Dammit.
She slowed to a walk before the pressure in her side escalated to a full-blown stitch, and tipped her head back to draw in slow, deep breaths. The moon glared down at her in silent recrimination.
You owe him an apology.
She bent over and rested her hands on her knees, swallowing the truth with a lungful of oxygen. In the morning. She’d apologize first thing in the morning. After that, she’d keep herself in line, and respect his rules, because he was a good guy. No matter how much she wished for more from him, he’d been very clear about what he was there to do…and what he wasn’t there to do, and—
“You okay, Trouble?”
She was so busy making promises to get the moon off her back, she almost screamed when Luke called to her. She whipped her head up, but it took her a moment to spot him sitting a few yards up on the sand, staring at the ocean. Well, staring at her now that she’d moved into his line of sight, but originally staring at the water. The sight of him there, alone, made her realize she wasn’t the only one miles from home, away from everything familiar, enduring six weeks of relative seclusion. She really didn’t know how he spent his downtime—other than not with her—but by himself on the beach after dark hadn’t entered her mind. It seemed broody, and lonely, and uncharacteristic, despite his self-contained nature.
Then again, she’d just taken a midnight run to clear her head, so it could be he hadn’t cornered the market on broody, lonely, uncharacteristic behavior.
“I’m fine,” she answered before the silence stretched too long, and made her way up the slight slope to close the distance between them. Her plan might have been to apologize first thing in the morning, but apparently the universe felt she ought to get it done tonight. As she approached, the moonlight glinted off something sitting in the sand beside him. A bottle. She narrowed her eyes to make out the label. Old Harbor Visitante 212, she read, and then shifted her attention back to him. “Are you out here by yourself…drinking?”
Correction. He definitely won the prize for broody, lonely, uncharacteristic behavior.
“Nope.” He upended the bottle to demonstrate it was empty, and then went back to staring at the waves.
She took a seat beside him in the sand, settling close enough to catch a whiff of roasted malt, dark chocolate, and a sting of rum. “Sending out a message in a bottle? Does it say, ‘Please rescue me from my crazy client?’”
His lips curved up at one corner. “No. It says…” He let out a long, tired breath, and turned to her. His windblown hair and slow-to-focus eyes told her the bottle in his hand wasn’t his first of the evening. “It says, ‘I’m sorry—’”
“That’s my line.” Yes, it was rude to interrupt, but she really didn’t think she could withstand an apology from him. Sorry I didn’t stop you
from making a fool of yourself? Sorry I ever took this job? Sorry, but…
“I never should have let that happen,” he finished.
Wow. That was even worse than anything she’d come up with. Swallowing the rest of her pride, she forced a highly unconvincing laugh. “Oh please. Don’t even. I jumped you.”
Now he laughed, and then made her breath hitch when he cupped her cheek in his palm. “I’m bigger, taller, and strong. Trust me, Trouble, you did not jump me.” His expression sobered and his eyes scanned her face while his thumb traced her cheekbone gently. It hurt how much she wanted to read into the absent gesture. “Trust me,” he repeated, but this time his smile took on an ironic tilt, before he shook his head, and dropped his hand. “Right. Mr. Trustworthy. Believe it or not, I’m trying to do the right thing here. I’m trying to be fair to you.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “And to me.”
God, was she an idiot? “I know. I’m….” Sorry. She meant to say “sorry,” but shame clogged her throat. Early on, he’d told her sex wasn’t part of the services, because he wasn’t some high-priced gigolo disguised as a trainer. Pride had forced her to assure him she wasn’t a woman who needed to pay for sex, and then she’d completely dismissed that particular concern. Like it didn’t apply, because she had feelings for him, dammit. But what about him?
Her motives came straight from her heart, but if she told him that, he wouldn’t believe her. No, he’d already written off her feelings as an apparently commonplace byproduct of the highly physical and intimate nature of their relationship, and misplaced reliance on her part, or an inability to separate needing his help from plain old needing him. Maybe if he hadn’t already spent some chunk of this evening trying to drown out the memory of crossing lines with her this afternoon, she would have taken another run at that wall. What did pride matter at this point?
But he was out here, using local cerveza to wash down guilt, regret…hell…probably a decent dose of plain old pissed-off, and if she couldn’t read that for what it was—a big, neon warning sign that she was living up to the nickname he’d given her—then she really was an idiot. “I’m sorry,” she managed to whisper, getting her voice behind the words this time.
“Don’t.” He turned to her again, and shook his head. “I have a lot of experience doing what I do. I know what’s right, and I know what’s wrong. I like to think I can handle anything at this point, but”—he reached out and traced her lips with a fingertip—“I’m finding it hard to handle you. I’m only human, Quinn.” He sighed and stopped touching her. “And you’re so damn…”
So damn neurotic? Narcissistic? Slutty? No way could she let him finish that sentence, even if she deserved every word of it. “Yeah. I’m hard to handle.” She dredged up her shatterproof smile. “You’re not the first person to think it. You won’t be the last.” Now she put a hand on his cheek, because his eyelids drooped and he seemed to be having a hard time focusing. “Driving people to drink is my secret, hidden talent.”
His eyelids snapped up and he looked straight at her. “You don’t have the first clue what your talents are, Trouble.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Besides, I only had two. I just don’t do it very often. It’s counterproductive, and”—he broke off and yawned, hugely, then gave her a lopsided smile—“a shitty coping mechanism.”
Her heart contracted a little at the sloppy grin. She eased back and combed his hair off his forehead with her fingers. “How about rest? How’s that for a coping mechanism?”
He leaned into her touch for a moment, a low noise rumbling in his chest like the purr of a jungle cat when she raked her nails lightly over his scalp, but then he caught himself. The growl bottomed out into a groan, and he flopped down in the sand with his arm folded behind his neck. “Rest is prob’ly a good idea.”
She raised her brows at him, but it was a wasted effort because he’d already closed his eyes. “I was thinking you should get some rest in a bed, maybe in your room?”
He lifted his other hand and gave her a thumbs up. “Give me a sec and I’ll walk you back to your villa first.” Then, without opening his eyes, he patted his chest. “Have you seen the sky tonight? Huge moon.”
Yeah. Right about now, that big old moon was mocking her, but she couldn’t resist Luke McLean, all tipsy and tired and splayed out on the sand in a navy blue T-shirt and rolled at the ankle khakis. She arranged herself alongside him and settled her head into the dip between his chest and his shoulder. The cloud-soft cotton under her cheek covered warm, vital muscle, neither of which muffled the slow, steady thud of his heart. Hers slipped another inch into the danger zone when a warm hand covered the one she’d rested on the center of his chest and then long fingers threaded through hers.
She looked at the endless expanse of sky, listened to the ancient lullaby of the surf foaming out against the sand, and the thunder of his heartbeat in her ear. After a moment, she whispered, “Luke?”
No answer. She lifted her head, intending to wake him, but just then, a light shot across the heavens in a glowing arc. A falling star. They were supposed to be lucky, weren’t they? She strained her eyes to keep it in sight while she scrambled around in her brain for a quick wish.