Resonating Souls (Bermuda Nights #1)(14)

Kayla spun me with glee. “Isn’t he just perfect?” she gushed. “God, ‘Mand, I didn’t know men like him existed!” She grabbed my hand. “C’mon, let’s get going!”

We half-ran down to our small room, juggling positions as we took turns in the closet of a restroom and dug into the overflowing actual closet for sandals and sarongs to use against the breeze. Then we were piling back out again, laughing as we raced down the hallway to the gangplank.

By the time we made it through the security check, the two men were waiting for us at the end, and my heart pounded against my ribs. There was no denying it. Evan was stunningly handsome. The way the moonlight gleamed on his arms, the rippled build visible through his t-shirt, he drew me in as if he was a custom crafted lure, tested against my very soul.

Sven put his arm out, and Kayla nestled beneath it as if she’d been carved to fit. I flushed and came up alongside Evan, maintaining a slight distance between us. We walked through the small customs building, then down the dock.

Kayla looked up at Sven. “So, where are we going?”

He pointed ahead. “It’s just past that snorkel park. Someone we know has beachfront property and has it all set up.” We got to the half-moon archway and he drew her in beneath it. “For good luck,” he teased, then pulled her in to a hard, passionate kiss.


I blushed, looking away. Every ounce of my soul wanted that to be me and Evan beneath the arch, me falling back in his arms, moaning in bliss.

At last they finished, and we continued on, along the side of the old British naval dockyards, first built in the early eighteen hundreds and only fully decommissioned in 1995. You could see through the roofs of many of the buildings. In the deep shadows of night they had a poignant, almost gothic feeling to them.

Sven looked up ahead. “Ah, here we go.” He led us through a series of narrow streets, and we ended up on a shimmering beach drenched in moonlight. A campfire was blazing in the center; a dozen people lounged around it, sipping beer from bottles and poking at the fire.

Kayla squealed. “Oh, Sven, it’s perfect!” She pulled him by the hand over to the cooler, grabbing a pair of bottles, and then they sprawled in a heap to one side of the fire.

Evan looked around for a long minute before moving to the cooler and lifting out two bottles by their necks. There was a weathered log pulled up at the edge of the circle, and he settled on that, handing the bottles over to me. Then he unzipped his guitar case and pulled out the acoustic.

The instrument was gorgeous, its face shining in the moonlight; detailed bubinga wood in layers which resembled a woodland landscape.

I sat cross-legged at his side, then reached a hand out to touch the wood. “Where do you get these things?”

He smiled, looking down at me as he tuned it. “California. Where do you get this love of wood?”

I smiled at him. “My grandfather,” I explained. “He had this quiet cottage up in Maine, near Machias Seal Island. My parents would drop me off there for a month in the summer, back when he was alive. He could carve playful puffins, sleek cormorants, haughty seagulls, you name it. I would sit there for hours watching him turn a block of wood into a miniature animal which seemed one breath away from life.”

He strummed his fingers, sounding a rich chord. “He must have been quite a man.”

I nodded. “My father’s father – they grew up fairly poor. My grandmother died young, of breast cancer. My Dad kept trying to get Grandpa to give up the cottage, to move down to Lenox with us. But Grandpa resisted to the very end.” My mouth quirked up. “He was like me. He would rather live a simple life, on his own terms.”

Evan took a sip of his beer. “Good for him.”

He sat back, gave a strum, then looked down into my eyes.

There was a richness in them, a deep ache, and I was lost.

His fingers danced over the strings, intricate, lush, in the opening notes of Zeppelin’s Over the Hills and Far Away.

I sighed. It was stunningly gorgeous. And it was just perfect.

He sang along with it, and where Sven’s vocals had been loud, almost brassy, his were low, rich, and resonant.

I could feel each word delve within me, wriggle into the depths of my soul, and take root there. The world shimmered out of focus, and I was drawn along by the music.

He came to the ending strum, and the notes hung in the night air, almost glistening golden in the crackling firelight.

A ripple of applause came from the listeners, and several bottles were raised in a toast.

He smiled at me, and there was shadow in his gaze, a hollow that seemed more than the flickers of flame. Then he strummed a new key, and the first notes of Guns ‘N Roses Patience floated over the fire. His whistle joined in, and then the lyrics.

He came around to the chorus, and I felt the meaning echo deep within me.

I needed patience. I needed to hang on.

The song drifted into the ending section, and the whole campfire was singing along, calling out to the glistening stars above. But all I saw was his gaze on me; all I heard was his low, emotion-filled voice, speaking to me alone.

The final strum, and the applause sounded louder.

I looked up at him. “You are amazing, Evan.”

He smiled, meeting my gaze. Then his eyes rose higher – and stilled.

I turned, following his look.

Hank, the lanky bass player, was at the far edge of the campfire. A slim, bony girl with long, auburn hair was sprawled across him, watching him with attentive interest. He had a tourniquet on his upper arm and was focused on the needle that he was carefully placing against the skin.