“Natalya?” he calls quietly.
He steps into the room, his vision slowly adjusting. It’s dark except for the yellow glow of light that outlines the bathroom door. Great, she’s getting ready for bed and he’s invading her privacy. Talk about overstaying his welcome. He feels like a cad and goes to leave when his gaze lands on her. She’s tucked in a chair in the far corner of the room, legs curled underneath. Moisture glistens on her high cheekbones like a coat of fresh paint.
Now he really feels like an ass. He made her cry. “Natalya?” He moves farther into the room.
She glowers at him and he stops. Wiping away the moisture with the heel of her palm, she unfolds from the chair and goes into the bathroom. Light briefly drenches the bedroom as the door swings open then slams shut. James sighs, defeated. He’s not welcome. He starts to leave but a noise has him turning back around. Natalya stands outside the bathroom door, watching him. She dabs the corners of her eyes with a tissue.
“I apologize,” he says. “My being here bothers you.”
“Here at my house or here in my room?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Both?”
She sighs, long and wistful, and her arms fall to her sides. “I can’t tell you the number of times I imagined you standing right there. And here you are”—she lifts an arm slightly—“looking at me as if you just met me.”
James’s heart cracks a little. The urge to soothe her powers him forward. “Natalya.”
She holds up a hand, stopping him. “There were so many nights while you were in Mexico and I was here that I fantasized about our making love in my bed for once.” She closes her eyes. “I desperately want to be with you and you won’t even hold my hand.”
Her breath hitches and she bites her lower lip. Her eyes well and a tear spills over, followed by another. “I told myself I could do this, that if you came out of the fugue, I could be your friend. I could help you sort things out with the kids and be there for you should you need me. You know what?” She stares vacantly out the window in the direction of the beach. “I used to crush it surfing fifteen-foot waves. That’s not an easy feat, but it’s a cake walk compared to what happened yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday?” he asks uneasily.
She lifts her face and her brilliant green eyes meet his. She drinks him in as though he’s completely lost to her. “The hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life was shake your hand at the airport and act as if we just met when all I wanted to do was run into your arms.
“I haven’t seen you since November and it’s killing me.” She thumps her chest. “Killing me that you haven’t kissed or hugged me. You used to hug me as though you were afraid to let me go. God . . .” She sucks in a ragged breath. “I want you to touch me. I just want you to hold me.” Her voice breaks on the last word.
James desperately wants to hold her, too. She’s destroying him. But he isn’t the person she truly wants. He isn’t her Carlos. He cares about her, but he doesn’t love her, not the way Carlos did, or the way she expects him to. He isn’t sure he can love like that again.
“I’m sorry, Natalya. I’m so, so sorry I’m not the man you want me to be.”
As the words leave him he feels as if he’s apologizing for so much more. For demanding Aimee bury Phil’s assault. For not listening to Thomas when he told James to back off on Phil’s case. For chasing Phil to Mexico without asking for anyone’s help. For uprooting his sons from their birth country. And for not remembering how much he once loved Natalya.
Overwhelmed by his own emotions—anger, despair, grief, and shame—he lets his gaze slide to the room’s door out to the lanai. God, he’s an asshole for coming to her room, but at this moment, he needs to get out. Run, bellow, rage, or even punch something. “I should leave.” He shouldn’t have tried to fix what was wrong with them because he royally sucks at repairing relationships.
“I love you, James,” she says when he grips the doorknob. “I loved you as Carlos and I love the man you are now.”
His arm shakes, rattling the knob. He lets go and turns to look at her. She stands alone in the middle of the room, her face tear-streaked, hands twisting a ratty tissue. “You’re a brilliant human being and a wonderful father. I knew you would be.”
Go to her!
A voice shouts in his head, and for a split second of insanity he wonders if it’s Carlos.
She gives him a sad smile, and it’s as though everything settles into place. Carlos gave him the gift of his memories in the form of the written word. I am you, he’d written.
That’s when it hits him. James is her Carlos.
He crosses the room in three long strides and grabs her up in his arms. She cries out, tensing at the quick, unexpected contact. Then her hands latch around him and he feels her melt. He tucks his head into the crook of her neck, curving his body around hers as though he’s her shelter, and groans against her skin, a cry of anguish. It’s been far too long since he’s held anyone, or that anyone has wanted to hold him.
His hands glide up her back and he realizes that she’s shaking. They both are. Large, hoarse sobs rack her body as her fingers dig in his hair and he just holds her. He drags his mouth over her shoulder, her neck, and then the shell of her ear. That feeling of having a woman who loves him touch him, hold and caress him, rocks him to his core. His own eyes well.
Natalya presses her lips to his shoulder. He feels the heat of her breath through his shirt, then the nip of her teeth against the skin exposed above the neckline. The sensation ripples across his corded muscles, and he groans. He roughly breathes her in―her distinct, warm scent and the salty, musky aroma of her arousal―and he suddenly wants nothing more than to have her. He needs her.
Her lips move over him. She murmurs his name—James—and God help him, his heart beats faster and his blood runs south. She tugs his shirt, and heat bursts through his body. Every part of him ignites, like a dry forest after years of drought.
“I want you. I want you so badly.” She tugs his shirt again.
“I know, baby.” But he keeps his shirt on.
“Kiss me,” she breathes against his mouth. And he does. He allows himself that one thing. It’s almost his undoing.
Every passage in the journal describing what it feels like kissing Natalya pales in comparison to actually kissing her. He wants her with the desperation of a man who’s been lonely for years and the longing of a man who’s lost so much.