One of the girls, a redhead, who looked like the ringleader, answered. “We’re from Chula Vista, near San Diego,” she said, tone halfway to disinterested.

But the guy wasn’t gauging that. He also wasn’t catching the glance the women shared as he continued his story. It was a glance that predicted their escape from the barfly, a glance that made Wes feel sorry for the older man. Wes wanted to tell him to turn back to his drink and stop making a play for this prey; he was embarrassed for him.

“Yeah,” he said, “I was a pilot for years. Traveled a lot of places…”

The girls nodded, trading another loaded look.

Ready to go? What do you think? How’re we going to get away from him?

“Oh!” the redhead interrupted, looking toward the casino’s exit. “I see Debbie!” She turned to the man. “Our friend’s outside waiting for us.”

The pilot stopped talking, finally getting it.

“It was nice talking to you,” said the quieter girl.

“Yes, nice meeting you,” said the redhead as she linked arms with her friend on the way out. “Have fun tonight.”

The older man didn’t even have time to respond before the duo darted away. As they left, they giggled to each other, loudly enough for the pilot to hear.

Mortified now, Wes waited a few moments, scanning the room again and pretending to be so absorbed in the activity that he hadn’t heard the exchange next to him. When he finally chanced a look at the pilot, the older man snagged his gaze.

Wes’s world seemed to web into cracks. In the pieces, he saw himself in the other guy-Wes Ryan in twenty-five years, wrung out, an object of scorn for all the single girls he’d still be trying to hit on.

Slowly, the pilot turned toward the bar, hunching over his drink.

Shaken, Wes quietly ordered another round for the man, paid for it and left.

The walk back to the room was like a trip through a silent maze. Or maybe that’s just how it felt, because frat boys wove down the corridors and parties spilled from open doors. But Wes didn’t absorb any of it.

When he finally got to his cabin, he unlocked the door, slipping inside the darkness and standing there until his eyesight adjusted. Erin lay in bed sleeping, one arm sprawled over his pillow, her face angled toward the half-curtained window.

After stripping and putting on a pair of pajama bottoms, he slipped into bed, covering himself with the sheet. Tenderly, he took Erin’s hand from his pillow, holding it to his chest as he faced her.

He wished she’d just open her eyes, as he already had, and really see him.

But she never did.

9

ERIN AWOKE TO THE SOFT morning sun peeking through a slit of curtain. The light had the quality of dawn to it: weak but promising.

She blinked, suddenly aware that she wasn’t alone in bed. Turning her head to the side, she felt her body tighten at the view of Wes, one muscled, dusky arm sprawled above his head in slumber. His hair was tufted over the pillow in lazy disarray, a shadow stubbling his jawline. The bed sheets had bunched down to just barely cover his belly; a trail of hair hinted at what the sheet covered.

Erin ached to slide her hand under the linen and explore him. She could almost feel his length in her hand, could imagine coaxing an erection with long, sultry, persuasive strokes.

Clit stiffening, she touched herself instead, slipping her fingers beneath the sheet, between her legs, into the crease of her sex. She pressed where it pained her, then rubbed until she grew damp. Burying her face in the crook of her arm, she quietly fantasized that it was Wes stimulating her…

But it wasn’t.

She lost momentum and, in pure frustration, stopped altogether, disgusted with all her hang-ups.

Damned jinx. It wasn’t even letting her have sex with herself.

Disgruntled, she stealthily got out of bed, careful not to disturb Wes as she stepped into the shower. She made the water brisk. Very, very brisk.

After a token few seconds of symbolic cold showering, she adjusted the spray to get hotter. At the same time, she couldn’t help but wish that last night’s falling out had never happened, that he would just join her, fitting his body to the back of hers, his penis prodding her between the thighs. As he grew harder, she’d grow wetter, spreading open for him until he thrust inside, tearing her apart and making her forget about…

Ack!

The water had gone cold, so she shut it off. Thanks, curse, she thought. Can’t you even allow me to fantasize properly?

Confusion made the rest of her routine clumsy. Her stomach clenched as she replayed the confrontation over and over. Boy, she’d been a real winner, picking a fight with Wes to keep her own heart safe. Smart, real smart. Just remembering the disappointment on his face when she’d pretty much told him that he couldn’t be taken seriously devastated her-and puzzled her.

Dammit. She didn’t want him to be more than a fling. Why couldn’t he have just stayed that way?

Last night, after returning to the room, she’d punished herself mentally while waiting for him: hours of cussing at herself and wondering how she could repair the damage, if at all. Finally, eyes burning, she’d fallen into deep, blessed oblivion, touching his pillow and realizing on the cusp of unconsciousness that she wished it were Wes instead.

As she combed out her hair, she carried on with her self-chiding. If Wes had found another way to amuse himself last night-God, what if he had?-she…Well, she wouldn’t blame him. Right? Definitely not. In fact, if she were him, she would’ve lost patience with this whole sexless cruise a long time ago. But he’d stuck it out, much to her surprise. Until last night, that is.

Did he really feel something for her?

You’re not ready for that, Erin, said her protective ’fraidy cat within.

Yet, when she came out of the bathroom to find Wes lying on his stomach with a pillow over his head, her heart wrenched with reminders of how good he’d been to her, how patient, how affectionate.

If I take this chance with you, will I end up right back where I was after William? she asked Wes silently while watching the rise and fall of each breath he took. Except will I come out too bitter to recover this time? Or should I go with what my deepest hopes are telling me? Should I trust you?

Erin must’ve stood there for a long time just looking at him, the sunlight slanting over his bare back like a clock hand stretching from one hour to another.

Ultimately, she gathered her guts, then scribbled a note telling him she’d be at the Lido restaurant with her usual morning coffee.

But what if he was too ticked off to meet her?

Yessss, ’fraidy cat said. Then you’re safe.

She left the cabin, steeling herself for his decision either way.

WHEN WES FOUND THE NOTE, he quickly got ready, images of that pilot at the bar still haunting him. To make things even more nerve-racking, he had a million questions, too.

Why did Erin want to meet with him away from the cabin? To smooth things over without the diversion of sex distracting them, or to break things off, period?

If Wes had any say in the matter-and he damned well did-all the curses and barriers to being with her would end right now.

He took the stairs to the appointed Lido restaurant and, there, on the nearly deserted deck, he found Erin, dressed in white jeans and a sweatshirt with the Yes, Sweetie candy shop logo on it. With the ship anchored far away from shore, the ocean’s breeze tousled her short blond hair.

Fluid ecstasy shot through his veins, pumping him with an emotion he’d never given a name to before. But, now, he thought he knew what it was-or what it could be, if he were only given a chance to make it solid.

He walked to the table, sat down, hoping she was feeling the same thing at seeing him first thing in the morning.

When they locked gazes, something exploded in the space between: a loaded shift of awareness that made her gray eyes go silver. A magnificent smile lit over her lips, and she perked up in her chair.

But then her smile turned shy, as if she remembered all the awkward anguish from last night. “I got out of bed around six. I thought you might want to sleep in, so I came up here to wait.”

Wrong. She’d run away from him. Or maybe that goddamned curse had struck again, and somehow forced her to leave the cabin before they might have made love. Who the hell knew.

He blinked. Had he just referred to “making love”? Wes hadn’t ever really thought of it that way before. “Screw,” “boink,” “get nasty”-he’d referred to sex every which way but this.

“I didn’t need to sleep in. It’s not like I did anything to exert myself,” he said, hoping she understood what he was hinting at: that he hadn’t fooled around on her last night, even though many scantily clad opportunities had been running around that casino.

Relief seemed to blanket her, and she chanced a wider smile. “So…” She put down her coffee cup. “It’s Fun Day at Sea. You up for some miniature golf? Some drinks by the pool while we listen to the reggae band?”

She paused there, pursing her lips. Neither of them should even dare mention sex right now, but it still flapped in the air like a torn, hardly forgotten banner.

“Or maybe,” Erin added, “we just need to talk.”

Nerves screeching-this was it, everything he’d been waiting for-he leaned forward. “I’m sorry you thought that all I had in mind was a weekend-long bangathon. Maybe I can’t help coming off like a wolf. Don’t get me wrong-I was hoping we would get around to it…” He sighed. “But that’s not entirely why I asked you to come.”