Wrecked (Sons of San Clemente Book 2) (9 page)

Stop!

She was worse than an idiot.

“You can stop banging around,” he said from the bed. “I’m awake.”

“Have a nice sleep?” she asked as sugar sweet as possible.

“It was fantastic.” He pulled himself into a sitting position and stretched.

The comforter slid off him and she could see his tanned, cut chest, the tattoos that formed sleeves down his arms, from his massive shoulders down to his wrists with only the bare oval peek-a-booing, waiting for further art. She wondered what it would be. Her mouth went desert dry and she turned away. Why couldn’t he even remotely look debilitated? And not wearing clothes should be outlawed.

She finished shredding the cabbage, radishes, and golden beets. The sweet potatoes were already sautéing.

“Hollis, I’m not expecting you to cook for me.”

He came up behind her without her even realizing he’d risen. She could feel the heat of his body. She gripped the counter top, so afraid she would let herself melt into him, turn into his body and let her hands smooth over his skin, feel him, memorize every muscle again, read the story of his life in his tattoos. Find the new ones. Ask about them. She wanted to touch him so much her hands shook.

“It smells delicious.”

He smelled delicious.

“And even though I keep telling you that you don’t have to cook for me, I am grateful. Grateful and hungry.”

She was starving for him. She squeezed her eyes shut against the wild desire that flared through her blood.

No. No. No. No
. Her mind chanted while her body shouted
yes
over and over, a drum beat that started in her womb and pounded out until she felt she would shake with the sensual rhythm.

“Yes,” she said and scooted around him. “Me, too.” But she couldn’t even remember what she was answering.

She just had to get away from him. Breathe something that wasn’t him.

“I thought you might like fish tacos,” she said, feeling clumsy and inane. “I thought we’d grill the tapia I bought today and...” She trailed off as he followed her.

“Running away, duchess?”

“Ah, no,” she said resisting the urge to press herself against the hand-painted hutch just off the kitchen that lent the cottage the impression of a dining nook. “Just...um...going to check the grill. See if it’s hot enough.”

Like she was. Burning up.

“I’ll join you.”

“Okay.” She barely could breathe the word.

Without a shirt. He was going to sit on her grandmother’s deck without a shirt and eat a meal. How was she going to manage? She’d burn the fish for sure. Tapia only took a minute or so per side, and no way would she be able to concentrate on anything except the play of light on his muscles.

“You want to grill the fish? I seem to recall you had some grilling skills.” She tried for playful, but thought she sounded close to hysteria.

“Among other skills.”

She hurried back into the kitchen, blindly, with the vague intention of bringing out the rest of the food.

“Where’s the fish?”

She’d set the table, brought out the salad, the warmed tortillas she’d made, the sides and the sautéd sweet potatoes with kale.

“Oh, yeah.” Flushing, she ran back and grabbed the plate with the marinated fish just waiting for the grill. “Here.”

She retreated to the house and grabbed two glasses and the pitcher of juice she’d blended. By the time she had everything situated, he was turning the fish. She handed him a clean plate to put the fish on.

“Beautiful, perfect.” She breathed, not really looking at the fish at all but instead at his hands as he deftly scooped the tapia off the grill. She carried the fish to the table, not wanting to watch him limp after her. She knew it bothered him to not be in peak form. Not on top of the world, cutting fearlessly through fifteen to twenty foot waves like they were ripples.

She poured out the juice. He sat across from her at the round, red picnic table, angled so they could see the sun dangle at the edge of the Pacific turning the ocean air a shimmering silver and pinkish orange.

“Never get tired of this view.”

“Me neither,” she agreed automatically and then realized he was looking at her, not the sunset.

Her heart flipped.

Don’t be stupid
.

Kadan flirted like other men breathed. His comment meant nothing. Absolutely nothing.

They made their tacos in silence. Hollis tried desperately to think of something to say, but her brain just spun around and around on empty.

“This is so healthy my body might go into shock.”

Hollis found a smile.

“What’s in this?” He sniffed at the pureed juice.

“A touch of avocado, cucumber, and cantaloupe.”

“No tequila?”

Hollis shook her head. He stared at her, hard.

“Aren’t you drinking anymore?”

“It’s not that,” she said softly, not wanting to upset him, but...she took a deep breath. “Your body needs to heal.” She put out her hand to stop him even though he hadn’t interrupted. “And alcohol has a lot of sugar, and sugar causes inflammation and makes it so much harder for your muscles and tissues and joints to function. And then red meat causes your blood to be so much more acidic, which contributes to inflammation throughout your body and more risk of cancer and other diseases.”

She stopped abruptly, thinking she’d probably sent him over the edge like she did everyone else when she got going. He continued to look at her.

“So you are looking out for me.”

She nodded.

“No cheeseburgers.”

“Dairy’s really bad, too.”

He laughed. “So, no sugar, alcohol, red meat, and...” he shrugged, which she found completely disarming.

“Wheat.”

“And by the end of a few weeks I’ll be able to, what, leap tall buildings in a single bound?”

She laughed. He didn’t sound mad at all. He sounded amused and Kadan amused was deadly for her restraint. She squirmed a little in her seat, feeling a rush of heat and dampness at her core. Kadan had always been hell on her panties.

“You might feel like you can.”

He went back to his taco.

“What the hell are these?” he demanded about the tortillas. “I know they aren’t corn because corn probably causes something really destructive like the plague or sterility or herpes.”

“Unprotected sex causes that,” she said.

“I’ve always got condoms. Always.”

“Thanks for the intel, boy scout, but totally unnecessary.”

He smiled. His real smile. The one that reached his eyes and made them bluer and the crinkles reached half way down his high cheek bones and made her fingers itch to touch.

“Very necessary, and you know I was never a Boy Scout.

Something seemed to be wrong with her breathing. He took a bite of taco and regarded her thoughtfully.

“And I would imagine you probably have an aversion to latex and whatever chemical process condoms undergo.”

“They have non-latex ones,” Hollis said.

“I’ll make sure I have some.”

“Spelt. And quinoa. I made them.”

“That’s an interesting non sequitur. The condoms or are we back to the tortillas?”

“Tortillas,” she said breathlessly.

“I knew corn was wicked,” he drawled conversationally. “Something about the shape, remember?”

Hollis stood up so fast her glass dumped. He caught it before it rolled off the table. His eyes glittered and she could see the devilish smile play around his lips. Corn. How had she blocked that out? One of their first real dates, she guessed, had been to an outdoor market. He’d been planning to make her dinner. She’d been home from college and she’d found this young, white corn and had been admiring its perfect shape and symmetry, quite innocently, and he had stood next to her at the stand whispering the most suggestive and erotic things while his finger stroked her spine the same way she’d been admiring the corn.

She’d been so liquid and boneless, and she’d been unable to wait for him to drive them home before she’d... Hollis walked to the edge of the deck and stared hard at the sun as it began to dip beyond the horizon. Why was she remembering that now? And more memories flooded. When they’d finally made it home he had played with that corn and her until she’d shivered and moaned and begged before he’d finally taken her virginity. Although she hadn’t told him that. Even at almost nineteen she’d been smart enough to know that Kadan wouldn’t welcome that information.

“I need to go for a swim.” He stood up restlessly. “Join me.”

“A swim?” She repeated as if it were a foreign word.

Of course, she hadn’t heard him correctly.

He stared hard at the waves and the hair rose on the back of her neck and along her bare arms.

“Kadan, no, you can’t mean...you can’t go in the...the...ocean.”

He grabbed his crutches. “Watch me,” he said grimly and maneuvered down the three steps from the deck to the beach.

“Kadan, you can’t.” She followed him, catching at the waist of his board shorts.

He continued as if her strength didn’t register.

“Kadan, this is nuts.” She clung to him, but her heart was pounding now. Her throat was chalk, choking her. “You can’t go in the ocean. You’re ankle will get beat up.”

“I’m in the ocean hours every day. It’s been too long.”

He was halfway there now and the boom of the waves seemed amplified like she was in a war zone. What had been a pleasant rhythm while she’d been eating on the deck now sounded ominous. Kadan could get in trouble out there. He could hit a rock or get caught in a rip and not have the strength to get out. Or fight the waves to get back to the beach. And what if he blacked out from the pain when he got pulled under a wave.

“You can’t.” She gasped out the words feeling like they got pounded into the sand by the boom of each wave hitting and the rattle of the sand as the water retreated from the beach. “You can’t. You’re not ready.”

“It’s been nearly two weeks since my last surgery. I’m more than ready.”

“No please.” She caught his arm. “Please, please, please don’t,” she whispered digging her heels into the sand. “Please, Kadan, please. Please. For me.”

She could see black spots in front of her and the sounds seemed muted.

“Kadan, don’t go. Not now. Not tonight. I’m scared.”

He stopped. She found herself staring at the beach, bent in half while his hand stroked through her cascading hair that trailed over her feet and into the sand. She gulped, but it seemed like no air got through.

“Panic attacks are new, duchess,” he said softly. “Care to share.”

No.

She didn’t answer.

“Waiting.”

He could wait forever. She didn’t owe him any explanation. Not that she could give him one even if she wanted to. She squeezed her eyes tight. This sucked. Totally humiliating, but at least he stopped. She had no idea what she would have done if he’d actually made it to the water. Could she have gone in after him?

“Better?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He removed his hand from her head and she straightened up, refusing to look at him. He caught her chin in his palm and forced her to meet his tense blue gaze.

“This is your third freak out in two days so I wasn’t really asking about wanting to share. Tell me.”

A few excuses bounced around in her brain, but she knew they wouldn’t cut it with him.

“I think freak out is a bit of an exaggeration.” She hedged.

His expression didn’t change, but she felt his laser focus home on her.

“I don’t want you to risk it. The ocean,” she said softly. “I’m scared.”

“Of me being hurt or the ocean?”

She swallowed hard. “I couldn’t help you if you got in trouble.”

“You’re a fish in the water and strong. And I can take care of myself.”

“I can’t swim anymore.”

“Hollis, you’ve been swimming since you were a toddler. Hell, we used to go out at night and swim a mile easy.”

She nodded. She’d told herself this over and over again.

“I can’t,” she said, helplessly.

“Since when?”

When had it started? Even she didn’t know. It had been dreams at first. Holland drowning. Calling to her and she would flail in the water trying to reach him even though she hadn’t been there that day. She’d been nerdily raising her hand trying to answer every question in her Algebra II class while her brother got pounded into the pier and sucked out to sea.

Then the dread started. Even driving on the Alaskan Way Viaduct that skirted Seattle’s waterfront area had started giving her problems. The sight of all that water stretching out to Bainbridge Island. And the bridges across Lake Washington had progressively caused her to panic so much that she’d once passed out. Someone had called an ambulance.

She shook her head. “Water scares me. The ocean—” She broke off. “I get all panicky when I think about it. How big it is. Dark.”

“Because of Holland?”

She twisted out of his hold and stared hard at her bare toes mostly buried in the sand. “I don’t know.”

“But you swam with me, surfed with me for years after he died.”

“I know,” she said. “This started slow. Last couple of years, I think. And I could mostly ignore it because no one really swims in Elliot Bay and Lake Washington is cold, too, but....”

“But what?”

Even looking at the water could trigger an attack. But she couldn’t tell him that. It sounded insane. She’d gown up on the ocean. Swam in it practically daily. And he probably had the Pacific for blood.

He sighed in frustration. “I need to swim, Hollis. I need to.”

“Please, Kadan.” She put her hand on his bare arm. She had to change his mind. Save him. “I can take you up to the house,” she promised rashly. “You can swim in the pool there. I can show you some exercises for your ankle.”

He looked back towards the ocean. The endless pull of the waves. The sun had set sending grey and purple tendrils inking across the sky, whispering away the brilliant orange until it eddied into a mere memory. She could feel it calling him.

And knew he had to answer. The same way Holland had always answered even on the day of the huge storm out of Japan, which had quickly taken his life.

“Kadan, please.” She tangled her fingers in his.