His Second Chance (Love Comes To Town)

“Just like that?” I say softly.

It seems, again, too good to be true.

“Just like that,” he says. “Hell, even when I was with her, yeah, I was crazy about her for a time, but...”

“It was never the same,” I finish for him.

Our eyes find each other.

“I’d go through the motions with them,” I say quietly, hardly believing I’m daring to. “But it always fell short.”

“There was always something missing,” Emerson says. “And that almost made it worse when she dumped me. Since I never thought she’d be the one to do it.”

“But it’s been so long that you almost forget,” I continue half-consciously.

“What it’s like,” he says, hands finding mine.

And this time, when our eyes find each other, there’s not the slightest doubt that we’re thinking the same thing.

“So now?” I say.

He shrugs. “She said she’d booked a night here. I assume that she’s gone by now. Although she did try sneaking into my room to surprise me.”

He says it too nonchalantly. I glance his way.

“All right, she was naked,” he admits, scowling. “But I sent her away without touching her, I swear.”

“I believe you,” I say, giggling a little. I’m so surprised at how readily the belief comes. “But you weren’t tempted even a bit?”

“No,” he says, scowling. “Fucking weird is what it is.”

“You like me,” I sing-song. “You really like me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he growls, then exhales. “All right, I like you.”

We sit there comfortably as all the tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding in my neck and shoulders eases away.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” I say.

“Neither do I,” he says.

“I wanted to go slow, but... slow doesn’t exist for me when I’m with you,” I say.

I can hear him shift to look at me. “And you think it does for me?”

“I don’t know how to trust you again,” I say. “All that you told me... I trust that you were telling the truth and I trust you to an extent, but after what happened... I just keep feeling like things will go wrong again.”

Emerson lets my words sit long enough for me to say something else. A lot of something elses.

We let the afternoon sea breeze take the words and throw them away.

A seagull laughs somewhere. An unseen child wails. And who’s listening to Moby right now, and here, of all places?

“They might,” he says when he finally says what he’s been thinking. “As for trusting me fully, I don’t know if you should.”

I can’t help it. I look at him.

He makes torture look handsome, the way his sculpted face is a study of pain.

“I’m never not going to look out for you, Wynona,” he says.

And he takes my hands.

And he looks at me.

“I’m always going to do what I think is best for you,” he says. “Even if it means I can’t be with you.”

I look at him.

And I rip my hands free.

“What kind of answer is that?” A laugh, a cry falls out of me. “What the hell, Emerson?”

“I was holding you back. It needed to end.”

“And now? What if it happens again?”

“I won’t let it happen again.”

“You can’t control everything.”

“No,” he says, louder now, like a verbal shaking of a fist. “I can’t. But I can make damn sure that we aren’t apart like that again. That I don’t let you suffer like that again.”

His hand seeks mine. I let it keep on seeking. “But how can you be sure...”

“I can’t.” His voice is ragged. “I don’t know anything for sure except that I want to try. Right now, that’s enough for me.”

His hand catches mine. Mine wasn’t really trying to evade it, not hard, anyway.

“Wynona?” he says as if my hand in his isn’t an answer already.

“It’s enough for me,” I say finally.

And then our eyes are meeting again, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a blue like his before. The kind of blue you could throw half a dozen adjectives at and not get close.

When we kiss, I know.

I’m not afraid anymore.

He pulls away smiling, although I can see it’s hard for him. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Chapter 12

Emerson

“A surprise?” she says.

Her tone suggests an exotic dish that could be slimy octopus arms or her favorite—grilled lemon shrimp.

Good thing I know my girl well.

Inwardly, I wince.

‘My girl’. Fucking Christ, you’re losing it, Emerson.

“C’mon,” I say, rising. “Let me show you. You’re going to love it.”

It feels damn good walking down the sunny beach with her hand in mine.

She’s a prize, my Wynona.

Her every comment is funny or interesting or both.

She’s telling me about her trip to the rainforest this afternoon, and I’m only half-listening because I’m so excited to see what she’ll think of it. What I have to show her.

When we stop in front of it, she doesn’t understand.

“If this is a party...” she says.