We stayed like that, locking eyes for long, excruciating moments, before he began tracing paths back and forth along my jaw. I couldn’t begin to fathom why, though the action seemed to be somehow soothing him. As if he were using my skin, and all the delicious ways he could control its reactions, to calm his temper.
“Grant—”
“No,” he seethed. “You’re going to hear me out. Whether you like what I have to say or not. You need to know this. That all of this—you, me, us, this isn’t some fucking game for me. None of this is. I don’t know when you’re going to realize that, girl.”
“Grant—”
“I’m not done. I’m far from done, damn it. My fucking heart is on the chopping block here, and you’re the one holding the cleaver. High above your head like some fire-starting Lizzie Borden.”
A profound silence, so deafening it made my ears ring, fell over our small space. We stared hard at each other, reeling in the aftermath of the seismic shift that had just occurred—that he had dealt to the tectonic plates of our relationship.
I was too stunned to move. To speak. I knew Grant was too, but I was past caring. He kept his gaze fixed on me, careful and remorseful and replete with worry. Or maybe something beyond that—but the part about me not caring was still there.
No. That wasn’t true. If I didn’t care, this wouldn’t hurt so much. The man had just issued a critical hit to my trust, our friendship—and fuck it—my heart.
“That was beyond low, Grant Twombley,” I barely whispered. Just behind my eyes, I could feel the awful sting of impending tears. In my throat, a lump was forming so fast and so large, it nearly gagged me.
“Blaze—”
It was just a gasp, but it told me a lot. The bastard seemed to realize he had royally fucked up, and for his sake, I prayed he grasped another recognition. The one about it being high time for him to shut the fuck up.
A garbled choke escaped him, and he took a tentative step back, finally releasing me. I couldn’t get far enough away from him in the confines of our shared space. He went to speak, but I stopped him with a stiff, straight arm.
“Rio, please. I’m so sorry.” The unmistakable sheen of tears glistened in his eyes, matching the ones now rolling down my cheeks in hot, burning streaks.
With a shake of my head, I warned him from coming any closer. I didn’t want to be a fragile girl. I didn’t want to be vulnerable or needy. I definitely didn’t want to feel like with one more thoughtless remark, intentional or not, I would be reeling in a way so pitiful, I would physically falter.
Yet here I was. Being that girl. Doing exactly that.
I bolted from the room and gave the door a resounding slam on my way out. I jogged down the hall and considered ducking back into Robert’s cabin but knew that would be the first place Grant would look. So, instead, I continued out onto the deck and made my way forward to the sunbed on the bow.
With my knees tucked beneath my cheek, I looked off to the western horizon. Each evening we chased the sun as it dipped down into the waves where Poseidon read the giant ball of fire a bedtime story. Tonight, thanks to the lingering mist of my tears, it was a smudgy but pretty blur.
But I forced myself to push past the emotions, struggling not to overanalyze everything Grant and I had just flung at each other inside. Doing so would bring more pain and sadness, and for what?
What the hell had just happened? A misunderstanding? Or was there more to it? Did Grant feel like I was finally stable enough to let the truth fly free? If so, how long had all that been festering inside him? And now that it was out, was he sincerely remorseful about it, or was he babbling those regrets just to keep me calm?
I hated having to second-guess people, and that was never something I had to do with this man: the person I thought of as my friend. I’d grown to care for and trust Grant with so many details about my life. Even the ugly, scary ones that no one else knew.
The sun sank the final inch into the water, and the last white cloud that rose up from the surface looked like a puff of smoke from an extinguished flame. I chuckled aloud at the crazy pictures my brain conjured. Time and time again, my mind’s most vivid imagery involved an active fire or the destruction of prized possessions by licking flames.
I could turn it all off whenever I wanted to. Lately, the problem was, I barely wanted to. I needed the fantasies. I liked the fires. Even I didn’t need a therapist to analyze the facts for me. My life was punctuated by blazes of all shapes and sizes.
I had a problem.
My hobby was getting out of hand. And this wasn’t the type of problem that would be resolved quickly.
The evening sky looked desolate now. Was it my mood, or had the red-and-pink glow indeed been replaced with a lackluster gray? And what did it mean? Growing up in Maryland with the Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries so close by, the water was a part of most kids’ upbringing, including mine. I scanned my childhood memory for the old saying I used to hear the adults recite.
Red at night, sailors delight. Red in the morning, sailors take warning.
“Looks like we might get a storm. Got room for one more?”
Grant’s deep voice pulled me from my thoughts. The start of a grin spread across my lips before I remembered I was really pissed at him. But how silly to force feelings that weren’t my natural response to him. The smile I quickly hid and the butterflies in my stomach were the real deal. I was ready for a cold beer and his warm, strong embrace.
But first I’d make him work for it—at least a little bit.
“That depends,” I said coolly.
“On?”
“If you brought your knee pads,” I supplied, smirking.
“Knee pads?” He tilted his head to the side, resembling enough of an inquisitive puppy to make my pulse trip on itself.
“I’m sure you’d agree that you have some serious groveling to do, Tree. And everyone knows the best groveling is done from your—”
Before I could finish my sentence, six and a half feet of solid man thudded to the boat deck in front of me. His left eye seemed to twitch involuntarily with the shock of pain from his stunt, but it didn’t distract from the impulsive gallantry of the gesture. If anything, my runaway pulse was now off to a full, flummoxed gallop.
I scooted to the edge of the sunbed to inspect for damage to Grant’s patellae and the boat’s fiberglass. While he knelt motionlessly, I raked my gaze up his body and came to rest on his hopeful eyes.
“You may begin,” I issued with a dismissive but teasing wave.
Grant inched his way closer to me and placed his palms on my knees. When I didn’t protest the physical contact, he spread my legs apart and settled between them, making our position intimate.
“Don’t get any big ideas. You’re supposed to be groveling, remember?”
“Baby,” he breathed more than spoke. “I’m so sorry.” As the proud man bowed his head with regret, he continued, “I was a total jackass before, and you have every right to be pissed off.”
“Well, thanks for your permission. I feel so much better.”
He huffed. “You didn’t let me finish.”
Despite my staunchest efforts, I could feel the corners of my lips quirking. “You don’t have much experience with this whole groveling thing, do you? I can tell you’re way out of your element.”