by Zoe Chant
He was silent with consternation.
He didn’t know what he wanted, Gizelle realized with unexpected clarity.
He was clearly drawn to her, the same, strange, gut-deep way that she couldn’t stop thinking about him, and her gazelle couldn’t stop sighing over him.
But he couldn’t want the rest of her, like she couldn’t want the Boston and business that he came with.
She couldn’t bear the idea of traveling over the ocean, or seeing a city, or leaving the only safe place she knew in the world.
He could clearly not bear the idea of leaving his business, and Gizelle knew she was nothing to look at, and that her broken mind would test any bond.
What must he look at her and think?
She was a clumsy disaster, with no memories, no social graces. She looked up at the staff announcement board without seeing it. She couldn’t even read.
“Gizelle...”
Even his voice was perfect.
She had to look at him, Gizelle reminded herself. Otherwise, he wouldn’t understand her.
But when she looked at him, he was so handsome and confusing that all her words got tangled up together and she didn’t have anything to say.
She screwed her eyes shut and tried to think. What had everyone else done when they met their mates? Neal led Mary off for a romantic hike in the rain. Tex took Laura to the mainland to visit the market. Travis taught Jenny build a deck. Bastian showed Saina his hoard. Wrench arranged a picnic on the beach.
Gizelle hated the beach.
But she didn’t know what else to offer. “Do you want to have a picnic on the beach?” she blurted.
She opened her eyes to find Conall staring. “A picnic?” he said helplessly.
Now she was stuck with it. “It’s food, you take it in a basket,” she explained. “Like for lunch. And you sit on the beach and eat it. I guess.” She had never done it herself.
“That sounds nice,” Conall agreed, dashing her hopes that he’d refuse and come up with something better.
“I’ll get the basket,” Gizelle offered. “You get the beach.”
She turned and escaped, wondering what on earth she’d gotten herself into this time.
Chapter 22
Conall realized that there was a wry half-smile on his mouth when actually-Wrench wandered by to check the board and he was still standing at it bemusedly.
He pulled his face into a more familiar frown at Wrench’s glower, and went off to ‘get the beach,’ as directed.
Gizelle was... so much. She was so much person packed into her small frame. She was shy and she was excited, and she was curious. She badly wanted to be helpful, and when she was uncertain, she was adorable, and when she was passionate, her enthusiasm and focus were entirely complete.
Conall had never met anyone as unpredictable, or anyone half as fascinating.
It wasn’t just that she was beautiful—which she undeniably was—it was that she was a whole world in a tiny bottle.
Dialed up to eleven, his mother used to say. But she had said it about Conall, and he couldn’t hold a candle to the intensity in Gizelle.
He desperately wanted to know if that intensity translated to the bedroom, but he knew he had to continue being patient. They’d gotten this far, they’d get the rest of the way. Eventually.
Conall paused at the gate to his cottage as he realized that he was considering it a done thing.
He was wholly prepared to set the business adrift and stay here to bask in the golden presence of the strange, wild woman who had captured his own heart along with his elk’s. He was ready to wait as long as it took her to accept him, even if that was weeks or months of awkward courtship.
It would make a fine Christmas present, his elk mused.
I hate Christmas, Conall replied out of habit.
There was a neat pile of fabric on the table just inside his cottage door. Conall unfolded it curiously to find a sundress, definitely not in his size.
There was a new bowl on his bedside table as well, overflowing in condoms. There was a second stash in the bathroom.
The staff, at least, had some optimism about this whole complicated affair.
He found two over-sized beach towels in a cabinet and went to ‘get the beach.’
Chapter 23
Chef was singing in the kitchen.
It was one of the Christmas songs that Saina had sung the day before, when Lydia was taming her hair.
Could I sing? Gizelle wondered. She moved her mouth when Chef got to a chorus she recognized, but she wasn’t brave enough to make the sounds.
“What are you up to, buttercup?” Breck asked, suddenly appearing around one of the counters with a tray of dirty dishes. “Can I get you something from the buffet?”
Sometimes, when she wasn’t feeling brave enough to go out into the restaurant, Breck would get her a plate of her favorite food and bring it to her behind the restaurant, or out to one of the picnic benches by the lawns she liked.
“Do you have a basket?” Gizelle asked. “We’re going to have a picnic on the beach. Me and Conall.” Probably that was unnecessary to explain.
“You’re moving right along,” Breck said approvingly. “You going to let him kiss you?”
“Oh,” Gizelle said, stunned by the idea of it.
Conall’s mouth, on hers. His lips, touching hers. She was suddenly weak-legged and too hot.
“Don’t look like that,” Breck teased her kindly. “He’s a gentleman. He’ll wait for you to wave him over. I’ll pack you a lunch you can feed each other. Nothing breakable, so Bastian won’t grouse about messing up his beach.”
“Yes, please,” Gizelle said faintly.
She was still imagining what Conall’s lips might feel like when Breck returned with the heavy picnic basket.
“Too heavy?” Breck asked, putting it carefully into her hands.
“Of course not,” Gizelle scoffed. Whatever else she was, she was not weak. Even if her knees did insist on feeling a little insufficient when she thought about Conall’s mouth.
“Go get him,” Breck told her with a wink and a grin.
Gizelle smiled cautiously back, but the leopard shifter was already hurrying back to his duties. She had a moment of envy—not just because he was so easy about things that were so hard for her, but because he was useful.
She wanted to feel useful.
Chapter 24
The sun on the beach was intense. Most of the resort guests had retreated to the pool deck, or the shade on their own cottage porches. Only a few were swimming in the ocean, or using the paddleboards, under Bastian’s watchful eyes.
Conall chose a spot at the far edge of the crescent, spread out his towels, and stabbed one of the provided umbrellas into the sand. He was tilting it to provide the best shade when he spotted Gizelle coming down the steps, and had to suck in his breath.
She walked like a song, every step deliberate and beautiful. When she got down to the hot sand, her pace quickened, and she danced to him. The hair that had frayed from her neglected braid glowed around her face, silver and dark, and her sundress molded to her slight curves in the breeze from the water.
“All those lawns made me hungry,” she said when she got to him.
Conall took the basket and was surprised by the weight; she had carried it so easily. Gizelle circled the towels and carefully sat on one corner, barely in the shade of the umbrella. She tried in vain to brush off all of the sand that had crept onto it.
Conall tucked the basket into the best part of the shade and offered Gizelle a bottle of water out of it. She took it, but waited and watched as Conall opened his own and drank from it, carefully copying his every gesture.
“A sandwich?” Conall offered, inspecting the contents of the basket. Most of the weight was water and an ice pack to keep it cool, but there were also slices of watermelon and strawberries, and cold noodle salad and kettle chips.
“Yes, please,” Gizelle said, eyes shyly down.
&nbs
p; Thin slices of cheese and a generous spread of hummus were garnished with lettuce and tomatoes so fresh Conall would have put money on the fact they’d been grown on the island. The bread, too, was fresh: the perfect combination of chewy and light, with a hearty crust.
Watching Gizelle eat was more fun than even enjoying his own food was—and he had worked up quite an appetite from their zig-zag tour of the island. He couldn’t understand a single thing she tried to say around her mouthfuls of food, and settled for nodding and smiling with a shrug until they’d finished.
He could imagine the contented sigh that she gave, washing down the last bites with her water.
She offered him something from the basket, but her face was tilted down, so Conall couldn’t tell what it was. The slice of watermelon that emerged answered that question.
“Sure,” he said, but she startled back when he reached for it, and it fell to the sand.
He couldn’t hear her exclamation of dismay or apology, but could guess it from her shoulders and her hasty scramble to pick it up.
She tried in vain to brush the sand away, face scrunched in consternation.
“Don’t worry about it,” Conall tried to assure her, but she continued to worry at the melon. “There’s more,” he told her. “It’s just something that happens on beach picnics.”
She didn’t look entirely like she believed him, but she dropped the sandy melon into the empty sandwich wrapper that Conall carefully held out for her.
They sat awkwardly a moment, Conall trying to watch her face without staring in case she spoke, Gizelle trying again to brush the inevitable sand from the towel she was sitting on.
Finally, she looked up. “You’re wondering what on earth to talk about now, since I know nothing about politics and the weather here is always lovely.”
Since that was exactly what Conall had been doing, he had to laugh.
His laugh made Gizelle smile hopefully and he vowed again to do it as much as possible.
“Will you tell me about Boston?” she asked, chin lifted so he could easily see her mouth, but eyes down shyly.
Conall leaned back on his elbows. “Boston is on the ocean,” he started. “But it’s nothing like this ocean. It’s cold water, and busy docks, and city.”
“What’s a city like?” Gizelle asked.
“Busy,” Conall said, feeling apologetic. “Giant buildings taller than any tree all around so that there isn’t much sunlight. Lots of traffic, and people.”
Gizelle shuddered. “Why would anyone want to live that way?”
“It has its points,” Conall defended. “The culture! There are museums and art galleries and gourmet food. And of course the... music.” Once he had started the sentence, he didn’t know another way to end it.
“You can’t hear the music,” Gizelle pointed out. She realized the thoughtlessness of her statement at once and her eyes went large. She bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Conall said grimly. “But other people can still enjoy it. Boston has some renowned orchestras.”
“Did you go to school in Boston?” Gizelle asked desperately.
Conall tried not to wince and failed. “I went to school in New York,” he said gently. “Have you heard of Juilliard?”
She shook her head, face brightening until he went on.
“It’s probably the most famous school for music in the world. I was in my last year when... I lost my hearing.”
“You couldn’t finish,” Gizelle guessed reluctantly.
Conall laughed humorlessly and it didn’t have nearly the effect that his previous laugh had; Gizelle flinched.
“I did, actually,” he explained. “I took a semester off to learn sign language and lip reading and came back to complete a degree in composition. The faculty...” felt sorry for me, he didn’t say. “They were flexible about the application of my previous credits.”
“Composition,” Gizelle said thoughtfully. “You made up music that you couldn’t hear?”
“I could play it, too,” Conall said. “I performed a guitar concerto for my final presentation. I could feel the vibrations to keep me in time, and the rest is just finger memory and... trust.”
The smile he’d been trying to keep on his face felt brittle. “I got a Grawemeyer award for that piece,” he said as lightly as he could.
Gizelle was looking at him with sorrow and guilt and confusion, tangling the end of her braid in her hands, but Conall didn’t want any of those things.
“It’s a big deal,” he felt obligated to explain. “An important prize in the music industry.” And he’d gotten it out of pity.
“I’m... this was a terrible idea.” Gizelle abruptly stood. “I’m not good at this. And I hate the beach. I’m sorry.”
Conall, watching her flee across the hot sand, wondered if he should count it a victory that she hadn’t shifted before she ran away this time.
He lay back in the sand, feeling defeated. He knew this was his own fault. He was terrible company. And tragedy did not make good courtship.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, his elk scolded him. Get up! Pursue her!
Conall remained stubbornly lying in the sand. And scare her further away? What would we do if we caught her? Put her in a cage?
She wants to be caught, his elk insisted.
Not by me, Conall was dismally sure.
Chapter 25
Gizelle looked at her feet critically.
The nail polish that Laura had put on was starting to chip. She had three beautiful, red-tipped toes and four that were only half red, and the rest only had tiny flecks of color.
Her fingernails were no better.
She could at least scrape some of the flecks away, so they were all the same color again, and she had done so with one entire hand when the door behind her opened.
“What are you doing out here?” Conall asked, as he settled on the opposite side of the step from her. He was so gorgeous in the sunrise, all gold like a lion, and his clothes were always so fine. Gizelle desperately wanted to see if his skin was as soft and velvety as it looked and it made her breath come quickly just thinking about it.
“Jenny reminded me that I shouldn’t go into people’s rooms without asking,” Gizelle explained.
“It’s... generally polite not to.”
Gizelle looked carefully at his face. He spoke so neutrally. Was he saying that she shouldn’t have come in yesterday? He was squinting into the sun at her, so it was hard to tell what he was thinking.
“I could have knocked!” Gizelle realized. Then her face fell. “But you wouldn’t be able to hear it.”
“How long have you been here?” Conall asked.
Gizelle looked up. “The sky is always changing,” she said. “I can never tell.”
“Do you drink coffee?” Conall asked, running a hand through his ruffled dark hair. “Probably not,” he answered himself.
“I could try,” Gizelle offered.
He smiled at that, a slow, tired smile. “You are so beautiful,” he said unexpectedly.
“I am?” The words made Gizelle feel unexpectedly warm at the bottom of her belly, and all the way to her toes. That reminded her, “My nail polish is chipping.”
“I don’t care,” Conall said, and Gizelle had to believe him. He wasn’t looking at her fingers or toes, but at her face, like he was trying to memorize it.
“Tex has a coffee maker behind the bar,” Gizelle whispered, because it was not where guests were supposed to get coffee in the morning. Then she remembered that it didn’t matter how loudly she spoke and felt foolish.
“That is exactly what I need,” Conall said agreeably.
He stood and offered a hand to help Gizelle up, but she didn’t notice it until she had already bounced to her feet.
She wished she had seen it earlier, because she might have actually taken it this time. She thought about how his hand might feel in hers all the way to the bar.
Chapter 26
As advertis
ed, Tex did indeed have a single-serve coffee maker tucked away behind the empty bar. Conall, after only a moment of hesitation, made himself a cup of the strongest option, black. He offered Gizelle a sip, but she took one cautious sniff and shook her head.
“That smells like it will wake you up,” she said, sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the bar. “But I don’t want to be more awake than this.”
Conall slid down to sit across from her, cradling the hot cup in his hands.
“What do you want to do today?” he asked.
“Do you like to play backgammon?” Gizelle asked.
“Yes, well enough,” Conall said, but before he had finished speaking, Gizelle was scrambling up and gone in a flash of bare legs and bright sarong.
Before he had decided if he needed to stand up, or what to do with his coffee, Gizelle was back, a wooden box in her hands. “Breck taught me how to play,” she said eagerly, opening the game between them. “I’ll be black.”
She deftly set up the pieces, and placed dice across the board for Conall. There were no dice cups.
He tossed a die onto the board to roll for first play and Gizelle pushed back into the liquor cabinet behind her, hands over her ears.
“Too loud?” Conall asked in concern.
“Too sharp a sound,” Gizelle said, lowering her hands. “It’s all triangular and red. We usually roll onto a towel.” She crawled over to a drawer—her body tantalizingly close—where she found a bar towel and unfolded it next to the board.
Conall wondered if she had some form of synesthesia, or if she just spoke creatively. He rolled the die again, and she won the first move.
She played better than Conall expected, making clever moves and not hesitating to hit him when the opportunity presented itself. He began by playing generously, but regretted it as she swept her pieces from the board while he was still not fully on his home board.
“You weren’t even trying,” she scolded him. “You thought I couldn’t really play!”