by RC Boldt
Revealing that I somehow understand Russian and that a random man had made me uncomfortable isn’t much to go on.
Using one of the larger kitchen knives, I work on cutting the two homegrown, organic pineapples. A patient gave these to Liam as payment for X-raying and splinting her son’s two broken fingers.
Just as I begin on the second pineapple, I catch movement from my periphery where the thick jungle borders one side of the house and deck. Going immediately still, I slowly turn my head, my grip on the knife changing automatically.
“What are you doing here?” I speak in the barest whisper. “Looking for trouble?”
Over two meters separate me from him. From a killer. A predator.
I exhale slowly, and my next movement is lightning quick. Before I realize it, I’m staring across the deck at a dead pit viper who now has a large knife driven through his head, pinning him to the plank at the opposite end of the wooden deck.
Triumph courses through me, and I feel my lips turn up in a satisfied smile before the realization hits me.
Holy shit. Every molecule in my body freezes. How did I know that snake was a threat? Venomous? What kind it was? Where did I learn to throw a knife like that?
I venture closer to the dead snake and remove the knife. Picking up the limp carcass, I fling it as far as I can into the thick jungle. Then I hurry over to the outdoor sink to clean the knife and rinse off the board.
My mind reels with questions I’m unable to answer, and alarm pulses through my veins. Am I a bad person? Who am I, really? Am I someone Liam would reject? Am I someone who lacks morals and integrity? Someone evil?
Anxiety knots inside me at the possibility, even while a faint inner voice refutes it.
I shake off the excess water from the knife, fragments of tension still rippling through me, just as the loud creak of the front screen door sounds. Liam’s familiar footsteps pad through, returning from doing home visits to some elderly patients and two pregnant mothers.
Returning to the table where the pineapple awaits me, I exhale slowly and make quick work of slicing each section from the core. Then I cut it into smaller chunks.
“Hey.”
I’m not sure I’ll ever manage to suppress my reaction to hearing his voice. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking or even just being in close quarters for weeks on end, but I swear it possesses an intimate quality.
“Hey.” I offer a smile I hope doesn’t look forced or suspicious. I’m not sure what exactly has me holding back from telling him what just happened, but it’s there.
Glancing at him, I’m struck by how effortlessly handsome he is. His hair is mussed like he’s run his fingers through it, but dressed in his plain cotton shirt and a pair of board shorts, he looks more like a surfer than a doctor.
Watchful eyes regard me carefully as he pushes the screen door aside and steps out, sliding it shut behind him.
His eyes flick to the knife still in my hand, and a flash of something unidentifiable crosses his face. “Did you remember anything new?”
I heave out a breath, my lips flattening into a disappointed line, and shake my head. “No.”
The faintest pause greets my words. “Don’t stress over it, Alex.” The way my name rolls off his tongue acts like the smoothest caress over my skin. “The brain is resilient, and I’m hopeful your memory will return.”
“Well, at least I’m good for something.” Injecting some levity into my tone, I gesture to the large bowl containing the sliced pineapples.
Scraping the knife across the cutting board, I gather the trimmings into a pile and plunk one handful into the other stainless steel bowl to place in the trash.
With my attention trained on the task, I toss out, “I thought maybe I could make some pineapple-mango salsa since you have the ingredients.”
When I look over, his eyes are locked on me. “You know how to make that?”
“Yes, of course. It’s one of my—” I stop abruptly before my lips part in surprise. My mouth curves into a smile, and a little laugh breaks free. “It’s one of my favorites. I remember that.”
Cheeks flushing with embarrassment, I avert my eyes because it’s nothing useful to go on. I know this, but just discovering that I recall how to make it and that it’s something I enjoy feels like I’ve hit a tiny milestone.
“Sorry. It’s stupid to be excited over that.” My muttered words are punctuated by each handful of pineapple trimmings tossed into the trash bowl.
When a strong, tanned hand reaches out, covering my hand before I can grab the final bunch, he’s heedless to the fact that my hands are soaked with pineapple juice. I stand transfixed at the sight of his hand touching me.
It’s not that he hasn’t touched me before, but this feels different. There’s more intent behind it, as though he’s compelled to touch me.
His thumb grazes overtop my hand, and my heart skips a beat. “It’s not stupid.” His low murmur skates over my skin. “Not at all.”
Then, as if he realizes what he’s doing, his thumb halts, and he slowly withdraws his hand from mine.
I don’t dare look at him for fear that he’ll see exactly how badly I yearn for his touch. He steps back and pauses before the sliding screen door sounds as it opens.
“I’ll get started on dinner. I have some trout, and we can have that and some of the homemade tortilla chips to go with your salsa.” He steps inside the house and slides the screen door closed behind him.
“Sounds great.” I busy myself by picking at the tiny flecks of pineapple skin sticking to the cutting board. It takes all my effort to stifle the wide smile that itches to break free. Because he’s not planning to eat in his office tonight. He actually wants to have dinner with me.
I shouldn’t feel this way for a man I don’t even know, craving his attention like a lifeline. Shit, I don’t even know myself.
Even so, deep down, I know it’s not some sort of hero worship for him saving me. For him caring for me and letting me stay here while we hope my memory returns.
Though I haven’t known him for long, I do know he’s a good man. A man who helps the people here in exchange for next to nothing.
I also discovered that every so often, he travels to other poor rural countries to provide volunteer medical care. Guilt eats at me at the prospect of him missing out on one of those trips because he’s stuck here with me. Because I’m still under his care, others who might need him will be without.
I wish I had something to offer him. Something more than just simple chores to repay the man who has me craving to soothe the loneliness and pain I catch the faintest glimpses of from time to time.
A tiny, terrible part of me hopes that my memory takes its time to return so I’ll have longer to spend with Liam. That I’ll be granted more time to get to know him better and peel back those many layers I instinctively feel he possesses.
As I stare out at the crashing waves, an alarming ominous premonition tiptoes down the length of my spine as if to warn me to be careful what I hope for.
Chapter 37
LIAM
She’s hiding something.
I know it, and I wish like hell I knew what it was. Whatever she remembered—and I’m not talking about the damn salsa—had unsettled her.
Even worse, I’m running out of time. I already vowed to end this, but now I find myself wavering.
All because of her. Because of Alexandra with no memory.
As I brush melted butter with garlic and Himalayan salt over the fish, she reenters and methodically slides the bowl of cut pineapple onto the counter before removing the sliced mango from the fridge.
“I need to do a little work in my office to update my patient files while this bakes.” Placing the filets on the baking sheet and covering them with foil, I slide it inside the oven and set the timer.
“Okay. I’ll get to work on the salsa in the meantime.”
When I turn to leave the kitchen, her tone is hesitant when she softly calls my name. “Liam?”
<
br /> I stop and turn. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. For everything.” Her tone is awash in sincerity. She searches my face, but I’m not sure what she’s seeking. “Especially for being so patient with me.”
A dozen responses run through my head, but the only one—the safest one—is what emerges from my mouth. “In Punta Blanca, we look out for each other.”
She nods, her features filled with gratitude and a hint of yearning. It’s the latter that has me turning away to make my way to the safety of my office.
Escaping the strange undercurrent between us.
Once I close my office door and lock it, I sink into my desk chair. Punching in my laptop password, I access the surveillance footage from while I was away doing home visits.
Something happened today with Alex, and I need to know what it was.
The front door camera is still on the fritz, and I cuss myself out for not replacing it yet. The damn salty ocean air corrodes shit far too quickly, and it’s become a pain in the ass to keep fixing things. Shortly before she washed up, I’d replaced the back deck’s camera for the same reason.
I quickly cycle through the few hours she was alone and out on the back deck. While I advance the speed per frame, frustration eats at me when I don’t uncover anything.
I almost miss it since it’s toward the very end, just before I arrived home. Leaning closer to the monitor, I rewind and plug in my earbuds before increasing the volume.
“What are you doing here?” Her whisper holds a quality I’ve not witnessed before. “Looking for trouble?”
I scan her surroundings for another person, but there’s no sign of another person. Just when I think they must be out of view, she flings her knife toward the far edge of the deck. I zoom in for a better focus on what she was aiming for.
Motherfucker. What looks to be an eight-foot-long pit viper has a knife through its head, pinning him to the bottom step of the wooden deck.
I replay it nearly three times before watching her reaction. At first, a prideful smile stretches her lips before her entire face goes pale with shock and confusion. It’s like watching someone with multiple personalities.
She appears genuinely shocked as she stares down at the dead snake before she withdraws the knife and tosses the snake into the brush.
Sitting back in my chair, I pause the footage and tear out my earbuds, tossing them on my desk. My eyes are glued to the still shot of Alex on the screen. She looks shaken and troubled, as though she can’t understand what just happened.
The buzzing of the oven timer sounds just as her voice calls from the kitchen, “I’ll get it!”
I rake a hand over my face before my fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating before pressing the button. My eyes stay glued to the screen like I don’t already know how it all played out. How I was thinking with my dick instead of my brain and touched her.
My fists clench as I watch myself reach out and take her hand. She’d been so excited over her memory of pineapple-mango salsa. Her embarrassment had seemed genuine.
I hadn’t intended to touch her, but once I did, once I experienced the softness of her skin again, I was like a junkie faced with his drug of choice. Unable to pull away from the temptation.
With her guileless ways, she’s fucking addicting. Her eagerness to make sure she contributes something while she stays here and the alluring quality she possesses draw me in further and further.
She’s a contradiction—innocent yet so goddamn guilty.
Watching as I touch her hand, it looks harmless when it felt anything but. I wanted more. I wanted her to touch me back. To turn toward me and seek me out.
Christ. I still want that. And more.
Evidently, the goddamn universe thinks I need a reminder of my dire circumstances because another text message arrives. Dread and scalding fury intertwine as I read the ominous words.
The noose tightens even more around my neck. That ticking time bomb is about to explode.
My time has nearly run out.
I snap the laptop shut and stare sightlessly ahead, my thumb tapping out a rhythm of its own on the metallic edge.
“Liam?” her melodic voice calls out. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Be there in a minute,” comes my automatic response. My thumb ceases its motion, and I almost reach for that drawer. It would be so easy to take that gun and fire that single shot. To end this.
But I won’t—I can’t. Not just yet. Like a fucking glutton, I want more time with her. I want to see if she remembers anything else, see the wonder in her eyes at each revelation. To soothe her when she’s unsure.
I want to see if she’s drawn to me like I am to her. If it’s becoming more compelling and harder to ignore.
Ominous premonition clings to me as I rise from my chair and exit my office. I’ve pushed this too far. Got too selfish.
One more day, I bargain with myself. I’m allowed one more day.
Chapter 38
ALEXANDRA
The light breeze has the steady, soothing rain pattering against the windows and roof, serving as ambient background music.
Tonight, we linger over dinner long after we’ve finished. I trace a fingertip along the base of my water glass, listening to his tales of the humorous mishaps the locals have had where he’s had to intervene.
It seems that neither of us is quite ready to call it a night. To go about our routine where I pick up one of his old James Patterson paperbacks, and he retreats to his office. I swear the man never stops working for very long.
A strange tension lingers in the air between us. A tightening awareness is present, as though someone has placed a spotlight overhead, and we’re now noticing everything we previously overlooked.
My eyes drift from his face to his hands, tracing over the prominent veins on the tops and the few pale scars scattered along his fingers. I wonder how he got them and if they’re from handling a machete while cutting back any of the large fruit trees like he often does.
He’s right-hand dominant except for wielding anything that can serve as a weapon. You’ve seen him carefully sew stitches or cut his food.
My finger stills on the glass. It’s happening again. How would I know to make that observation?
“I’m sorry. I’m boring you.”
His slightly husky tone draws me from my thoughts, and I lift my eyes to his.
“Not at all. I was just…” I trail off before finishing hesitantly. “I was wondering the story behind your scars.”
Without thinking, I reach out and run the pad of my finger over the most prominent one that runs from above the knuckle of his index finger and curves around.
It isn’t until he tenses beneath my touch that the realization of what I’m doing edges in. I mean to pull away—I do—but something holds me captivated by the way he feels.
Trailing my finger overtop his hand, I trace a path over his other scars, relishing in the feel of his skin beneath mine. When his other hand covers mine, stopping the movement, I blink as if he’s drawn me from a trance.
“I’m sorry.” My words are rushed, and I try to pull back, but he doesn’t let me.
His thumb sweeps over my skin, sending shivers through me. Those dark eyes skim my face as if searching for something important, but there’s a hint of torment etching his features I don’t quite understand.
“Alex.” His voice is rough and husky, and my name sounds like it’s being torn from deep in his throat as he draws away. Rising from his seat, he brings his plate to the sink and sets it down. He braces his hands on the counter. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Do you have someone?” I blurt out suddenly. Warmth floods my cheeks, but I need to know if he feels this, too—this crazy, incessant tug between us.
It’s as though we’re holding opposite ends of a thick tug-of-war rope, but we’re each being pulled to the middle no matter how much force we exert to stay on our designated sides.
“No.” His answer comes quickly, with no hesitation, h
is spine wrought with tension. Still facing away from me, he flexes his fingers where they grip the rim of the sink. “There’s no one.”
Shoring up my courage, I drag in a breath before daring to whisper, “I might not know my last name, when I was born, or if I used to be a morning person or night owl. But I don’t care. I know who I am right now. Here. With you.”
Slowly, ever so cautiously, I rise from my chair. “I know that I’ll probably feel like a fool admitting this if you don’t feel the same way, but I…feel something between us.”
I advance a few steps toward him before faltering once I’m a mere foot away.
“After everything that’s…happened, I know that nothing’s guaranteed and it seems stupid to have regrets. So, I wanted to just be up front.” I suck in a fortifying breath. “And ask if you possibly feel the same.”
When he doesn’t respond or move, I force a smile, my tiny laugh sounding rusty. “Well. I’ve officially made it awkward, so—”
He spins around so fast that I’m not even granted time to react. Large, callused hands cradle my face and bring my mouth to his.
He kisses me with a passion that renders me breathless. Every fiber of my body freezes in shock before melting, and I tangle my fingers in his hair to hold him tight, terrified this is all a dream. His kiss holds a savage intensity that singes me with its fiery possession.
When his mouth parts from mine, our panting breaths mingle while his eyes blaze deep into my own. A myriad of emotions crosses his face. I witness torment and desire while others remain indecipherable.
Soft lips that were just pressed to mine now flatten into a punishing line. “I shouldn’t do this, Alex.”
Shouldn’t. Because I’m technically under his care? I search his features for something that will glean light on his reasoning.
I lift my chin with a brittle half smile but avert my eyes to focus just over his shoulder. “I understand.” When I try to retreat a step, he doesn’t relinquish his hold on my face and my eyes snap to his.