Okay, this might be her biggest screw-up yet. Forget running out on multiple fiancés. This was the act that was going to send her to hell.
She had slept with Grace’s husband. Her body, through the whisky hangover, was very sure about that much, at least. And as she sat, stunned, looking down at the perfection of his torso, the sweep of his dark eyelashes against his pale cheeks, his tousled black hair, all sorts of other memories started coming back.
Memories that made her chest tight and her cheeks red.
Memories that, under literally any other circumstances, would be very fond ones. Ones to relive in private, later. Ones to keep her warm on cold winter nights.
As it was...
‘Oh, hell, I slept with Grace’s husband,’ she whispered, then clapped a hand over her mouth to try and keep from waking him. The last thing she needed was an awake and alert Ash before she’d figured out what the hell she was going to do next.
Grabbing the second towel they’d been using as a blanket, which had been thrown aside at some point during the night—she wasn’t thinking about which point—Zoey wrapped it tightly around herself and tucked in the ends so it covered everything important. Somewhere, her pink dress must be lying abandoned, but even if she could find it Zoey wasn’t sure how she could ever wear it again without remembering Ash stripping it from her body with long, capable fingers...
No. She wasn’t thinking about that.
She was thinking about how to fix this.
Zoey paced to the window, rested her sore head against the cool glass and tried to focus.
This was a mistake. They must both know that, surely. And when Ash woke up he’d be embarrassed and confused, just like she was. They’d laugh about it, put it all down to the whisky and the drama of the storm, then they’d make a pact never to mention it again. Easy.
Except not mentioning it wasn’t the same as forgetting.
And she knew all too well that the whisky wasn’t responsible for what had happened last night. Not on her part, anyway.
She’d wanted him—wanted Ash to kiss her, to touch her, to make love to her, long before the whisky had taken effect. Alcohol had just given her brain permission to take what she wanted—had helped her forget all the reasons she shouldn’t.
Guilt swamped her, heavy as a raincloud fit to burst. It wasn’t just Grace she’d betrayed, it was her friendship with Ash too. Never mind that Grace was dead. Sleeping with Ash now...it undermined everything they’d had before. Suddenly, she couldn’t look back at all those happy memories of the three of them without wondering if the lust and passion of last night was lurking there too, under the surface.
If she’d always been thinking of this, planning it even, all along—however subconsciously.
Had she?
She didn’t think so. But then, she’d never have thought she’d sleep with Ash at all, let alone the night before she was supposed to marry someone else.
Slipping out through the bi-fold doors that opened onto the veranda over the ocean, Zoey gulped in the fresh sea air to try and clear her head. Closing the door as silently behind her as she could, she moved across to sit on the edge, her feet trailing just above the water, so the odd wave lapped against her toes.
She needed to think. To figure out what the hell had just happened—and why.
Leaning back on her hands, she let the morning wind ruffle her hair and awaken her skin. The last vestiges of the previous night’s storm still lingered in the air—a cooler, fresher breeze than she was used to out here in the Indian Ocean, and the tang of salt in her mouth with each breath. The waves were higher too—not the crashing, terrifying crests of water they’d experienced sailing in the night before, but enough to show that nothing was calm, that it wasn’t all over yet.
In fact, Zoey was rather afraid it might only be beginning.
Alone on the deck, she couldn’t resist the urge to relive the night before in her mind. After all, how was she going to fully understand what had happened—or figure out what she should do next—if she didn’t fully examine what she’d done? The fact that her heart-rate picked up at the memories was just an aside.
It had started with that kiss.
That stupid, ill-thought-out, spur-of-the-moment, mind-blowing kiss.
Zoey had never spent much time before imagining what it would be like to kiss Ash—she hadn’t needed to. Grace had described it in absurd detail the first time she’d kissed him.
But the kiss Zoey had experienced was nothing like that decade-old description.
‘It was perfect, Zoey,’ Grace had said, bouncing a little on her bed in their tiny shared university flat. ‘Like flowers and white wine and romance and rose petals. Not too much—you know, some guys can just get a little over-enthusiastic with their tongue?’
Zoey had nodded at that. She knew.
‘But Ash... He was gentle and careful and responsive and...’
She’d sighed, a dreamy look on her face, and Zoey had thought she understood exactly what she meant.
But that wasn’t the kiss that Zoey had received last night.
When Ash kissed her there were no rose petals or romance. No holding back or being gentle.
But if she was honest with herself that had only made it better. Hotter.
Her eyes fluttered closed as she remembered.
Even as his lips had brushed hers for the first time, she’d felt her blood heating up. That first touch had sent her wild—and it seemed to have the same effect on Ash too. Within moments, his hands were at her back, holding her closer as his mouth worked over hers.
He’d pulled back for a half second, just long enough to meet her eyes and murmur, ‘Okay?’ But the moment she’d nodded he’d been on her again, a drowning man who needed her kisses to survive.
Zoey had to admit it had been hot as all hell.
But a huge mistake.
Her eyes snapped open and she focused on the cool blue of the ocean, on the breeze against her skin, reminding her treacherous body of all the reasons why sleeping with Ash was the worst idea possible.
One: I just ran out on my own wedding. Again.
Two: I might technically still be engaged to David. Hell, she was still wearing his ring. Shame burning her cheeks, she tugged the diamond solitaire from her finger, realised she had nowhere safe to put it, and shoved it back onto her right hand instead as a compromise.
Three: he’s my best friend’s husband. That was the biggie, of course. It didn’t seem to make any difference to her heart or head that Grace had been dead for two years. It still felt like the worst and grossest betrayal.
Four: everything is different now.
They’d grown so close as friends. Ash was the only person she knew who was always in her corner. And now? She’d ruined that.
No, they’d ruined it. This was very much his fault too.
Zoey sighed, and tried to think her way out of the muddle her brain was in. But, before she could get further than We need to fix this, the bifold doors opened again and Ash stood there, wearing just his trousers from the night before, topless and gorgeous, his hair mussed from sleeping on the floor and his eyes knowing and heavy.
Oh, God, now what do I do?
* * *
Ash’s first thought upon waking was, We need to do that again. Soon.
Then his brain—and his hangover—caught up with his libido, and he winced.
Cracking open his eyes—slowly—he took in his surroundings. Mid-refurbishment luxury villa. Hard and chilly tiled floors against his bare arse where the towels they’d lain on had shifted in the night. Wide glass windows and doors exposing him to the world outside, except for the towel laid across his middle, just about covering his modesty.
No Zoey.
Really, apart from that last part, he’d had worse morning-afters. But not for a long time—not since befor
e he’d married Grace.
Grace.
Guilt flooded him with a heat that beat any tropical summer, and he sat up slowly as he took stock of what he’d done.
For the first time in two years, Grace hadn’t been his first thought on waking. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten her, of course, just that the memory hadn’t been top of his brain the moment his eyes opened.
After she died, for the first few months, he’d often wake up expecting her to be lying beside him. Those mornings were even worse than the others—the ones where he woke up with the knowledge of her death already heavy on his chest. At least with the second sort he didn’t have to deal with hope leaving him all over again.
But this morning—this morning he’d thought about last night first. And that had never happened before.
Wrapping the towel more securely around his waist, he stood up, wishing he’d raided the first-aid kit on the boat for some painkillers.
Where was Zoey? It wasn’t as if she could have gone far, unless she’d been desperate enough to try and sail the boat back alone, which seemed unlikely. Not least because the storm had probably battered the little yacht enough that it would need some attention before it could go anywhere. Also, because she didn’t know how.
So that meant she was still on the island somewhere, and they were going to have to talk about it.
I slept with Zoey Hepburn.
God, he was an idiot. What kind of guy seduced a woman who’d just run out on her wedding? He was pretty sure that wasn’t in Grace’s handbook for How To Look After Zoey. Or wouldn’t have been, if she’d ever written such a thing.
He wished, not for the first time, that Grace had written him a guidebook on how to live life without her. Maybe then he wouldn’t be screwing up the only real friendship he had left so damn badly.
Okay, so. First step. Talking.
No, first step—clothes. Otherwise nothing about this was going to get any easier.
Tugging on his suit trousers, he headed for the large glass doors that led out to the veranda. As he opened them, he spotted Zoey, sitting on the deck just out of sight from the villa, her feet dangling over the water.
She turned to look at him as he approached and he saw everything she was feeling in her eyes. Zoey had always been an open book, unable to stop her every emotion showing on her face. He studied her, to get a read on how she was feeling.
There was guilt there, unsurprisingly. And confusion and...fear?
Ash’s insides tensed at the last one. Why was she afraid? And what sort of terrible friend was he to have left her feeling that way?
Mild panic setting in, he quickly ran over the previous night in his head. They might both be thinking better of it this morning, but in the moment she’d wanted it as much as he had, hadn’t she? He’d checked. Repeatedly. With every step forward they’d taken.
Her responses—physical and verbal—had been enthusiastic enough for him to relax a little. Whatever she was afraid of, it wasn’t his behaviour the night before, he was sure.
‘Good morning.’ His voice came out scratchy from last night’s whisky and he cleared his throat as he sat down beside her—close enough for friends, not so close as to spook her.
‘Hey.’ She gave him a small half smile. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Surprisingly, yes,’ he replied. ‘Given the lack of comfort and the luxury I was promised here.’ Of course, the vigorous exercise and whisky before bed had probably helped with that. But he didn’t mention it. Even though she had to be thinking it too.
Could he blame the whisky? They’d certainly drunk enough of it. But Ash knew himself too well for that. Whisky might lower his inhibitions, but there wasn’t enough in a whole bottle to make him do something he didn’t want to do anyway.
And, oh, God, he’d wanted Zoey. If he was honest with himself, he still did. Even hung-over and regretting putting their friendship on the line—it didn’t change the fact that he saw her in a new light now. He knew how it felt to kiss her, to touch her, to feel her. And that wasn’t something any amount of alcohol could wash away.
They sat in awkward silence for a long moment, looking out over the water as sea birds swooped low and waves crashed high.
‘Do you think the boat is okay?’ Zoey asked suddenly. ‘I mean, for us to sail back this morning?’
‘I’ll go take a look when my head’s stopped pounding so much,’ Ash replied. His head hurt a little more just thinking about it.
‘What will we do if it’s not okay?’ There was panic rising in her voice now, Ash could hear it.
‘You mean, how will we explain it to the guest who hired it? They’ll have insurance, Zo, don’t worry. And if there’s a problem, I’ll pay.’ He used his most soothing voice, trying to calm her, but somehow every word only seemed to make her more agitated.
‘I mean, how will we get off this island!’ She jumped to her feet. ‘I need to get back there, Ash. Now.’
He blinked. ‘Back to... David?’ Surely she didn’t mean what he thought she meant.
‘The wedding is supposed to start in two hours,’ she said. ‘If the boat is okay—’
‘You could get back and marry the man you already told me you’d be unhappy with?’ Ash raised his eyebrows. ‘Zoey, sit down. Let’s talk about this.’
She shook her head, her dark hair whipping around her face in the wind. Wrapped in a towel that barely covered the tops of her tanned thighs, she looked wild, unpredictable.
And gorgeous. Utterly, utterly gorgeous.
Ash looked away and waited for her to sit. She didn’t.
‘I don’t want to talk. I want to get back to where I’m supposed to be.’ Her eyes were wide and wild too, he realised when he looked back. As if control was slipping from her grasp and she wasn’t even trying to catch it.
‘You’re not supposed to marry David today,’ Ash said calmly.
‘What? So now you’re a big believer in fate and destiny? And you’ve decided mine?’ She threw the words at him, and he wondered if she knew how much they stung.
‘You know I’m not,’ he said softly, remembering the people who’d told him, after Grace’s death, that all things happened for a reason, that God had a plan.
He’d known they were trying to offer comfort, which was the only reason he hadn’t screamed at them that whatever plan this was, he hadn’t agreed to it. That any God who had a reason for taking his wife and unborn child from him had better start explaining Himself pretty damn fast.
Sometimes, there were no reasons. And talk of fate and destiny only tried to hem people in to decisions they shouldn’t be making, in his opinion.
Zoey’s expression turned contrite. ‘I’m sorry. I just...’
She trailed off, so he tried to find the words for her. ‘You’re scared and confused. Just like me. Which is why we should talk.’
But Zoey shook her head again. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’
Then, with a whirl of hair and towel, she’d turned and gone, disappearing back into the house and slamming the door shut behind her, before he could even think of following.
Ash stared out at the water.
‘Well. That could have gone better.’
* * *
Yes, fine, okay, so technically she was running away again. At least she had a theme. Like, a personal calling card. If you wanted her, she was already gone.
And Ash had only wanted to talk to her. Imagine if he’d wanted to marry her.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.
Too late. The idea was already there in her head. Festering.
Quickly, Zoey dragged on her still damp pink dress, ignoring the streaks of dirt from the boat, the storm and the sawdust, and let her towel drop to the floor. She needed real clothes to face today, however ruined they were.
Matches my mood.
Without
looking back to see if Ash was following—please don’t let him be following—she dashed out of the front door of the villa, away from the veranda and towards the beach.
‘I need to go check on the boat,’ she told herself under her breath as she marched away from the villa—away from him. ‘See how bad the storm damage is to the island too. It’s the responsible thing to do.’
And just because she hadn’t been the responsible one at any point up until now, that didn’t mean it was too late to start, did it?
Her determination and sense of righteousness lasted until she reached the edge of the sea and realised she’d stormed off in the wrong direction for checking on the boat and had no idea what the island had looked like before the storm hit.
Gathering her dusty and windswept hair into a knot at the base of her neck, she pulled it through itself until it stayed in place, held by dirt and sea salt, she supposed. Then her wobbly legs gave way and she dropped down to the sand, her legs folded under her.
She’d thought—she’d hoped—that they’d look at each other this morning and laugh. Brush away the events of last night as a drunken mistake, one that wouldn’t affect their friendship in the least.
But then she’d seen him again and known, without a shadow of a doubt, that however he felt about their indiscretion, she wasn’t going to be able to brush it aside or forget it at all. Ever.
His touch was burned into her skin. His kisses owned her brain now—she could think of nothing else when she saw his lips. And his body... How had she never touched it before? Been touched by it. Felt it sliding against hers—
Because he was married to someone else. Because he loved someone else. Still, even now. Grace was it for him—he’d told her as much.
So what was the point in pretending otherwise? In imagining—even for a moment—that things could be different.
What was wrong with her that a man kissed her and her thoughts instantly went to white dresses and diamond rings?
‘It doesn’t have to be all or nothing, Zoey,’ Grace had told her once. ‘You can have love without marriage, the same way you can have marriage without love. And not every potential relationship has to go the distance. Some are only meant for right now.’
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