Hot Island Nights. Sarah Mayberry

people—note I’m stressing the word normal, as opposed to uptight repressives—talk to each other about sex and explore their sexuality and have fun in bed. They don’t pat you on the head and tell you they respect you too much to objectify you, or whatever rubbish excuse he came out with after you’d finally got up the gumption to talk to him. And I love that he tried to make it all about you, by the way, and not about his hang-ups.”

      “I really don’t want to talk about this again.”

      But Violet was off and running on one of her favorite rants. “For God’s sake, it wasn’t as though you asked him to tie you up and go at you with a cheese grater or something. You wanted to do it doggy style, big bloody deal. There were no small animals involved, no leather or hot wax.”

      “I’ve called off the wedding, Vi. This is definitely filed under The Past. You need to let it go.”

      There was a small silence on the other end of the phone.

      “You’re right. Sorry. He just really gets on my wick.”

      “Well, you’ll probably never have to see him again, since he’s hardly going to want to know me once he’s gotten over the fact that I’ve dumped him. That should make you feel better.”

      A dart of fear raced down Elizabeth’s spine as she registered her own words. She’d changed the course of her life by walking away from the wedding and she had no idea what might happen next. A terrifying, knee-weakening thought. But she refused to regret her decision. The truth was she’d never really loved Martin the way a woman should love the man with whom she planned to spend the rest of her life. She was fond of him. She admired his many good qualities. He made her feel safe. But he also exasperated her and made her yearn for … something she didn’t even have a name for.

      “E. Someone’s just come into the shop and I have to go. But you can do this, okay? Just get out of the car and go introduce yourself. Whatever comes after that, you’ll handle it.”

      “Thanks, coach. And thanks for all the hand-holding and tissue-passing and intel-gathering over the past few days,” Elizabeth said.

      “Pshaw,” her friend said before ending the call.

      Elizabeth put her phone in her handbag and took a deep breath. It was time to stop fannying about and get this over and done with.

      Her heart in her mouth, she opened the car door and stepped into the hot Australian sun.

       2

      NATHAN JONES WOKE TO a single moment of pure nothingness. For a split second before the forgetfulness of sleep fell away, he felt nothing, knew nothing, remembered nothing.

      It was the best part of his day, hands down.

      And then he woke fully and it was all there: the memories, the anxiety, the guilt and shame and fear. Heavy and relentless and undeniable.

      He stared at the ceiling for a long beat, wondering at the fact that he kept forcing himself to jump through the flaming hoop of this shit, day in, day out. There was precious little joy in it and plenty of pain.

      Then he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. It wasn’t like he had a choice, after all. He wasn’t a quitter. Even though there were times when it seemed damned appealing.

      His head started throbbing the moment he was upright. He breathed deeply. It would pass soon enough. God knew he’d chalked up enough experience dealing with hangovers over the past four months to know.

      The important thing was that he hadn’t woken once that he could remember. If the price he had to pay this morning for oblivion last night was a hangover, then so be it.

      He stood and ran a hand over his hair, then grabbed the towel flung over the end of the bed and wrapped it around his waist. He worked his tongue around his mouth as he headed for the door. Water was called for. And maybe some food. Although he wasn’t certain about the food part just yet.

      The full glare of the midmorning sun hit him the moment he stepped out of the studio into the yard. He grunted and shielded his eyes with his forearm. Looked like it was going to be another stinker.

      He crossed to the main house and entered the kitchen. The kitchen floor was gritty with sand beneath his feet and he smiled to himself. Sam would have a cow when he came home, no doubt. Nate had never met a guy more anal about keeping things shipshape and perfect. A regular Mr. Clean, was Sammy.

      The fridge yielded a bottle of water and he closed his eyes, dropped his head back and tipped it down his throat. He swallowed and swallowed until his teeth ached from the cold, then put the nearly empty bottle onto the kitchen counter. He was about to head to the shower when a knock sounded at the front door.

      Nate frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Didn’t particularly want to see anyone, either. That was the whole point of being on the island—privacy. Peace and quiet. Space.

      He walked through the living room to the front hallway. He could see a silhouette through the glass panel in the door. As he hovered, debating whether or not to answer, the silhouette lifted its hand and knocked again.

      “Coming,” he said, aware he sounded more than a little like a grumpy old man.

      The door swung open and he found himself facing a tall, slim woman with delicately sculpted features and deep blue eyes, her pale blond hair swept up into the kind of hairstyle that made him think of Grace Kelly and other old-school movie stars.

      “Yes?” he said, his tone even more brusque. Probably because he hadn’t expected to find someone so beautiful on his front step.

      She opened her mouth then closed it without saying anything as her startled gaze swept from his face to his chest, belly and south, then up to his bare chest again. There was a long, pregnant silence as she stared at his sternum. Then she pinned her gaze on a point just beyond his right shoulder and cleared her throat.

      “I’m terribly sorry. I’m looking for Sam Blackwell. I was told this is his place of residence.”

      Her voice was clipped and cultured, the kind of cut-glass accent he associated with the royal family and people who maintained a string of polo ponies.

      “You’ve got the right place, but Sam’s not around right now,” he said.

      “I see. Could you tell me when he’ll be back?” She darted a quick, nervous glance toward his chest before fixing her gaze over his shoulder again. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d never seen a bare chest before, the way she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. Six months ago he would have been amused and intrigued by her flustered reaction—she was a beautiful woman, after all.

      But that was six months ago.

      “Sam won’t be back until the new year,” he said. “Try him again after the fifth or sixth.”

      He started to swing the door closed between them.

      “The new year? But that’s nearly a month away.” Her eyes met his properly for the first time, wide with disbelief and maybe a little bit of dismay.

      His gut told him to close the door, send her on her way. He had enough on his plate without taking on someone else’s worries.

      “Not much I can do about that, sorry,” he said instead.

      She pushed a strand of hair off her forehead. The movement made her white linen shirt gape and he caught a glimpse of coffee-colored lace and silk.

      “Do you have a number I can contact him at?”

      “No offense, but I’m not about to hand Sam’s number out to just anybody.”

      She blinked. “But I’m not just anybody, I assure you.”

      “If you want to leave your number and a message with me, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

      She frowned.