I pressed my back against the opposite pillar and faced her. The temperature was dropping and I finally felt comfortable in the linen shirt I’d worn all day. My jeans were another matter and I itched to pull on shorts. “What’s Mari asking for?”
“Her name on the board, which I expected and don’t have a problem with. Dad, on the other hand, will see it as a sellout. The boards should speak for themselves, not the designs on them or the professional surfers riding them. That’s why we don’t have our own pro team where many of our competitors do.”
“Gale shouldn’t have a problem with Mari’s autograph when the boards sell faster than you can manufacture them.”
She flashed a smile, her teeth bright against her face. “That’s when he’ll pop a vein. She doesn’t do a flat up-front fee. She wants royalty payments.”
I brought the beer to my lips and laughed, the sound vibrating in the bottle. “Gale’s going to pop more than a vein.” I cheered the bottle at her and drank.
She grimaced. “What about you?” She tapped her forehead. “Something’s on your mind.”
I crossed my arms. “What makes you say that?”
She finished her beer. “You weren’t with us when we passed the ball around earlier. You were distracted. Care to share?”
I wasn’t sure yet. I was still working it out.
“I’m fine.” I held out my hand, ready to return inside.
She gave me a doubtful look but didn’t pry further. A light flashed on in a second-floor window of the house next door, catching her attention. “Who’s vacationing there? I’m not used to seeing that house so dark and quiet.”
It usually wasn’t this time of year. Music would be blaring, with light in all rooms blazing. “A woman from the States rented the place for the summer.”
“Which state?”
I lifted a shoulder, surprised I hadn’t thought to ask Carla. “No idea. She seems nice, though. You might meet her. She watches the kids play on the beach.”
Natalya yawned, nodding, then gestured toward the slider. “It’s late. I’m going to bed.”
I reached for her hand when she started to walk by. She took mine without looking up at me and I pulled her into my arms. I almost sighed because the contact felt so good. Fist-bumps and neck hugs from the boys were great, but they didn’t stave off the loneliness.
Natalya folded her arms around my waist and I buried my lips in her hair. The embrace was platonic until I let my lips linger, following the part down the middle. She stiffened and I let my arms fall away, afraid I’d crossed some unspoken line. The shower incident was almost fifteen months ago. You’d think it had never happened at all.
She retreated a step and looked up, her eyes searching my face. The skin between her brows bunched. “Let’s grab some beers after work tomorrow. We can talk about what’s bothering you.” She grinned.
My mouth tilted up at the corner. “Beers sound great.”
“But not the talking.” She wagged a finger at me. “Now I know something’s going on with you. Don’t worry, I won’t push it. Yet.” She walked into the house and I followed. We said good night in the kitchen and I watched her walk down the hallway. She stopped and studied the pictures on the wall. I knew which one had her attention. A photo of her and Raquel at our wedding, bent over in laughter. Both of them beautiful in their dresses. Raquel in white and Natalya in lavender. She touched her fingers to her lips then the glass. Then she disappeared into the bathroom.
I tossed the bottles in recycling and went upstairs to write. Doctor’s orders. But what started as a daily exercise in hopes of recovering my past had evolved during the last six months into a tool of survival. Should I lose myself to James, my memories would still be here.
CHAPTER 9
JAMES
Present Day
June 22
Los Gatos, California
“Aimee.”
Her name fills the room before he realizes he spoke it out loud. The agony from not seeing her, hearing the smooth richness of her voice, folding her lean frame in his arms, the press of her feminine curves against his solid plane, floods the hollowness inside him. It nearly brings him to his knees.
The bottle slips from his fingers, lands with a thud on the wool carpet. Amber liquid bleeds into the cream fibers, soaking the sole of his bare foot. He barely feels it. Every sense is sharply tuned to the woman in the vehicle parked out front.
The headlights turn off; then after a few ticks of the ugly, ancient clock behind him, a family heirloom someone had the terrible sense to leave behind, they turn on again. It’s as though Aimee’s trying to decide what to do.
She’s going to leave.
Like his beer-soaked foot, James hardly registers his long stride consuming the distance between them, or the front door slamming into the wall because he opened it with such force. He swore to himself he wouldn’t contact her. She has a husband and a child. He doesn’t want to disrupt her life, further complicating the mess Thomas created. He doesn’t want her hurting any more than she already has. Hurting just as much, if not more, than he is.
But here she is, after years of separation for her and what seems like months for him, and nothing is going to stop him from getting inside that car. He wants to feel her nearness. He wants to hear her voice.
He knocks hard on the passenger window. She bucks in her seat, turning toward him as she white-knuckles the steering wheel with both hands. A complicated stew of emotions ravages her face, visible under the misty glow of the streetlight that floods the vehicle’s interior. He sees the same longing he feels deep into the marrow of his bones, along with a haunting regret. But there is also disappointment in, and resentfulness toward, him. His heart crumbles a little more. He hurt her and betrayed their trust. He’d kept so much from her. He’d been so ashamed.
“Aimee.” He rattles the latch. “Unlock the door.” His pulse races. He can feel it throb in his throat. His skin is hot and uncomfortable. Sweat drenches his armpits. “Please.” He rattles the latch again.
The lock clicks and he hauls open the door, sliding inside. He shuts the door behind him and plasters his damp back against the leather to stop himself from crashing into her. His lungs heave and nostrils flare as though he sprinted a 10K. A quickening tightens his chest as he breathes her in. Jasmine and orange blossom. Aimee’s signature scent. Much more powerful than the memory.
Their gazes meld across the center console, and something electric rushes through him, a flash flood of emotion. He heatedly whispers her name, his own expression worshipful.
A river of brown, wavy hair—hair he used to twine around his hands when he kissed her deeply—falls gracefully over her shoulders. The Caribbean-blue orbs he knows so well swim in pools of unshed tears. Her lashes glisten—the pale, delicate skin encircling her eyes, puffy. She’s been crying for some time. There are teardrop stains dotting her jeans.