Mistletoe in Paradise (Wildstone #5.5) - Jill Shalvis Page 0,6

“People like me?”

“People who can’t unplug from work because they don’t have a life.”

She gaped at him. “I have a life.”

“Good.”

“I do!”

“I said good.”

She eyed his pocket, which was lit up from his phone inside it. “What about the people who might need to get ahold of you who aren’t your work?”

“The people who matter most to me either know where I am or are here.”

She sucked in a breath, having no idea what to do with that, plus still stinging from the “people like you” comment.

“Have you talked to your dad yet?” he asked.

Startled, she blinked. “What?”

“I could tell earlier that you were holding something back from him. Figured you were here to talk to him about something.”

Nice to know she was still transparent. “It’s nothing that concerns you.”

He looked at her for a long beat, then nodded, and with one last unreadable look, he vanished down the dark hallway.

The next morning, Hannah awoke at the crack of dawn. Actually, that statement wasn’t quite accurate. In order to wake up, she would have had to have gotten some sleep—which she hadn’t. She lay there registering the gentle vibration of the motor beneath her. They were on the move again. Turning her head, she looked out the porthole. The porthole she hadn’t won but had anyway because James had given it to her without a fight.

As if she wasn’t worth the fight.

But that was a problem for another day. Or, you know, never. At the moment, she needed to own her past and her mistakes—of which there were many. That’s what adulting meant, right? She was going to have to face all of it. Trying to pretend to vacation while working to keep a promise to her boss. Giving her dad the divorce papers right before Christmas.

James . . .

Mad at herself, she pulled on a bathing suit and another sundress—which for someone who’d just come from the States in December felt unreal. After an extremely cold fall and early winter at home, she’d been unable to fathom ever being warm again, so she had packed heavy clothes. She added a thick cardigan sweater to her ensemble before padding upstairs.

It was a stunning Caribbean morning, already warm and glorious, which was a comfort but also made her heart hurt. Drawing a deep breath, she went directly to the closed bridge door and lifted her hand to knock.

But didn’t.

Instead, she hesitated, picturing how happy her dad had been at the idea of seeing his estranged wife again.

How was she going to do this without breaking his heart? Answer: she wasn’t.

Lowering her hand, she swore and turned to walk away. But . . . she couldn’t. He needed to know. Turning back, she stared at the door again. For god’s sake, make like a Nike commercial and Just Do It already. Again she tried to knock, but couldn’t make her knuckles touch the wood. “Argh!” Spinning on a heel to leave, she plowed right into a brick wall.

James.

Of course. Because this wasn’t hard enough.

“Whoa,” he said, easily absorbing the impact without moving, wrapping his arms around her to keep her from falling.

Which was how she found herself face-first in the crook of his neck, enveloped in the only pair of arms where she’d ever felt at home. For a beat, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t do anything but sift her way through the memories of being right here in his arms on this boat, safe and sound and cared for.

When she didn’t move, his arms tightened a bit, and he bent and put his head against hers. “You okay?”

Sure. For someone completely losing her shit.

“Hannah?”

Just the low timbre of his voice had her eyes stinging. She decided to blame this on the sun and the morning breeze, which was blowing her hair into her face.

James looked in his element in a pair of board shorts and a T-shirt advertising something in Spanish. He was warm and toasty and so familiar she burrowed in closer without thinking.

He stilled before squeezing her gently. “Hey,” he said softly. “Let’s go somewhere else not quite so visible.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you hate it when anyone sees you cry.”

She sniffed and shook her head. “I’m not crying.” But she was sweating. She shucked her sweater. “It’s just allergies.”

“Yeah. You’re allergic to confrontation,” he said dryly and untangled her fingers from where, oh boy, they’d been fisted in his shirt. Taking her by the hand, he pulled her away from the bridge, portside toward the stern until they