But all things happened for a reason.
And waking up in the arms of Evans Reynolds, sticky with his cum on her belly from that last time he had shuddered against her, his legs tangled in her own, was like nothing she had ever experienced. Maybe everything had just brought her to this.
Evan’s lips lightly pressed along her temple.
“No bad dreams?”
“None.”
The kiss on her lips to seal it was too brief.
“Then get up, sleepyhead. I want to really show you around the island. And don’t try to use the excuse you’re not well enough.”
She grinned at him as he leapt out of bed.
“I happen to know every delectable little bit of your body is in full working order.”
“And then some,” she agreed easily, rising at her own languid pace, stretching her arms high above her as she did so. There were no blinds on any of Evan’s windows or sliding-glass doors. No curtains. No shades.
No reason to have any, she supposed. And yet decadently satisfying privacy all around them.
Rummaging in his dresser, he threw her yet another of his inevitable tees and sweatpants. She glanced at the slogan on the shirt, which proclaimed If you got a warrant, I guess you’re gonna come in and laughed, slipping it on. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Deadhead, Evan.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for recognizing that line.”
When she would have gone to roll up the bottom of the sweatpants after putting them on, he stopped her, crouching down with a pair of scissors he’d pulled off his desk. “It’s too dangerous going where we’re going today with the possibility of you tripping over these.” He cut four or five inches off of each pant hem efficiently and then stood. “You can tuck what’s left over into the top of your boots.”
Although she had taken over his sock drawer, she still had her boots. She didn’t know what had happened to the other clothes she had come in and she didn’t ask, since presumably the blood had rendered them useless.
But today was not a day to think about blood.
“I should really pop over to the mainland and get you some clothes that fit.”
Today was not a day to think about that either. “No,” she said in a rush. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
He nodded. “Afraid someone will think I have a woman here?”
“Of course not,” she lied. “I’m sure you have women here all the time.”
“You know that’s not true.”
They dropped the subject of his possible female companions and her possible wardrobe and ventured out hand in hand into the sunshine of a perfectly glorious day. On her few forays around the island so far, they had headed down to the beach, where the sound of the pounding Atlantic gave her a proper sense of her own perspective. But this time, Evan steered her in the opposite direction, toward the cliffs at the top of the island.
They climbed jagged rock upon jagged rock. The sea below them seemed to magnify in its wildness the higher they got, the vantage showing them how hard the surf beat against the cliffs, how insistent its rhythm. From on high, perspective wasn’t what this tableau spelled to her. Majesty maybe. Wild power perhaps.
By the time they were at the highest point, hand in hand, both breathing hard and grinning with their exertion, she felt she understood the meaning of the phrase “Rocky Mountain High”. Even though she knew it referred to a region far away and probably not very similar in topography, the point was the same. How easy it was to be high on nature or something to that effect.
Glancing at Evan’s wind-ruffled hair, in his fisherman’s sweater and boots, she realized there was something very sexy about this man-and-nature thing too.
Or maybe it was just this man.
Sidling up to him, she went for a kiss and a toot from somewhere caused her to spring back and look toward the sound in alarm. Silence had a way of growing on a person. She hadn’t realized how much she had come to value it until the sound ripped it apart and she felt that same sense of unease she had felt virtually since her mother had married Fredrico Stavros.
“It’s just the supply boat,” Evan cautioned.
“I don’t want anyone to see me.”
The little motorboat was approaching fast but still would be far enough away for the occupant not to discern there were two figures on the cliff instead of one. She crouched down to the grass automatically and the look of pity he cast her way hurt. But she did not stand up.
“Go into the cottage.” He gestured to the crumbling stone building behind them. “I’ll meet the boat down at the beach.”
She didn’t care at this point that he witnessed her furtive run toward the structure. He already must think her no better than a cornered, frightened rabbit. When she got to the cottage, unlocked of course, she paid its interior no mind, posting herself by the side of the window, alert to see who was approaching the island. Although from the vantage of the cottage close to the cliff, she could make out where the beach met the water, she couldn’t see much else. Glancing distractedly around, she saw the binoculars hanging on the wall and grabbed them. Excellent.