by J. Haymore
"Hey," he says softly, "don't be afraid of it—it's just coffee. There aren't any peanuts in it, I promise."
I glance at him in surprise. "You know I'm allergic to peanuts?"
"Yes. Nalani mentioned you're highly allergic and said we shouldn't bring peanuts, or anything containing peanuts, on board."
Steam curls up from the coffee, and the beginnings of a light breeze blow it into my face. "I didn't think peanuts were in the coffee. I'm just…" The words trail off as I scramble for something to say. "Ridiculously shy" won't work. Neither will "Insanely jealous of your shirt getting to touch you all over like that." I dig around desperately in my head but I can't seem to find any words that will be socially acceptable.
I don't know how to act around this man. He's so striking, and I'm so uncertain…so awkward. "I'm just surprised you brought me coffee, is all," I murmur lamely. "That was very nice of you. Thanks."
"You're welcome." With the toe of his shoe, he nudges a spot beside my butt on the deck. "This seat taken?"
"It's all yours."
He slides down next to me as the Temptation rolls over a swell.
"So have you ever had a reaction to peanuts?" he asks conversationally.
"Yes. Once, when I was little. It was pretty traumatic. My parents rushed me to the hospital—I was unconscious by the time we got there. They shot me up with epinephrine and kept me in the intensive care unit for three days. I've steered clear of them ever since."
He makes a sympathetic sound. "That does sound traumatic."
I take a sip of the coffee and taste the creamy sweetness. "This is perfect. How'd you know how I like my coffee?"
He grins. "I saw how you doctored up your cup this morning."
We sit in silence for a while, side by side. I hold the coffee cup in two hands, hyperaware of him, of his every move, of his heat and his clean, male smell.
Ethan is taciturn, but he bristles with contained energy. He takes everything in with a shrewd eye but rarely volunteers his opinion. He's the kind of man who observes, then takes decisive action. And although he's polite to a fault, everyone, even Nalani, treads carefully around him, acknowledging that among the five of us, he possesses the most dominant personality.
He talked briefly about his venture capital business, Williams Funding, over dinner last night while we all stared at him, impressed. After dinner, he took several calls from business associates. His tone on the phone is terse and commanding—he's definitely a man accustomed to being in charge.
The ocean slips quietly by, its color reflecting the sky in a steely gray. Cool, damp air ruffles through my hair, but the fog seems to be lifting, the sun slowly burning it away. It's quiet out here at sea. Lonely, but also calming.
Ethan's shoulder brushes against mine. His thigh is less than an inch away from mine, and my gaze drifts to his hand, where he holds it in a relaxed position over his knee. His hands are strong and large, with long fingers and clean, blunt-tipped nails.
I imagine his hands touching me, those fingers grazing over my skin—
"What are you thinking about?" The words hold an edge of roughness, and my gaze jerks to his face.
"Nothing. Just looking."
Oh God. I instantly turn away, my face hot, because he must have seen me looking at him and not the ocean.
It's been too long since I've talked to a good-looking man who's not Kyle. My skills, which were never very impressive to begin with, are rusty.
Trying to think of a way to turn this conversation back on track, I scan the receding fog bank. A breeze has picked up, rippling the surface of the water.
"So," I say, trying to sound casually curious, "what tempted you onto the Temptation? I mean, it seems like you're really busy with your company."
"It's a working vacation for me."
"Why work on vacation? Why not just stay home?"
"Then I'd always be home. I wouldn't want to leave work behind, even if I could."
"So you never take real vacations?"
"Real vacations?" His brows draw together, deepening the crease above his nose.
"You know, where you sit on a beach and read trashy magazines all day?"
He thinks about it for a second, then slowly shakes his head. "Not for a long time."
"That's too bad."
He smiles, a devastating flash of straight white teeth, those lips spread wide and carving grooves into his cheeks, his eyes alight with humor. God, he is amazing.
"Don't feel sorry for me. I like what I do. If I didn't, it'd be different." He sounds confident in a way that's foreign to me. He's so self-assured. Maybe being close to him might rub some of it off on me.
So he's a workaholic. Is that why he's so wealthy and successful—because he carries his work around with him like an extra limb? I imagine a long line of wealthy, ambitious Williamses, passing down their business acumen from son to son. "What do your parents do?"
He slides his fingers over the smooth edge of the deck, back and forth in a repetitive motion. "My mom teaches preschool. My dad was an entrepreneur—the owner of a tech startup. He died when I was a kid. Cancer."
Sympathy for him is a burst of pain in my chest. "Oh. I'm so sorry."
"It's okay." He shrugs and turns to give me a slight smile. "It was a long time ago. I was young when it happened. His startup went under after his death."
I want to keep asking him questions, to learn more about him, to solve the mystery of his presence here, which still doesn't feel right. Right now, his expression is less closed than usual, and that gives me the bravery to plunge ahead.
"Do you have brothers and sisters?"
He shakes his head. "Only child."
"Where did you grow up?"
"Silicon Valley." He hesitates, then asks, "You?"
"Born and raised in Southern California."
"And your parents?"
"My dad was an orthopedic surgeon, and my mom was an actress."
At this point, people usually ask what my mom was in, trying to figure out if they know her. I tell them about how she starred in the long-running prime-time drama Nights in Olympus. Most everyone remembers her from that.
But Ethan just nods. Then says, "I'm sorry you lost them."
I jerk back, surprised. How did he know that? Kyle must have said something. Though Kyle has always been good about keeping my private life private.
Or maybe Ethan just noticed I spoke about my parents in the past tense.
I shrug at him like he shrugged at me. "It was a long time ago for me too. They were driving home from a party, and their car was hit by a drunk driver. I was eight. Emily—my sister—was thirteen."
And then, twelve years later, she was taken from me too, in another awful car accident. The accident Emily and I were in wasn't caused by a drunk driver but by defective brakes. There had been a recall on the brakes for that model of car, which Emily, in her typical frivolous way, had ignored.
Not surprisingly, I don't drive.
Darkness shadows Ethan's face, as if he's feeling empathy for what Em and I went through as kids, because he went through a similar experience with his dad.
He looks away from me and out over the water. He doesn't ask me where Emily and I lived after our parents died—that's usually the next question people ask. But I'm learning quickly that Ethan is different from most people.
We both stare at the ocean for a minute. Finally, he says in a voice so low I have to strain to hear it: "You asked me how I was tempted here. The truth is, doing this…crossing this ocean…it's something I need to do."
I nod but gaze at him questioningly, wondering what he means by that. His expression has closed and turned remote, and he doesn't meet my eyes. There's definitely a lot more behind that statement than he's letting on. I open my mouth to ask him, but the shuttered look on his face makes me close it again. Shyness ultimately prevents me from prying further.
We sit in silence, gazing out over the open ocean. I struggle against this craving, this pu
ll to move closer to him. I haven't felt this drawn to someone since…well, ever.
Every single one of my senses is attuned to him. The nerves on my skin buzz with awareness. My every breath is full of him. His body is solid next to mine, and his heat washes over me. I remember the way his fingers pressed against my lower back yesterday, and I hold my muscles tight to keep from leaning toward him.
Taking a strand of my hair that the rising breeze has made flutter over my cheek, he pushes it aside and tucks it behind my ear. I shudder as his fingers brush over the shell of my ear, then I turn to him.
The softness of his expression fades and warms until there's undeniable heat in his blue eyes. Scorching heat that burns in places inside me I never knew could feel so hot.
I gaze at him, spellbound, trying to figure him out, trying to glean some understanding from his body language. He keeps giving me these clues that he finds me attractive, but no one ever sees me that way, much less guys as insanely appealing as Ethan, so my mind tries to deny the possibility. My brain frantically scrambles, thinking of other reasons a man might look at me like he wants to devour me whole—but it comes up with nothing.
Unbidden, my gaze moves from his eyes to his lips. They're slightly parted. His lips are so plump, so kissable.
I want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me. Desperately. My tongue flicks out and swipes over my top lip. His gaze flickers to my mouth.
"Tara…"
I can't tell if it's a question or a statement, but I answer him.
"Yes." The word doesn't sound like it came out of me—it emerges low and sultry, full of longing and heat.
He flattens his hand on the deck behind me, bracing himself, his arm a solid length of muscle along my back. My lips part, releasing a sigh of anticipation.
And then he leans down to kiss me.
Justine
September 24, 2002
My first diary entry
My head is exploding with so many things to say, so many things to celebrate and be excited about. If I were to tell one of my friends—my many new friends—or him…they'd probably have me committed, that's how excited I am. I'm one of those giddy girls with a smile bursting across her face and who jumps up and down on her toes incessantly because she simply cannot contain her joy.
I don't want to scare anyone with my elation. Which is why I have turned to you, Dear Diary. My black-and-white composition notebook, where I will share my exuberance about my wonderful life.
I can tell you everything that will alarm all the dull people beyond these pages. You won't judge. How I feel will never scare you or make you worry that I might just be a little insane.
So, anyway. Back to the matter at hand. I am so excited. This is going to be the best year of my life. The very best. The most insanely astonishingly wonderful, amazing year.
I love my classes. LOVE THEM! I wanted an easy class or two so I could enjoy my freshman year, so I'm retaking calculus, physics, and chemistry, though I got 5s on all my AP scores for those classes. I'm also taking programming methodology. It's like a smorgasbord of all my favorite subjects—a veritable feast. The lecturers here are brilliant, and I especially adore my stats and calc professors. They are incredible. Fantastic. Inspiring.
My roommate is adorable, and we've become the best of friends. She's a psych major, and she already thinks she's an expert in her field. When she tries to psychoanalyze me, I laugh inside. I mean, I am literally cracking up so intensely in my head that it's almost impossible to keep a straight face. Seriously…the best psychiatrists in the country can't figure me out, because I don't allow them to. And Ginny, my seventeen-year-old roommate, thinks she can draw out my deepest emotions and then she can fix me.
I love her, though. Her cuteness makes me smile. So I keep telling her how amazing her skills are, and when she says, all quiet compassion, "You've carried around your mother's abandonment like a heavy weight, haven't you?" I say, "Oh my God…you're so perceptive, Gin." And I let a little tear form in my eye. She loves that.
My dorm room is lovely, with a great view of the beautiful elm trees that line the sidewalk outside. The other students on my floor are hilarious, and they all actually like me, which is quite a change, I've got to tell you.
I should erase that last line. Scratch it out like the intrusive little cancerous thought it is. Because I'm not here to talk about high school. That is past. Gone. Over. Dead. I'm turning over a new, bright, and shiny leaf, and I'm doing a fantastic job of it so far.
And now…the best for last, Dear Diary: him.
I've met someone…and in my programming methodology class, of all the absolutely perfect places to meet someone. He's brilliant—that much was obvious during the first week of the semester, when he debugged a line of code that had me pulling my hair out in frustration. It's the first time anyone has ever been able to solve a coding problem before I could, and I have to tell you, I was beyond impressed.
And he's magnificent. The handsomest boy I've ever met. He's got dark, almost ebony hair, and these electric-blue eyes that are so piercing that when he first turned them on me, all the little hairs on my arms stood straight up as if I'd stuck my finger in a socket.
And, can you believe this? After I met him in class, I saw him in the dining hall!
Yes, he lives in my dorm. I think it's fate, I honestly do. He lives on the floor below mine, just below me, in fact, so when I'm lying in bed, I picture him sleeping underneath me, his long, dark lashes covering those compelling eyes. I imagine him as an innocent little boy when he's sleeping. Helpless and beautiful and just…wonderful.
We sat together at dinner the night we met and every night since—and on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when we both have a nine o'clock class, we have breakfast together too.
Last night at dinner, over our roasted chicken and mashed potatoes, he asked me out for the first time. We're going to a movie on Friday night.
I think he's going to kiss me after that movie, Diary. His gaze keeps wandering to my lips, drifting down over my face until his eyes stop at my mouth. And then he just stares. The expression on his face is hungry. He wants to taste me….just like I want to taste him.
Friday night. It's our first date, and it will be our first kiss. The start of many more dates and kisses to come.
What's his name, you ask?
Why, it's Ethan. Ethan Williams.
Chapter Three
Ethan's breath whispers over my lips. He moves inexorably closer, and I anticipate what it'll be like when he kisses me—warm and soft, erotic, enticing, and he'll taste like heat and man, and—
"All done!"
I jerk back, emitting a small yelp of surprise, and whip my head around to look over my shoulder. Mick stands just behind us.
He grins. "Am I interrupting something?"
"Not at all." Ethan hasn't moved, hasn't jumped guiltily backward like I did, but irritation sparks in his eyes.
"I came to tell you the fog watch is over," Mick explains. "We can go below."
"Oh. Great." I slide a glance at Ethan. "Um…"
"Nalani's gone down to make lunch," Mick continues. "It should be ready in a minute. Should I tell her you're on your way?"
"We'll be down in a minute," Ethan says.
"All righty." Mick turns around and makes his way back to the cockpit, leaving Ethan and me alone again.
The wild desire to wrap my arms around him and drag him to me still swirls within me, but now I'm suddenly aware of Kyle standing at the wheel behind us and the Plexiglas windows in the bridge deck that open to the front of the boat. Nalani is in there, Mick will be there in a second, and if Ethan and I kissed now, they'd all have a front-row seat to the show.
Ethan watches Mick disappear, then turns back to me. His expression has cooled—devoid of all the scorching heat of a moment ago.
Just like that, doubt slams into me. Was that almost-kiss just me being over-hopeful? Maybe it was me making a move to kiss him, and he was just sitting there trying to be frie
ndly. I'm so on fire every time Ethan's near me, honestly it wouldn't surprise me if his interest was all a product of my imagination.
I cradle my coffee cup in my hands and grind my teeth. Second-guessing myself is one of my best skills, and I hate it.
"I should go help with lunch," I murmur.
He nods and reaches for my mug. "Let me take that for you."
I start walking, and he follows, his gaze prickling the back of my neck. I snag my lower lip between my teeth as I grip the lifeline that's strung along the edge of the deck and let it slide in my hand as I approach the cockpit.
I shouldn't care about the limp anymore; I should be used to it by now. Still, when people watch me walk from behind, I can't see the expressions on their faces, their reactions to my awkward gait, and that makes me self-conscious.
Step carefully. Minimize the limp. Don't fall. Ethan's already seen me fall once. So help me, it's not going to happen again.
I don't know whether to curse Mick or thank him for interrupting that moment between Ethan and me. He could have been stopping me from experiencing the best kiss of my life…or he might have just prevented me from making a total idiot of myself. I wish I knew which.
We eat lunch out in the cockpit, because the sun is now shining, there's a slight breeze, and it's beautiful and warm outside. Nalani has turned off the engine, and the sails are up and full of air. Though we're not going fast, at least we're moving.
As we eat, Nalani tells us she's made a watch schedule. She's planned it so that there's at least one but usually two people on the deck on watch 24/7.
Nalani talks about our duties during our watches while I surreptitiously study Ethan. He listens to Nalani with such serious intensity, my skin prickles. His focus—even when it's not on me—is so sexy.
I still don't understand why he's here. "It's something I need to do," he said. But what does that mean? Why would he need to do this?
He doesn't spare a glance for me. He's deeply focused as Nalani passes around the watch schedule.
Surprise, surprise—Nalani hasn't scheduled Kyle and me together. Instead, I share my watches with Mick and Ethan. Nalani has given me two four-hour blocks—one in the late morning and one late at night. This timing works perfectly, since I'm used to being up late studying.
