It’s such a needy male comment that I want to laugh. Except, nothing here is funny, and answering this remark would take hours. It would ruin the moment, and I’m not ready for that. His hands are stroking my waist now, thumbs teasing. And I’m aching as I haven’t with any other man.

Reaching behind, I circle his neck, then, when I feel his hands full-on me, I whisper his name. And do I ever know where this will lead if I don’t stop soon? Turning in his arms, I grab that gorgeous, mussed, chestnut-colored hair and pull him in for a kiss. Just one. A full kiss, like he used to give.

And full it is. It positively consumes my mouth, covering, opening, tasting. I need hard and fast, even punishing, but this kiss takes its time. Surrounded by scruff, it is still butter-smooth and, in its thoroughness, ten times better than I remember.

Only when it ends, when I draw back with my fingers still in his hair and look into eyes that are electric gray, cheeks that are flushed above the stubble, lips that are moist, do I realize how close our bodies are. My breasts are crushed to his chest, while his hands on the small of my back press my lower body to his. Jack Sabathian is well-endowed, and I feel every inch. This is punishment for my leaving. He is showing me everything I lost.

“Don’t say it,” I beg, breathing too fast.

But he can’t help himself. It’s the honesty that I love about him, the honesty that I hate. “Stay, sweetheart. Stay in Bay Bluff.”

Shaking my head, I say, “Too late.” My voice is too loud, but I need it to drown out the stubborn hum in my body. Knowing I’m losing my grip on what little of me remains when I’m in this place, I break away. Running through the kitchen—yes, running, which is what you do when you’re scared—I go out the back door to the small deck at the top of the stairs. There I stop. I breathe in. Deeply. Of the night ocean, of sand, of marine life that I can’t begin to see.

Far out, a boat moves through the waves, single lights front and back. Though the sound of its motor is swallowed by the shush-and-break of the surf, not so the hooks that jangle on the dock closer in or the breeze that stirs the tall grasses on this side of the bluff.

I hear all of this, then the quiet opening and closing of the door, and feel Jack beside me, even before he speaks.

“I was wrong, the things I said back then, Mal. I was taking it out on you that your father was there and knew what happened.”