Space (Laws of Physics #2)(61)

The water pushed me, swirled as he approached, the sound of gentle, lapping waves echoing in the cavernous, relatively bare room. And when he was just a few short decimeters away, he stopped. And then he waited.

And then he asked, “Aren’t you going to say hi?”

“Hi,” I said, the greeting weak, because apparently his body made me a weak woman. Gravitational lust was a weak force. Good to know.

His smile widened, his eyes that familiar shade of amber I remembered from Chicago, sparkly and twinkly and hitting me right in the nostalgia amblagada (which was the lesser known, fictional counterpart to the medulla amblagada).

With one more look, he dunked himself under the water briefly, returning to a standing position, but now fully wet. He was so beautiful, it hurt. It hurt so bad.

This is the worst.

I had a nagging suspicion that he was doing this on purpose, that this was payback for the night in Chicago when I’d shown up to the pool wearing a string bikini. He’d looked like he wanted to strangle me. If that’s what this was, I applauded him, because his payback plan was a raging success.

And if he’d felt even half as turned on as I felt now? He deserved a standing ovation.

I swallowed, telling my eyes not to look at the droplets rolling down his sculpted chest, or pooling at his sternum. He wiped his beard and eyes and lips, and returned his eyes to mine, like they belonged to me.

“What do you remember?” The question was softly spoken, and he was closer now.

I didn’t remember that happening—him moving closer—which made me wonder how long I’d been staring at him, but I did manage to say, “Everything.”

“Everything?” He lifted an eyebrow, studying me, his voice low.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” With this question he drifted closer.

“Yes.” I nodded, sobriety finally penetrating the lust fog, because I did remember. With the memory came embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“For making the mess in the living room. And for—uh—if what I said made you feel uncomfortable last night, I’m sorry.”

He nodded slowly, his hands moving back and forth under the surface of the pool, like he was caressing the water. I was now jealous of the water.

“It didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he said at length, his tone deep and thoughtful, and then asked, “So you’re not sorry for what you said.”

“No. I’m not sorry for what I said,” I responded immediately, telling the truth even though I could feel the heat of mortification climbing up my neck. “I take full responsibility for my actions and my words. I am to blame.”

Yesterday, he’d asked me to be honest, for once. This was me being honest, for twice. Once last night, again today. No one could claim I wasn’t an overachiever at accepting responsibility.

“Even the part where you said you loved me?” The question sounded equal parts curious and taunting. Or maybe not taunting. Maybe . . . defiant?

I angled my chin. “Yes.”

He angled his chin in a movement that mirrored mine. “That you’re still in love with me?”

“Yes.” My voice cracked, I cleared my throat, ignoring the fluttering in my stomach, and repeated more firmly, “Yes.” Ugh. This is hard. So hard.

“I see.” His chin lowered, his lush amber irises seemed to warm, maybe with amusement? “How about the part where you asked to listen to my heart?”

I winced a little and, unable to hold his gaze any longer, I stepped away and dropped my eyes to the floor of the pool. I spotted my goggles. “Yep. I remember that, and I’m not sorry I said it, because it was true. And you wanted honesty. As such, there you go. I remember all of it. Thanks.”

Why was he doing this? Was he trying to torment me? What was the point?

“What about us kissing?”

My head whipped up. “What?”

What! WHAT!?! I missed us kissing? If I missed us kissing, I was going to be SO ANGR—

“Calm down.” He moved closer, giving me a full smile now, looking like he was trying not to laugh. “I’m joking. We didn’t kiss.”

A gush of air escaped me, my shoulders slumping, my forehead coming to my hand. Thank God. But also, darn.

Abram’s eyes were on me. I felt them. I also felt the water push and swirl again. Between my fingers I saw he’d come closer.

“Mona.”

“Yes?” I shivered. The way he said my name, it was the auditory equivalent to being stroked.

“Will you be brave with me?”

My eyes stung, I shook my head, and I continued to be honest. “I’m so tired of being brave.”

That seemed to give him pause. His hand came to my arm, curled around it gently, and smoothed down to my elbow, his palm hot against my chilled skin. Other than shaking his hand that first day, was this the first time we’d touched since Chicago? It felt like . . . it felt indescribable. A terrifying relief was the closest description I could summon.

Abram tugged on my arm, bringing me closer, his other hand sliding against my cheek and lifting my chin. My fingers fell away from my face. I braced myself. I felt like I might crack, splinter from the hum of uncertainty and anticipation.