by RC Boldt
I wish I could be like him and be my own indestructible fortress surrounded by the battalion of life.
I clear my throat again, attempting to dislodge some of the swollen tightness. “No.” Inwardly I cringe at how small and weak that single word sounds.
Please, just leave me be. Mortification rises like rapidly accumulating floodwaters. I can’t bear to have him witness me like this any longer. Forcing my tears to cease falling and my stuttering breathing to even out, I will him to turn around and leave. Aren’t men notably wary of crying females?
The way the mattress sinks slightly beside me has my spine stiffening with unease.
“Please…Alex…tell me what’s wrong.”
It’s beyond mortifying to have him witness me like this. As if the circumstances weren’t already bad enough.
When he settles a hand on my knee, the action steals the breath from my lungs. As starved as I am for human contact, as much as I crave to be comforted, his touch unleashes a contradictory mix of emotions within me.
He’s touching me out of concern when he could’ve easily gone about his own business tonight and left me on my own. I know he probably has work to do, but he’s here now with me. He chose me over his work.
On the flip side of that is my idiotic disappointment that he’s here out of concern instead of being here because…he missed me. Because he wanted to see if I was still awake and would keep him company while he ate his leftover dinner.
Because he simply wants more time with me.
But I can’t admit any of this. It would not only be ridiculous, but it would undoubtedly drench us in awkwardness. So, instead, I simply answer, “It’s stupid. I’m sorry for bothering you.”
And it is stupid. I shouldn’t have given in to my pity party in the first place.
“Hey.”
The fact that I notice the slight change in his tone is a testament to how closely I pay attention to him. That same change in intonation works at dismantling my already weak defenses.
They collapse further when he adds, “A patient gifted me a bottle of homemade wine that may very well be crap, so I’d be selfish to keep it all to myself.”
A pathetic-sounding laugh emerges from me, and I lift my eyes to his. The instant I do, I’m granted a split second’s worth of a crack in his façade. Because in that blink of an eye, I witness the slightest softening in his gruff exterior.
Simply because of my weak laugh.
What I’m certain is a one-sided, potent awareness crackles between Liam and me.
“I’ll take that as a yes that you’ll join me on the deck.” He withdraws his hand from my knee and rises abruptly. Drawing his magnetic presence and heat from me, I’m left with a tangible absence in their wake.
He pauses in my open doorway with his back to me. Those board shorts shouldn’t hug his slim hips so lovingly, or his cotton T-shirt mold the lean muscles of his torso. “I’ll meet you out there in a minute.”
Without waiting for my response, he disappears from sight, his near-soundless footsteps trailing back to the kitchen.
Silence engulfs my bedroom as I scramble, struggling to set my emotions and mindset to rights. As if the gods bear witness, Papa’s voice echoes in my memory.
“The trees lose their leaves each season, Little One. And do they give up hope of ever coming back from the loss? No. No, they do not. They know that it is not the end. They know there is more for them, but they must be patient.”
Warmth courses through my veins, soothing me, and I vow to myself to be stronger. To remember Papa’s words.
This isn’t the end for me. Yes, there are overwhelming unknowns, but I need to hold on to hope with both hands like my life depends on it.
Because, ultimately, it does.
Chapter 31
ALEXANDRA
I lower myself into one of the chairs on the deck overlooking the ocean as Liam places wineglasses on the small table.
After carefully pouring wine into both glasses, he takes a seat. He swirls the red wine in his glass with practiced ease, and I can easily imagine him in an expensive suit, dining in an upscale restaurant.
Lifting his glass, his eyes rest on me. “To better days.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “To better days,” I echo softly.
The first taste of wine has us simultaneously erupting in a cough.
With his fist covering his mouth, he winces, clearing his throat while I stare at the offending liquid in my glass.
“What on earth was that?”
He lets out a grunt. “I think it’s safe to say Mariposa won’t be in the wine-making business for long.”
I cover my mouth with a hand, attempting to stifle my snicker, but it slips out.
His focus intensifies on me, and I rush to explain. “Sorry. That was unkind of me to laugh. I don’t mean to be rude to your patient.”
I stare down at my wineglass to avoid his watchful gaze, my tone wistful. “I admire anyone who tries their hand at something new.”
“One could say that you’re doing just that.”
My eyes lift, colliding with his. “What do you mean?”
Setting his glass down, he turns his gaze to the ocean less than a hundred yards away. He rakes a hand through his hair in a manner that strikes me as almost agitated.
“You’re trying your hand at something completely new.” After a beat of silence, he turns, shadows from the moonlight glinting along his features, and his speculative expression gives me the impression he can see straight through me. “Navigating a life that’s new to you.”
I consider his words. “I guess I never thought about it like that.”
It’s when his gaze drops to my mouth that I realize I’m worrying my bottom lip with my top teeth. Longing flashes in the depths of his eyes, then his mouth flattens into a grim line. He jerks his head back to stare out at the ocean and drags his hand through his hair again before rising to his feet.
A fissure of unease and disappointment seeps through me because I don’t want him to leave just yet. I don’t want to call it a night and retreat to my room alone once again. With an inward sigh, I reach for my glass, prepared to bring it inside to the kitchen when his voice stops me.
“Stay here. I’ve got this.” Liam takes our glasses and the wine bottle, and I peer up at him, but he simply slips back inside the house. I detect the sound of the sink running briefly, and I figure he’s rinsing out our glasses.
When he emerges with the same glasses but a different wine bottle, my previous disappointment melts away.
Setting the glasses on the small table, he carefully pours from the new wine bottle. “Forgot I had this from one of my trips.” His focus is on pouring, his expression never veering from his usual stoic quality.
“I can guarantee this one’s more palatable.” A trace of humor colors his voice, and I can’t resist soaking in the sight of him. Allowing my eyes to trace over his features and over lips I wish to witness curving into a smile. I wonder if maybe tonight he’ll grant me a glimpse of Liam King, the man, and not my physician.
Once the wine is poured, he takes his seat and lifts his glass, those enigmatic eyes locking with mine. “To better wine and better days.”
A tiny laugh breaks free, and I lift my glass in salute. “I’ll drink to that.”
I take a small, tentative sip only to be bombarded by flavor. Hints of cherry and vanilla flirt with my taste buds, but mingling with them is…
“Black currant.”
My startled gaze clashes with his, and he abruptly averts his attention to his wineglass. He drags the pad of his thumb lazily along the flared bottom of the wineglass. “Black currant, cherry, and vanilla are prominent in this one.”
“It’s very good.” I wish he’d look at me. It’s as if it’s painful for him to set his eyes on me for more than a few seconds at a time. Do I make him uncomfortable? Is that why he avoids me?
Self-consciously, I smooth a hand over my hair, attempting to ensure it’s n
ot a complete mess. “Thank you for sharing it with me.” I take another sip to mask my nervousness but make the mistake of locking on the motion of his thumb stroking the glass.
I know how his hands felt on my skin during the moments he helped me sit up in bed and rise to my feet in the early days of my recovery. How he touched my leg earlier, his fingertips rasping against my skin.
Like a fool, I should have registered every nuance of his touch, but I was too enshrouded in either pain, fear, or stubborn pride to acknowledge more. To be privy to how callused his hands may be and how they feel on my bare skin.
I should be ashamed of these thoughts of him—a man who singlehandedly saved my life and has provided a haven for me. He’s gone above and beyond what the average person would’ve done. And here I am, wondering how his touch would feel upon me, and most definitely not in a clinical sense.
Without an ounce of remorse, no less. Dammit. I need to get my act together.
But it’s more than a simple yearning for his touch that plagues me. I ache to discover why his eyes sometimes possess a devastatingly haunted quality. As though he might also know what it’s like to feel lost and isolated in this world—much like I do.
“I know what we need.” Without another word, he rises from his chair and disappears through the sliding screen door.
He returns a moment later, reclaims his chair, and opens a clear plastic bag, offering it to me. “Plantain chips. Made with an air fryer and only a little Himalayan salt added.”
It doesn’t surprise me that even on the rare occasions he indulges in snacking, it’s still on the healthy side. This man strikes me as overly aware of everything he puts inside his body.
When I reach in and grab two small chips, the barest trace of self-deprecating humor colors his words. “I’m not one to entertain. Clearly. So, this is the best I can do.”
“It’s perfect.” I savor the subtle saltiness and crunch, then swallow and take another sip of wine. “Thank you again.”
This is the first time he’s given me the impression he actually wants to spend time with me. On the heels of that revelation comes a thrill that chases away some of my nervousness.
But then, my eagerness—and perhaps the wine—triggers my mouth into saying, “I enjoy your music.”
When his brows slant together in a severe line, I force myself not to squirm beneath his stare. “It’s loud enough that you heard it?” A muscle in his jaw flexes and his eyes narrow slightly. “It’s usually after you’ve gone to sleep.”
I rush to clarify. “It’s very faint, but I sometimes...have trouble sleeping.”
His sharp expression morphs into one of concern. “Because of pain?” His eyes skim over me as if trying to determine what’s physically ailing me.
“No,” comes my rushed response. “It’s the nightmares.” I wince and tack on, “Or dreams, if you will. They often wake me up, my mind racing to try to make sense of it all.” I let out a sigh and stare down at my wine. My voice drops to a near whisper. “But I’m never really able to.”
He doesn’t respond, allowing the subtle sounds of nature to surround us. I don’t begrudge him for not saying anything. He’s a medical doctor—not a psychiatrist. I have to work this out for myself.
“My parents were big fans of what they referred to as ‘the classics.’” His response snaps me from my inner thoughts, the intimate quality of his tone enveloping me in its embrace.
I peer at him, but his focus is on his wine. He swirls it gently then stops, eyes tracking the movement, but I get the impression he’s ensnared in his own memories.
“One of their favorites was Billie Holiday’s ‘The Very Thought of You.’” An almost smile graces his lips, his voice dropping to a deeper timbre. “But Dean Martin’s ‘You're Nobody Till Somebody Loves You’ was a song they often played during my childhood.”
Relaxed by the smoothness of the wine, the lapping waves in the distance co-mingling with the cicadas, I lean my head against the back of the chair and let my eyes fall closed while listening to the smooth timbre of his voice.
His tone shifts, bearing a tangible thread of melancholy, when he admits softly, “They loved music.” I can practically hear him silently add, “And they loved me.”
I open my eyes only to clash with his. My breath hitches, not simply because of his piercing gaze, but because I know without asking that he mourns his parents.
Without revealing much at all, grief languidly radiates from him, as though it’s been embedded in him for so long that it no longer holds the violent urgency to manifest itself like fresh anguish often does.
It strikes me how vastly different grief can be. Regardless of whether it’s new or old or what it’s derived from, it still lances deep in our hearts. My grief for Papa feels so fresh, as if it will never truly fade, even if my memory fails me in recalling him as distinctly as I would like.
I may not know myself, but I do know grief. And so does the man sitting here with me.
“If you’d like to play some of those songs now, I wouldn’t mind.” I lift a shoulder in a half shrug, not trying to force him into anything.
Eyes never leaving mine, he drags a slow hand over his face and along his scruff. The movement gives me the impression he’s hesitating, contemplating whether or not to give in to my suggestion. Finally, he exhales slowly and takes a long sip of wine before rising from his seat.
Padding over to the cabinets beneath the outdoor sink, he lowers to his haunches and opens one door. He reaches inside and withdraws a small radio-CD player and plugs it in, pressing some buttons.
“This first one is by Billie Holiday.”
As he takes his seat, his gaze sparks with longing—or perhaps it’s my wishful thinking. As the female singer’s voice croons softly in the background, Liam’s focus on me intensifies, and he cocks his head to the side. “You’ve never heard this song before?”
His voice holds a trace of something I can’t place, but it has my spine stiffening defensively. I choose my words carefully. “I don’t recall hearing it before. Not until I heard you play it in your office.”
My heart stalls in my chest, nervousness cinching it tight. Somehow, I garner the courage to pose my question because I crave to know him better. “What were they like?”
Chapter 32
LIAM
Ever since she washed up on my beach, I’ve been fucking up at every goddamn turn.
Billie Holiday fades to Percy Sledge crooning “When A Man Loves A Woman.” My fingers tense on my wineglass while agitation pulses through me.
I like her. Fuck…I really like her. She’s easy to talk to—which is a testament coming from someone like me.
I shouldn’t be indulging in any of this with her because it’ll only make it that much harder in the end. But she’s somehow managed to find a chink in my armor, that weak spot in my defenses I wasn’t aware of.
The one I’ve never had.
Not once in all these years have I considered opening up to someone else. Especially someone like her. A woman who comes with a shit-ton of baggage. Who doesn’t know her full name.
I don’t even like talking much on a normal basis, but here I am. She somehow draws the story out of me.
As I toss back the remainder of my wine, a part of me wishes the liquid itself could cauterize the pain that still lingers. Or at least protect me from my weakness. One I’ve never possessed.
Her.
Seeing her soft eyes and anticipation lighting her beautiful face, I wonder what she’d look like if I kissed her. Christ. I shift in my chair, attempting to ease the strain on my now hardening cock.
“They were great.” My voice sounds raspy and foreign to my own ears. It’s likely because I haven’t spoken about them in forever. “My parents were in love from the day they met and stayed that way. Everyone who knew them always envied them because if you were around them, you just…felt it.”
Alex rests an elbow on the table, propping her chin in her hand, listening int
ently. “That’s amazing.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard, falling deeper into my memories. Grabbing the wine bottle, I top off our glasses before sitting back.
I stare into my glass and slowly swirl the wine. “My mom told me that she had to kiss a lot of toads before finding my dad. But that it was worth it because those experiences helped her recognize someone great.”
My mouth tugs upward, the sensation foreign and awkward. I’ve been so hell-bent on living life this way, with only one goal in mind, that I’m not sure of the last time I smiled or laughed.
I should stop now because my gut tells me I’m treading on thin ice. It’s bound to crack beneath me and send me tumbling into deadly frigid waters. Instead, the words pour out as though they’ve been chomping at the bit to be heard.
“They never once let a day go by without saying I love you. Not to each other or me.”
“They sound like an amazing couple.”
Throat raw with emotion, I clear it, willing my voice to sound normal and unbothered. “They were.”
The silence acts as a balm to all my bared, bloodied emotions. Jesus, I hope she doesn’t pursue this topic. There’s a reason I don’t talk about them.
Cradling her glass in both hands, she stares into it as if it holds secrets to unlocking her own memories. But when her voice breaks the lull, it’s as if she somehow heard my inner thoughts a moment ago. “Can I ask what happened to them?”
I shove up from my chair. “I should—”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have overstepped.” Alex rushes from her own seat, still gripping her wineglass in one hand, and places her other hand on my arm. “It’s none of my business.”
Her gaze is beseeching and so fucking innocent. And goddamn, her regret is so tangible, it cloys the air.
“It’s okay.” My words are clipped, but she doesn’t withdraw her hand. And it’s that touch, how soft and warm she is, that makes me feel…needy.
“No, it’s not okay,” she counters. Concern etches her beautiful features, and I internally laugh, because her response is accurate as hell—just not for what she’s referring to.