Page 36 of Secret Offer
He goes silent, and when I tilt my head to look over at him, I see that his eyes are closed.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s just…I know what it’s like. To lose someone. Someone your whole life revolves around, who you thought would always be there. And I know how it is when you want to keep the memories alive, even though it hurts to relive them. Years go by, and it never stops hurting.”
“It doesn’t,” I agree.
I suddenly think back to the first day we met, how I saw him staring out at the ocean with that melancholy look on his face. I’d bet anything he was thinking of the person he lost. I wonder if it was a girlfriend, a sibling, a parent. But I don’t ask. I don’t pry. It feels intrusive. He’ll share when he’s ready.
Propping myself up on my elbow, I kiss his cheek, feather-light. Then again. Then closer to his mouth. So gently. He turnshis head and kisses me back, just as soft. Then he brushes his lips against my jaw, my chin, my eyelids.
Tears slip down my cheek, but Sebastian doesn’t stop kissing me. Despite the ache in my chest, there’s a lightness there that I haven’t felt in a very long time.
Soon we’re kissing more deeply, tongues touching briefly, but still ever so carefully, as if we can kiss each other’s pain away.
I wonder if maybe we can.
15
BLAIR
I saw a completelydifferent side of Sebastian last night.Gooddifferent.
I’d fully expected a vigorous round of mattress calisthenics when he showed up to my room looking as hot and bothered as I was, but what I got instead was…maybe even better? No. Definitely better. I don’t mean the oral sex, either. I mean our conversation afterward. I haven’t felt so seen, so understood on a soul level, since Sophie died.
Plenty of people have felt sorry for me, of course, and promised me that time would heal my wounds, compared their own grief over a death to what I was going through with the assurance that it would get better—which it barely has, to be honest—but no one else has just sat beside me in my grief and held me while I let it flow through me. Sebastian wasn’t offering sympathy, but empathy. He knows what it’s like.
Even still, I can’t stop obsessing over the game of hot and cold that he keeps playing. I know he’s trying to be professional and not cross any lines with a guest, but the lines have clearly already been crossed. We’ve already had plenty of sex. Why can’t we keep having more? And how can he possibly justify eating meout last night while refusing to go any further? That still counts as “sex with a guest.”
Men are so confusing.
Not that I didn’t enjoy every second of what we did. But I have less than a week left on the island, and I can’t help thinking that he and I should be taking advantage of every opportunity we have to be together. I know I sound naïve, but what we have is special. I truly believe that. Especially after last night, when we bonded the way we did. I’ve never been so vulnerable with a guy before, and he doesn’t seem like the type of person who lets his guard down around people, either.
And yet, once again, I start to second-guess myself. What if I’m wrong about Sebastian? What if he’s been playing me this whole time? Or what if he hasn’t been, but I’m overly romanticizing the whole situationship? I keep telling myself I’m fine with this fling being temporary, but deep down I can’t help wishing that there was some way we could keep seeing each other. Even if it’s only a few times a year.
That’s not how summer flings work, Blair, I silently scold myself.You’re in denial. You know you’re going to have to let him go. The sooner, the better.
Strolling barefoot on the beach, I turn my face to the sky and let out a groan of frustration. There’s no avoiding the fact that Sebastian and I are going to be parting ways soon. Permanently. So it’s not even like I have a choice in the matter—Iwilllet him go. I absolutely will.
Just not today.
The sun has just come up and there’s hardly anyone else out this early in the day. I’m grateful to be alone out here so I can mope in peace. As I walk near the water’s edge, I realize the tides must have come in strong last night, because there are tons of unbroken seashells washed up on the beach in a rainbow ofcolors, and the gulls seem to be having good luck pecking their breakfast from the damp sand.
Kicking up a pretty pink-and-white striped shell, I bend to retrieve it and quickly spot more. My mood lightens as I comb my fingers through the sand and pluck out a small, perfect sand dollar and then a zebra periwinkle. The lap of the waves soothes me, and I move close enough to the water so the surf tickles my toes as the sun warms the back of my neck. This is what I love. This peace and feeling of just being in the moment. These moments will be sparse once I return home, so I let myself wander, following where the trail of pastel-colored shells takes me.
“Hello there,” a voice says. A male voice. With a British accent.
I look up to see a guy about my age standing a few feet away. He’s wearing a fitted polo shirt, khaki shorts, and boating shoes, with an expensive watch flashing on his wrist. I take in his curly dark hair, his eyes that crinkle with his smile, and his long, lean runner’s body. He’s very nice looking. He’s also got some noticeably cute dimples.
“Hi,” I say back, straightening to stand.
“Looks like I’m not the only shell seeker on the beach today,” he says. “Those are some nice sand dollars you’ve got there. I’ve only found scallops and olive snails so far.”
“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” I joke.
He holds out his cupped hand to display what he’s found. The snail shells are in perfect shape, a variety of colors and patterns in reds, purples, greens, and oranges.
“Impressive,” I say, letting out a low whistle. “Here, take one of my sand dollars.”
