James . . .
Mad at herself, she pulled on a bathing suit and another sundress—which for someone who’d just come from the States in December felt unreal. After an extremely cold fall and early winter at home, she’d been unable to fathom ever being warm again, so she had packed heavy clothes. She added a thick cardigan sweater to her ensemble before padding upstairs.
It was a stunning Caribbean morning, already warm and glorious, which was a comfort but also made her heart hurt. Drawing a deep breath, she went directly to the closed bridge door and lifted her hand to knock.
But didn’t.
Instead, she hesitated, picturing how happy her dad had been at the idea of seeing his estranged wife again.
How was she going to do this without breaking his heart? Answer: she wasn’t.
Lowering her hand, she swore and turned to walk away. But . . . she couldn’t. He needed to know. Turning back, she stared at the door again. For god’s sake, make like a Nike commercial and Just Do It already. Again she tried to knock, but couldn’t make her knuckles touch the wood. “Argh!” Spinning on a heel to leave, she plowed right into a brick wall.
James.
Of course. Because this wasn’t hard enough.
“Whoa,” he said, easily absorbing the impact without moving, wrapping his arms around her to keep her from falling.
Which was how she found herself face-first in the crook of his neck, enveloped in the only pair of arms where she’d ever felt at home. For a beat, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t do anything but sift her way through the memories of being right here in his arms on this boat, safe and sound and cared for.
When she didn’t move, his arms tightened a bit, and he bent and put his head against hers. “You okay?”
Sure. For someone completely losing her shit.
“Hannah?”
Just the low timbre of his voice had her eyes stinging. She decided to blame this on the sun and the morning breeze, which was blowing her hair into her face.
James looked in his element in a pair of board shorts and a T-shirt advertising something in Spanish. He was warm and toasty and so familiar she burrowed in closer without thinking.
He stilled before squeezing her gently. “Hey,” he said softly. “Let’s go somewhere else not quite so visible.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you hate it when anyone sees you cry.”
She sniffed and shook her head. “I’m not crying.” But she was sweating. She shucked her sweater. “It’s just allergies.”
“Yeah. You’re allergic to confrontation,” he said dryly and untangled her fingers from where, oh boy, they’d been fisted in his shirt. Taking her by the hand, he pulled her away from the bridge, portside toward the stern until they came to the aft deck. This was where guests usually hung out on the days they were moored and near land. It was half-covered, half-open to the sky, complete with a stocked bar, tables for dining, and comfortable lounge chairs, and led to the swim platform where all the toys were kept, such as snorkel gear and flotation devices—all empty now.
James gestured to the ladder that would take them up a level to the crow’s nest, where they’d be two stories up in the lookout, all alone.
“I don’t bite,” he said. “Not unless you ask real nice.”
Rolling her eyes to hide the fact that for one second she was tempted, she reached for the ladder. She started to climb, all too aware of him beneath her waiting for his turn. “Are you staring up my dress?” she asked.
“I do that only when you’re not crying.”
She snorted, then realized that somehow he’d managed to make her sadness retreat a little. At the top of the ladder, she climbed into the crow’s nest, which was a round platform with a railing protecting the “nest.” Someone—most likely Sally—had wrapped the mast with holly, and there was also a tiny Christmas tree that looked more like a Groot wannabe than anything else, decorated with eco-safe scrap ribbons and what looked like salt dough ornaments.
Definitely Sally’s doing.
The area was small, and the farthest she could move was maybe three feet. She was hugging herself and looking out at the stunning 360-degree view when James came up behind her.
“So . . . what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she said, proud that she’d managed to collect herself.
“It’s never nothing.” He moved to her side and eyed the water before turning all his attention on her.
Feeling oddly vulnerable, her emotions still far too close to the surface for her comfort, she sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Everything is.”
Right. And this was James, who like it or not—and for the record, she didn’t—knew her better than just about anyone else, even if they hadn’t seen each other for a while. “My mom’s new boyfriend proposed to her. She’s got a date picked out and everything.”
“Except she’s already married,” James pointed out.
“Right.” Hannah patted the purse hanging across her body. “She’s divorcing him. I’ve got the papers.”
James let out a surprised exhale. “Jesus, Hannah, you’re going to destroy the guy.”
“Look, I know, okay? But she was going to have a courier deliver them just before he set sail yesterday, and I . . .” She shook her head. Closed her eyes. “I couldn’t let him find out like that.”
She heard James expel a harsh breath. “She shouldn’t have let you do this for her, Hannah. She should never have put you in this position, much less this week of all weeks, over the holiday. She knew what this time means to him.”
“Yeah,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “I know. I also know that heartbreak wasn’t on his Dear Santa list.” Nope. She’d been the only thing there.
James lifted her chin with a finger and waited until she opened her eyes. “And I’d bet you delivering the news wasn’t on yours,” he said quietly.
“No. I hate knowing I’m going to hurt him.”
“That’s why you’re here this year, so he’d at least have you when he got the news.”
She looked away, not sure her being here would help at all. “Figured I was better than nothing.”
“You know you are,” he told her, his voice low and serious. “You’re important to him.”
She hoped, but wasn’t all that sure sometimes.
“So she’s not really joining us in Puerto Rico.”
“I didn’t know she was going to tell him that,” she admitted. “I think he’s been holding out hope for a reconciliation this whole time. Finding out that’s not ever going to happen is going to break his heart. And not to make this about me, but I don’t have any idea how to tell him.”
He ran the pads of his thumbs beneath her eyes, swiping at the tears she hadn’t been aware she’d let fall. “I get that. And it’s not your fault, Hannah. Not the way she chose to tell him or how he chose to keep his head in the sand for so long when it comes to her. But you’re here now. If I were you, I’d do it sooner rather than later. Rip off the Band-Aid.”
She met his gaze, surprised by the not-your-fault thing. Intellectually she knew that was true, but emotions were never logical, at least not for her. “I’m going to break his heart.”