it as he pushes my thighs apartburns, sending the hottest crimson all over my neck and face. A quizzical look captures his face as he takes in my flushed face.
“It’s just a chair, Eve.”
“That’s what she said.” I drop into it and pull myself closer to the table for lunch. The table is loaded with fresh salad, chicken, ham, something that looks like a casserole or stew. Warm bread rolls sit in a basket by it. A bottle of wine is the centerpiece. A red. It sticks up out of the plates of food like the lighthouse it’s in.
If food was a love language, this would be a proposal. Or a really big apology.
“Eat before it goes cold.” Cal passes me the heavy casserole dish, and I spoon some onto my plate.
“What’s all this for?”
He continues to load up his plate, taking a little of each. When he’s done, he looks up. Uncorking the wine, he pours us each half a glass. “Trying something different.”
“Oh?”
“I can’t ask you to tell me about”—he waves a hand between us—“but maybe if we spend more time together, things might come back.”
“They might.”
