Or it had felt that way until he’d gone. Now I want to crash. I’m bone tired and lost and, although I was so glad to have heard from Nikki, I’m now feeling more than a little melancholy. And very much alone.
When I’d first returned to the house, I’d thought I would see him. But the house was empty and silent, and though I checked the front drive, there was no sign of a car, and I’d gone back inside and stomped my way to my guest suite feeling both relieved and annoyed. Relieved, because I apparently made a fool of myself earlier. Annoyed because as far as the wedding went, Ryan and I had the joint responsibility of dealing with the reception and the house guests. We’d been working closely for almost forty-eight hours now, and at the very least he should have checked with me before leaving to make sure there wasn’t anything still to do.
There isn’t. But he should have checked.
I tell myself I don’t care, and I’m just feeling touchy because I’m exhausted. I need a nap. Some R&R. I’ll lay out by the pool, then take a swim. Maybe this afternoon I’ll go into town and prowl the little shops. I should take something fun back to my parents—maybe a painting for the entryway or something cute for the kitchen.
Then I’ll grab some takeout and crash for the night. I’ll get a good night’s sleep, get in the car, and get my ass back to Texas. Away from California, temptation, and Ryan Fucking Hunter.
It’s a good plan, and I go to change into my bathing suit and find something to read. I recently started to reread Rebecca, but right now I’m not in the mood. Instead I grab a copy of Cosmopolitan. I smile wryly. Maybe this month’s article on how to make a man feel awesome in bed will come in handy if I ever see Ryan again.
As with everything in this house that Damien built, the backyard pool area is a little slice of heaven. The pool itself is huge, falling off to an infinity edge that gives the illusion that it extends into the Pacific. There’s a hot tub, of course, as well as a waterfall and a swim-up bar.
The water is warm—and it feels nice to walk in until it hits my shoulders. Then I close my eyes and sink under, losing myself to the eerie quiet of this empty pool.
I’m not in the mood to swim, though, and so I emerge, then lightly towel off. I like the sensation of being damp, of lying back and feeling the breeze brushing over my moist skin.
The lounge chair is padded, with a nice cup holder built right in. And since I’m planning on napping anyway, I detour to the small refrigerator and take out a wine cooler. I pick a chair under the pergola so that I’m at least a little bit out of the sun. And then, finally, I settle down to read and relax.
I make it only a few pages into the magazine before my eyes start to droop. I drop the magazine to the tiled decking, then close my eyes. Just a short nap, I think, as sleep beckons and I’m pulled down, down, down into my dreams.
He is there.
Ryan.
I am standing in a wide green field, and though I cannot see him clearly, I know that he is the man in the distance. Hunter, I think. And I am his prey.
He stalks toward me, jeans slung low on his hips. He wears no shirt, and the sun beats down on broad shoulders and a lean, sculptured chest. I move toward him, drawn to him by some unassailable compulsion.
And then he is there, and we are no longer in a field but on a beach. I am in his arms and there is an orchestra, and Nikki is there with Damien, applauding as Ryan spins me around and around and around until I am so dizzy I need to lie down.
Then I am on the ground, and the waves crash over me. The tent is gone, the orchestra vanished. There is only the sound of the ocean crashing upon the beach. There is only the feel of the water sluicing over me.