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They are the same lumps that have always been there. The ones I've worried through the outside cover when I rocked myself to bed as a little kid, scared and mute from the fear. Lost in my own mind from the sadness.

Getty runs out of the room and returns in seconds with scissors, her eyes alive with encouragement as she hands them to me. “On the seam in the belly,” she says as she shows me. “I can sew that back together like new.”

Excitement and emotion and every other fucking thing I can't even name courses through me as I try to steady the blade and snip a small opening in the seam. Carefully I make a two-inch-size hole, drop the scissors, and use my fingers to dig around inside. I can't feel shit other than stuffing clumped together and turned stiff from age. The high hopes I had of finding this one last thing from my mother slowly crashing.

And then I hit something hard with my fingertip. My breath hitches. My heart races. The little circle inside the doggy that I used to rub my fingers around and always thought was just a part sewn inside.

“What is it?” Getty's voice is loaded with the same emotion that I feel.

I know before I pull it from the hole. Know that it's my mother's way of letting me keep a piece of her with me forever.

I put the small gold band between my thumb and forefinger and hold it up so Getty can see. “It's her wedding ring.”

She gasps.

I'm paralyzed. Swamped with memories.

Her arms go around me.

I break.

Every fucking thing I've been holding in since I was seven years old comes out.

The anger. The hate. The loneliness. The relentless questions. The need to feel my mother's love again. The guilt.

Every single piece.

Except her love for me.

Because I know that was true.

Repair List

Replace Front Step—third one

Replace Missing Roof Shingles—Wet is only good in one place

Back Deck = Death Trap

Fix Lock on Patio Door—Sorry, Mr. Ax Murderer

Fix Bathroom Mirror

Clean Out & Fix Rain Gutter Spouts

Repair Shutters

Add Handrail to Front Steps & Paint

Connect Internet for God's Sake

Boat Shit I Don't Understand

Bulldoze House and Rebuild

Electrician—Call one

Plumber—Creaky pipes

Have sex with
Kiss
the Repair Guy

The sun is shining and the ferry's horn sounds off a warning that a new wave of tourists is heading ashore, but as we walk through town, my mind's focused on the man beside me, holding my hand.

And on the dwindling repair list on the counter I've set to memory. Each item that gets crossed off means one fewer day with him.

I have to try not to be sad; this was how our story was scripted to play out. I've come to terms with it more in the last few days after seeing a more lighthearted Zander. I knew him only with the weight of the unknown resting on his shoulders. And now that it's been lifted, he's still the same guy he was before, but there's a significant change. He's more carefree. His smile is broader. He's not so moody.

That alone, watching the man I love live a happier life, will make saying good-bye to him a bit easier. Knowing I helped him get what he came here for and he in turn helped me overcome my past when it caught up with me.

Who the hell am I kidding?
I'm going to bawl like a freaking baby, eat tons of ice cream, and paint dark stormy seas and skies again when he's gone . . . but at least it was by my own choice. I chose to walk into this relationship with Zander when I knew the end before it began. Such a weird, liberating thing to have for myself after being controlled for so many years.

Carpe diem, Getty.

The thought really strikes me for some reason. Like if I really mean the saying, then I'd better do something about it. And so without preamble I tug on Zander's hand. He stops to look at me, but I only catch a millisecond of the confusion on his face before I slant my lips over his.

I love the sudden movement of his body, the hitch in his breath. Even better, I love how, within a second, his hand slides against my lower back and pulls me into him so he can deepen the kiss.

He tastes like desire and the chocolate ice cream we shared moments ago. I think I'll always equate him with that newly awakened sensation he's brought out in me.

Our tongues meet, hands press our bodies closer, and our lips express our need. The tourists littering the sidewalk have to walk around us, and for once, I really don't care who is watching. Because it feels like it's just him. And me. And he's not going to leave and I'm not going to cry and all will be well.

The warmth of his kiss allows me to believe the
fantasy for a few seconds before Mable's loud, identifiable laugh sounds off to the right of us. “Well, thank God. It's about time you kissed her senseless, Zander.”

Zander breaks the kiss but not before I can feel his lips curve into a smile. “You keep denying me, Mable, so I had no choice but to move on. A man has needs after all.”

She throws her head back and laughs, bosom jiggling and cheeks turning red from the attention. “Young man,” she says with a shake of her head and a point of her finger, “I think that lass right there is taking care of your needs just fine by the looks of that kiss.”

“No complaints here, ma'am,” he says with a lift of his eyebrows and a smile well into dimple territory.

“Such a gentleman.” Mable pats her chest in mock swoon. “Oh, Getty! We got a great bid on that sequined cocktail number today. It's going to bring in some good—”

“Excuse me a second,” Zander says unexpectedly as he sees someone over my shoulder. I watch him jog over to where Liam stands out in front of the bar. Zander calls his name to get his attention as I turn back to Mable. She continues on about some of my dresses up for sale, but my attention remains focused on Zander and Liam, whose eyes keep glancing back at me.

We meet up a few minutes later. “What was that all about?” I ask, hating that I suddenly sound nosy.

“Nothing really. Just wanted to ask Liam a few things.” He falls silent, which means my curiosity is piqued.

“What were—?”

“He wanted to give me this,” he says with a laugh as he holds out a white Lazy Dog Bar T-shirt like the staff has to wear, with the logo prominently displayed across the chest of it.

“Always the opportunist. He's probably hoping you'll be photographed with it when you head to the race or something and give the bar some notoriety.”

“I'll wear it.” He shrugs. “Although I like how you wear yours much better,” he says with a wink, referring to how all the servers tie the back of their shirts to make them a bit tighter for the male patrons' benefit.

“I'm sure you do.” I laugh and smile at him.

“It's even better when you're not wearing it, though.” I go to playfully hit him in the arm, but he catches my arm before I connect and presses an unexpected kiss to the top of my hand. While I'm startled, he acts casual when he links his fingers with mine and starts walking.

“You going to be okay while I'm gone?”

“Yes.”
No.

The question stops my heart, but I try not to show it. I know he's referring to his flight the day after next. And of course I feel ridiculously stupid that I'm panicking over how this will be the first time we're going to be apart in almost three months.

But I know my feelings are haywire over more than that. Once he goes back to his real life, the anchor holding him here on the island will slowly lose its hold.

He's addressed the reason he ran in the first place. Going home means he's going to try to right the wrongs with his family. If he's successful, he'll have no reason to stay here anymore.

“I feel like after everything that happened the other night, I should be the one asking you that question. How are you doing?”

He blows out a breath as we take the turn off the main street to start back home. The weight of his thoughts fills the silence. “I'm good,” he finally says. “A part of me wants to be angry at her for not getting out when she clearly knew what was going to happen, but I'm just so tired of being angry, Getty. It's all I've known for what feels like so long. And being pissed isn't going to change anything.”

He sounds very different from the man I met a few months ago. His state of mind, his openness to introspection, and what he's going to take away from the heart-wrenching letter his mother left for him.

“I agree,” I murmur, knowing these are the conclusions he needs to come to on his own, and so the less I say, the better.

“I think what I feel is closure more than anything. A small sense of peace that I've never been able to have. I mean, I may not like her answers about why she stayed
with him, but at least I have them and at least they were in her voice, not something I conjured up to make her the martyr and him the monster. And stupidly enough, hearing her tell me she loved me in her own words . . . that made all the difference.”

“It's not stupid at all.” I lean my head against his shoulder, a smile on my lips, my heart swelling with pride for him. “It's validation for your feelings. Hearing the person you love tell you they love you back is something every person wants to hear.”

I
forgot how much I missed this. How much I needed this. And it's crazy to me that I've had no desire to paint over the past few weeks—even after the dinner with my father and the chaos with Ethan—until now, on the eve of Zander's leaving.

Maybe that says a lot about where I stand now in my life. My father and Ethan can no longer affect me. But Zander . . . by the flurry and fervor in which I've lost myself to the bold colors on canvas, he most definitely makes me feel.

I'm just not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

By the looks of what's taking shape before me, it's an all-new thing. Instead of blended soft colors of a sunset over turbulent water, the painting depicts sleek lines and defined edges. It might be called abstract at best and crappy at worst, but my first attempt at a moving object is much harder than the fluidity of nature.

“Wow.” Zander's voice startles me. The absence of the hammer noise outside had gone unnoticed, my earbuds falling out overlooked, while my work once again consumed me.

“You think?” I set the brush down and look over my shoulder at him where he stands.

“Yeah. It's actually incredible.”

He leans in closer while I scoot my chair back to get a different perspective. I angle my head and stare at it through judgmental eyes. The outline is just enough to make out the image of an Indy car flying across the canvas. It's blurry on purpose, but I'm still not happy with it.

“It needs work yet,” I muse as I shade and frame the image more in my mind. “It's only half-done and I've never really painted anything so technical like this before, so who knows how it will—”

“Shush.” He places his hands on my shoulders and begins to rub at the knots from my sitting hunched over a canvas for however long I've been here. “Quit being so critical of your talent. I can't wait to see the finished product.”

“Well, I'm glad, because I was painting it for you.”
And I've never felt the need to paint anything for anyone.
The thought ghosts through my mind. And all I can think is that I need to give him something to remember me by.

“Thank you. I love it already.” He presses an absent kiss to the top of my head, which causes tears I refuse to acknowledge to burn in my throat. Such a casual gesture from him but so very telling of how far we've come since that first night when we made a toast to
us
.

“What are you up to?” I let my head fall back some, his fingers magic on my sore muscles.

“I finished up a few things on the deck and just wanted to see what the world-famous painter was up to.”

My smile is automatic. How ironic that he brought up a memory from that night out when I was thinking about it too.

“Oh, and here I thought you were finally coming to have me paint that nude of you.”

His laugh is sharp and fills the room with the suggestion lacing its edges. “You were, were you?”

“Yeah, but I'm not sure I have the right paint to give you the look you were going for.”

“What look is that?” he murmurs.

“Pretty.”

I yelp out a laugh as he spins my chair around without warning to face him. He braces his hands over my forearms on the armrests and looks at me, eyebrows raised, a
lopsided smirk on his face, and eyes darkened with desire. Our laughter ceases instantly. The air of the room quickly heats from the chemistry sparking between us.

My breath catches in my chest. My hands tense on the arms of the chair. His look alone is causing my synapses to misfire. But this time, I'm much the wiser.

I want to use the match to light the fire. I know how good his burn is.

“Say it again, Socks.
Pretty
please,” he murmurs against my mouth before dipping his tongue between my parted lips and giving me a quick taste of the hunger inside him before pulling away—leaving me wanting so very much more. “Give me a reason.”

My lips curl as he leans back. My nipples harden against the cotton of my shirt from his proximity. The heat of his hands on my arms burns in the best way possible.

“A reason for what?” I'm breathless. Needy. Desperate for him.

“To make you beg.” His smile taunts. The look in his eyes tempts me. The lick of his tongue between his lips does all kinds of funny things to my insides. The intent in his words has me pressing my thighs together.

And oh, how I want him to make me beg.

I feign nonchalance. Try to act unaffected, but it's impossible when he's standing over me and every part of my body is aching for his touch.

But I try.

“How would you make me beg?”

His laugh sounds deep and rich. “You think you can bat those gorgeous eyes at me, act like you're all sweet and innocent, when I know exactly what you want and just how to give it to you?”

“How do you know what I want?” My voice is coy, lips pursed, as I look up and play this game with him.

He laughs again, but this time it sounds like his hands feel when they run over my skin: smooth with a hint of roughness and a whole lot of desire. “I was born to give you what you want, Socks.”

It's my turn to laugh. My body hums with anticipation.
There's a hint of edge to the gleam in his eye and the sexual side of me he's awakened really wants to test it.

“So. Damn. Pretty . . .”

His lips quirk. His eyebrows lift. His breath catches. He stands up ever so slowly, mouth sliding into a smile that's part victorious, part devious. I wonder what I just awakened in him at the same time as I can't wait to find out.

“Stand up,” he demands, eyes daring, fingers twitching as they hang by his side.

I rise slowly. My heart pounds as anticipation becomes adrenaline. He steps forward and doesn't touch a single part of my body aside from the hem of my shirt as he pulls it up. “Lift,” he orders, and I comply without question.

The only break in eye contact we have is when the shirt passes over my face, but we instantly find each other the minute it passes. His breath feathers over my cheeks as he lifts his shirt over his head to match my state of undress.

“This isn't about me trying to control you, Getty.” He leans forward and brushes a kiss to my lips, his voice a soothing timbre now. Hands behind his back, our bodies are only inches apart. “This isn't about me getting off on ordering you around.” An openmouthed kiss on the side of my neck, the scrape of his stubble as he rubs his chin over it. “This is you handing over the control of your sexual pleasure right now.” The other side of my neck this time, no urgency in his voice, but rather he sounds like he has all the time in the world. “This is you trusting me, Getty.” He leans back from me and I swear the hair on my body stands on end just to try to reach out so I can touch him in some way. “This is you, giving me your body.” His fingers slide inside the waistband of my yoga pants. “Your mind.” Strong hands continue their slide down the outsides of my thighs until my pants and panties fall to the floor. “Your consent.”

I inhale a shaky breath. His words entice. Intrigue. Inflame. He wants me to let him have control when he knows I have issues, but he's created a situation where my
body is aching to give control up to him. And I know there's no way in hell I'm going to say no.

Desire's thick in my throat as he stands to full height and steps toward me. I hear the wheels of my chair as he kicks it to the side so he can stand behind me. One finger slides down the line of my spine. My back arches at his touch. My mouth gasps. My eyes fall closed.

The heat of his breath hits right at my ear. His voice feels like aural foreplay. “I was outside working on the deck and all I could think about was how bad I wanted to taste you. Dip my head between those tan thighs of yours and flick my tongue over your clit, work you up nice and good. Your-hands-pulling-at-my-hair kind of good. Then I'd slide down to your pussy so I can taste how goddamn sweet you are when you come.”

Dear. God.

“But a
pretty
boy wouldn't do that. No,” he murmurs, teeth nipping at the lobe of my ear. He nudges my head to the side so he can run his tongue along the curve of my neck, then back. He then places openmouthed kisses from the nape of my neck to the other ear. “A
pretty
boy would lay you down, go through the motions to get you off, but he'd be too afraid to get
dirty
.” He draws the last word out, his voice low, raspy. And yet he still denies my body the touch of his hands. “And I like dirty, Getty. I like hands-on.” He purrs the promise despite removing his lips from my skin.

My body feels electric. Needing the connection with him. Desperate for him to make this current between us spark.

“I like my fingers slowly working in and out of your pussy, my mouth sucking on your nipples or kissing behind your knees, my dick rock-hard with wanting you, and my control holding on by a thread, begging it to break
kind of dirty
.”

My mouth goes dry. Between my thighs goes wet. This gentle, considerate lover of mine has all of a sudden turned into a man on a mission to seduce.

The old me, the one in designer clothes and perfect makeup, would have blushed at his words while secretly
getting hot and bothered and would have mentally filed them away to think about later when she was alone. But the new me, the one he's sexually awakened with his considerate touch and evident attraction to me, stands up and takes notice. She waves her hand frantically in the air and says,
Pick me. Choose me. Do those things to me.

“Do you still want me
pretty
, Socks . . . or would you rather I be
dirty
?” I can feel the warmth of his breath on my neck.

“Zander?” His name comes out part plea, part question.

“Begging already?” A soft taunt of a chuckle. “And I haven't even started yet.”

He steps back behind me. Fingers undoing the clasp of my bra. The scrape of the straps down my arms.

“So damn beautiful . . . Come, sit down.”

I turn to meet his eyes, the steamy look in them seduction all in itself, before I move to where he's pointing: an ottoman that runs along the foot of the bed. I sit dead center against a pillow he's placed there, our gazes still locked as he kneels before me. When his hands finally reach out, they touch my ankles. The spark ignites at the apex of my thighs as he slowly pulls my ankles as far apart as possible, my knees falling against the seat.

My arms are next. He directs them to the top of the bed's footboard, then curls my fingers in position around its edges.

“Keep them like that,” he warns as he stands, my body screaming in protest when he steps away from me. “While tying them there might be fun, I don't think you're ready to give me that much control yet.”

My body trembles at the thought. An excited fear I can't describe but think I could handle if he was at the helm.

“Another time. That I can promise you.” He stands before me, eyes scraping over every single inch of me. Such a different type of scrutiny from what I'm used to. One that says
I want to touch every single part of you. Take and taste and sate and claim until you can't handle any more.

And while he's looking at me, I definitely get my fill of him: his tanned chest, the happy trail that leads below
where his jeans hang low on his hips, the bulge straining against the seam of the denim, his bare feet. When I look back up to meet his eyes, there's a lift of his brow, a kind of
you like what you see?
smirk on his lips, and before I can find an adequate nonverbal response, my eyes are drawn back down to his hands.

With a methodical slowness, they start undoing his jeans, shoving them down, and he steps out of them. All six-foot-plus of him stands back up to full height, giving me more than an eyeful of every firm, rippling, desirable inch of him. My nipples harden. My breath grows shallow.

“I have half a mind to paint you like that. Just how you are. So you can see what I see when I look at you. Sexy.” He takes a step toward me. “Confident.” A step. “Beautiful.” Another step. “Innocent.” He's between my thighs again. My face angles up to his. “But I'm not a painter, Getty.” He drops to his knees. “So I'll have to show you in a different way.”

With eyes still on mine and his hands on his own thighs, Zander leans forward and slides his tongue between the seam of my sex. I can't hold back a moan or the unabashed writhe of my hips. The eroticism of him watching me react to the devastation of that single swipe of a tongue is more powerful than anything I've ever experienced with a man.

Even better, he doesn't stop. Yet he takes his time. With tongue and lips and stubble all affecting me in different ways. His attentions make my muscles tense and every nerve ache and want and need, before he backs off and looks up at me with my arousal on his lips and a gleam in his eye. Just as fast, he's diving back in to start the buildup all over again.

On the third time I'm so pent up with need that as he begins to pull his mouth away, my hands grip what I can of his short hair and hold his head against me. It's his chuckle that reverberates against my sex, though, not his tongue like I wanted.

“Did you just beg, Getty?”

“Yes. No. I don't know!” I'm breathless. Worked up. Desperate. And his laugh is not what I need right now.

“Do you want to know what happens when you beg?” My eyes flash back to his and the mewl falls from my mouth as his fingers find me, part me, and begin to work in and out of me. He watches my reaction for a few seconds until my head falls back as the sensations he's evoking prove to be too much.

And then when he adds his tongue to the mix, it's me bucking my hips into his hand and my voice begging for more, because if this is his type of punishment, then I'll take it.

“Zander.” His name on my lips as my body climbs higher and higher. His fingers stroke. My nerves react. His tongue is godlike. “Oh God.” My hands tense in his hair. “Yes.”