“May I see your drawings?”
She sketched with charcoal, not looking up. “Are you sure you want to look? There are ones of you in here.”
“Did you draw me as a gargoyle? Or a cyclops?” he asked, lounging back in a deck chair and propping his foot on the bolted down table between the seating.
She glanced up. “Why would I do that?”
“Since we talked about our past arguments.”
Fish plopped in the brief silence before she answered, “You’ve been nothing but understanding and patient with me, with this whole situation. No matter what else happens, I won’t forget that.”
“Whatever else happens?” Trepidation kinked the muscles in his neck.
“If you get tired of having an amnesiac wife.”
“I could never get tired of you.”
Her cheeks flushed pink as she glanced at him through her eyelashes. His mind swirled, thinking of last night. Of her body pressed against his and the scent of her coconut shampoo. And how he’d wanted so much more than to just sleep next to her.
How he still wanted that.
She seemed to read his thoughts, her blush fading. Awareness flitted across her face. An expression that almost looked like longing.
The sound of another fish jumping out of the water brought them back to reality. He shook his head.
She passed over the pad of drawings. “Here. Feel free to look.”
She tucked her hair behind her ear and chewed her nail as he flipped through the book.
There were pages upon pages of sketches. Some scenes of the beach house. Some of boats in the harbor. Thomas in a Santa hat.
All so damn good, the details grabbing his heart. “You’ve been busy.”
“I feel like there are thoughts needing to pour out. I don’t have to think or talk, just... Oh, I don’t know how to describe it other than to say it’s like meditation.”
He flipped to the next page. Half-finished drawings of him sleeping. She seemed to fixate on his face. Mostly his eyes. As if she was trying to figure out something about him. Her sketches were beautiful. Hyperrealistic. He’d forgotten how talented she was with charcoal and pencils.
The last sketch in the book sucked the air from his chest. It was a montage of images. Items of their joint past. Did she remember?
It was a scene of a room. On the desk, there was a globe with a cracked stand. A Moroccan rug on the ground. All souvenirs—all representing moments in their life together. If she didn’t know what these were, what did the drawings mean? Why had she stumbled onto these particular items? He couldn’t decide whether to tell her or not. What would be helpful?
Truth. As much as he could give her.
“There are items here that you received over those missing years, gifts I gave you.”
She gasped. “Like what?”
“The rug right here.” He pointed to the sketch, careful not to smudge the material, “It was the first gift I ever gave you. When you were living in that tiny apartment with the tile in your bedroom. You said you hated how cold your feet were in the mornings. Even then, I knew you liked those rich colors. Items with a bit of history. I picked it up on a business trip.”
She considered his words, staring hard at the sketch. “I woke up with this scene in my head. I thought it was from a dream...but maybe my memories are trying to come back after all.”
“It’s quite possible.”
“What else is from our past?”
“The globe with the cracked stand.”
“That’s a strange gift. Where’s it from?” She crinkled her nose and adjusted her sunglasses again.
“Well it didn’t start out cracked. It cracked in our move. But I got it for our one-year anniversary. It was a blank globe. Ceramic. You painted it. It’s got quotes over where the countries ought to be. Quotes about art and life. I’ve always thought you should replicate it and sell them.”
She smiled at him. “Do you think the art supplies gift made me think of that?”
“Could be.”
“What about being on the yacht? What will that help me remember?”
“Honestly? Arguing. You were angry with me for buying this. You thought the money could have been better spent. But then we fought about pretty much everything then.”
“I appreciate you being honest.”
“I want you to trust me. You believe that, right?”
“I do. I’m just not sure you want me to remember everything. You seem very into this fresh start. All the control is on your side since you have the pieces of the past and I only get what other people tell me.”
He couldn’t deny the truth in that. He owed her more, better. Hell, he owed her the unvarnished truth, but couldn’t bring himself to go quite that far when they were so close to having everything they’d wanted. Time on the yacht offered them a window of time away from the world and he needed to embrace that fully.
“Alaina, I have an idea. Let’s use this time to pretend we’re two different people. Strangers who’ve met and are stuck on this ostentatious yacht together. Strangers attracted to each other and ready to get to know each other.” He loosened the cap on the water bottle and handed it to her.
His gaze met hers, and he could swear the air crackled with the static of a lightning strike even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
She grabbed it and flashed him a grin. “I’m game.”
* * *
Vibrant pinks of the sunset blurred into deeper purples. The heat of the day was behind them, the cool ocean breeze nudging Alaina’s skin toward goose bumps. She ran a hand over her exposed leg, hoping to generate some warmth.
Embers of sunlight caused the yacht to glow. While she was conscious of how expensive this outing was, she had to admit there was some charm to it all. The lulling rock of the yacht in the water. The heavy smell of salt in the air. Relaxing. Intimate. It was easy to feel as if they were the only two people in the whole world with the captain and crew dismissed for a few hours and other boats so far away.
And in some ways, that’d been a good thing.
But she still couldn’t help feeling slightly uneasy. He hadn’t denied wanting this fresh start, or taking the power it gave him. Even when she agreed to get to know him anew, she wondered what he really thought of her. Of all of this.
“You look chilled.” Porter pushed his deck chair closer to hers. He had a thick blanket in his hand. It was covered in a sprawling cursive print. She squinted in the dying light to see what it said.
