Wreck (Sphere of Irony 4)

“What? Stop it,” she snaps. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re friends and that,” she jerks her thumb over her shoulder at the tailing paparazzi. “That doesn’t change a thing.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No. So don’t say that again. It’s insulting that you think I’d run away because of a few reporters.”

I choke out a dry laugh. “A few? Wait until you see what they write about you, Bee. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” My tone is harsher than I meant.

“Don’t decide my reaction for me.” I glance over at Abby to see her scowling, her chin jutting out stubbornly.

“All right, you win. If you say it doesn’t bother you, then it doesn’t bother you.” I throw up one hand in defeat.

“Good.”

I only hope she means what she says, because even though I gave her the option, I don’t know if I can stand to lose her again.

Abby

“You had enough sun yet?”

I squint up at the shadow cast over my comfortable lounger. “I guess. What about you?”

Hawke sits on the edge of my chair, the sun-kissed skin of his muscular thighs coming in contact with my calf. I have to hold back a hiss when his touch sends a jolt of lust up my leg.

“I’m done,” he admits, giving me a crooked smile. He’s wearing dark sunglasses instead of his usual square frames, so I can’t see his beautiful eyes. It doesn’t matter, though. I’m sure they’re dancing with delight. “My tats are fried and I’m covered in sand. I need a shower.” His stomach growls loudly and we both laugh. “And a sandwich.” He pats his abs, drawing my gaze to the defined ridges covered in dark and colorful slashes of ink.

My mouth practically waters at the sight. I groan. “I’m hungry too.” Yep. I could easily devour every inch of his body.

Hawke tilts his head, giving me a knowing look.

“For food,” I clarify. “Hungry for food. A sandwich sounds good.” Hawke raises his eyebrows. “Just get up,” I huff. He’s too sexy and he’s half naked and touching me. How can I be expected to form a coherent sentence?

Hawke purses his lips, but doesn’t tease me. “Okay. Food. Let’s go inside. I’m sure Gavin has something we can eat.”

“It’s nice of him to let us use his beach while he’s out of town with Mitch,” I mention while shoving my towel and other things into a large tote.

“It is. But Gavin’s that kind of guy.” Hawke takes the bag from me and slings it on his shoulder.

“What kind of guy?” I ask as we trudge across the nearly deserted beach to Gavin’s ultra-modern white and glass house.

“Kind, considerate, caring… pretty much everything I’m not,” Hawke says.

“Hey.” I grab his arm, pulling him to a stop on the back steps of the deck. He reluctantly faces me and I wish I could see his eyes. Why can’t I? I reach up and push the sunglasses back onto his head, revealing those expressive multicolored eyes. “You are all of those things.” I let the back of my fingers skim down the side of his face. Hawke closes his eyes and leans into my touch, his breath hitching when he exhales. When I realize what I’m doing, I snatch my hand back.

This is a dangerous game I’m playing. I could very easily see myself falling back down the rabbit hole with Hawke, one I won’t be able to climb out of again. Even if he reciprocates my feelings, nothing about us has changed. Yes, we’re older, but we still have the same exact issues creating a gaping chasm between us.

Hawke opens his eyes and ducks his head to avoid my gaze. “Let’s get cleaned up and get some food.”

After a much needed shower and change of clothes, we manage to throw together a pretty decent lunch of pasta salad and cold grilled chicken that Gavin had in his fridge. Hawke and I have been hanging out for several weeks now, as friends. I’ve been trying to find a good time to bring up the fact that I know about the accident, but it never feels like the timing is right. The best case scenario when I finally do is for Hawke to be upset. The worst is that he pulls away and stops speaking to me completely.

We climb into Hawke’s SUV for the long drive back to the city from Gavin’s house on Huntington Beach. Knowing he’s trapped in the car with me for the next hour or so, I blurt it out without thinking.

“I’m sorry about your family.”

Hawke goes rigid in the driver’s seat. He presses his mouth into a tight line and his shoulders hunch over from stress.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” His voice is flat. I know him well enough to recognize his attempt to remain calm.

“Maybe you should. Have you ever? Spoken to anyone, that is?” Why am I doing this? Hawke clearly doesn’t want me prying into his past. Everything he’s done and said before, everything about his body language right now, is screaming for me to shut up, but I can’t. Years of waiting for answers renders me unable to stop.