Finally Ours (Harborview #2)

11. Angela

11

ANGELA

I sit on the toilet in the tiny, dank bathroom and think about what I just agreed to. In truth, I mostly said yes because I know that even if I truly forgive Carter for what he did, I won’t be able to get rid of all the other issues I have. It won’t matter if he makes things right between us, because when it comes to dating, I’m not right. I can’t even casually date someone without immediately fearing abandonment.

It’s not like I’ve been holding on to hatred for Carter for the last seven years. Well, maybe a little bit, if I’m being honest. But the rational side of my brain definitely knows that his actions back then were the actions of an immature twenty-year-old. And if I hadn’t been so in love with him since high school—something he didn’t know about—it wouldn’t have hurt so badly. Carter probably just thought that the week we spent together was a casual thing, and that’s okay.

I don’t need to torture myself by going down that road again—it’s one I’ve been down a thousand times and I’m done trying to fill in the blanks of how Carter thinks and feels. Like I told him, he has to be able to tell me himself. Even if the prospect of hearing that truth fills me with dread.

Filled with resolve, I leave the bathroom. Carter is staring out the window. Since that’s the only activity to do in here, I start rifling through the kitchen cabinets instead.

What I find surprises me. Yes, there’s the tea and instant coffee that we had this morning. But there are also a few packs of ramen noodles, a bag of microwavable rice, some beef jerky, and, to my delight, a bottle of whiskey.

“Jackpot,” I say, pulling it out. “Carter, look what I found.”

He turns to face me in his chair, and I don’t miss the way his eyes travel up my body before landing on my face.

“I didn’t know you were a whiskey girl, Angela Burns,” he says, and I have to suppress a shiver at hearing my full name from his mouth.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Carter Steel.”

“Good thing I’m an excellent student and a quick study,” he volleys back.

He has that smug look on his face, but his eyes are also twinkling and I can tell that he’s genuinely having fun…flirting with me.

Because that’s what we’re doing. We’re flirting.

“Teacher’s pet?” I say.

“No,” he says, “but I can be your pet if you want me to.”

I roll my eyes at his obvious come-on. “What a line, Carter. Can’t you do any better than that?”

“Give me some of that whiskey and I’m sure I can.”

I shrug, and then twist off the cap. “Woo,” I say, smelling it. “That is strong. I hope you like it neat.”

“I’ll take anything you give me, Angel.”

Hearing that nickname again makes my cheeks heat, because I can’t help but think of all the times I heard him use it in the past—usually when he had his hands or mouth on me and was telling me how good I looked and tasted.

“Well, okay, um. I guess I’ll just get some glasses,” I say, and start to fumble around in the kitchen.

Carter comes up behind me, and I immediately feel the heat coming off his body. How he’s so warm in this uninsulated cabin is beyond me, and I have to stop myself from leaning back into him. But he closes the distance for me, his arms coming around me and taking the white mug I’d found out of my hands.

“Let’s just drink it straight from the bottle,” he says. “I’d rather not drink whiskey out of a chipped mug.”

I start to move, but he doesn’t give me much space, so I end up facing him, our bodies pressed together: thigh to thigh, chest to chest. I tip my head back and find him staring directly into my eyes.

“Carter,” I start, but I don’t even know what I want to say to him.

Normally, I’d tell him to get away from me. But then again, normally we wouldn’t be stranded on an island together in a remote cabin. I told him he could try and make things up to me, and I’m sticking to my word.

“Yes, Angel?” he asks. He grabs the whiskey off the counter and takes a long swig.

I watch the muscles of his throat work as he swallows and feel my own go dry.

“Give me some of that,” I manage to say, my voice hoarse.

The first sip burns on the way down. The second, too. But the third sparks a pleasant fire in my stomach, warming me from the inside out.

“Not bad,” I say, and I mean it. Because having this little bit of comfort—a shared bottle of shitty whiskey—makes this objectively horrible situation a bit better.

Although, maybe being locked in a cabin with Carter Steel isn’t my worst nightmare, after all.

Or that’s just the whiskey talking already.

Carter just stares at me, a slight gleam in his eyes.

“What?” I demand, wary already. I squirm, trying to move away, from his arms, from the press of his body. I just need a bit of space so I can breathe.

But he doesn’t move an inch. Instead, he continues to stare at me, and then he lifts his hand to my face.

“What are you do?—

He swipes a finger across my bottom lip, picking up a lingering drop of whiskey on it. And then he licks it off, his tongue darting out between his lips.

“Oh.” I know my face is turning bright red, because all I can think about is Carter Steel licking me—the taste of me—off his fingers all those years ago.

He smirks at me, one eyebrow raised. “You’re sweet when you’re embarrassed,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you blush this hard. But don’t worry, I’ll give you some space now.”

He does as he says, and in a second, the heat of his body is gone. I grab the bottle of whiskey and move to flop down on the futon. Carter is already sitting on a pillow on the floor.

“I wasn’t embarrassed,” I say. “I just haven’t drank in a long time.”

“Mhm,” is all he says. “Sure.”

“I mean, why would I be embarrassed about something like that?”

Fuck, fuck, I think as soon as the words leave my mouth. Carter is like a bloodhound, except he can sense weakness and he doesn’t let up until he identifies it and carves it out of you, holds it up, and examines it in front of you. Ruthless? Yes. But hot as hell? Definitely—to me anyway..

“About what, exactly?” he asks.

“You know what,” I say, refusing to look at him. I roll onto my back and stare at the pine plank ceiling.

“I don’t, though. Only you can tell me what embarrassed you, Angel. Was I standing too close?”

“No,” I grit out. “I can handle a man getting close.”

Lies, lies, lies. I can’t even handle a man at arm’s distance. And certainly not him. But I won’t let him see that—I won’t ever tell him how he broke me.

That’s the most embarrassing, shameful thing of all. That something so small—a few days with him—broke me so thoroughly. Set me up for a hundred smaller but cumulatively worse heart breaks at the hands of lesser men.

And no matter how much I’ve worked through that shame over the last few years, it still rears its ugly head every so often. Shame, that I care so damn much, that I always care. That he cares so little. That they all cared so little.

“Okay, if not that, then it was the whiskey on your lip,” Carter says after a beat. “The drop I wiped away.”

“The drop you stole,” I correct. I finally look at him, and his expression is bemused. Far from the predator on the hunt for blood that I had cast him as.

Maybe I’ve built Carter Steel up in my head a bit too much.

“Steal one back, then,” he says.

He takes an exaggerated, messy swig from the bottle, and a drop slips out of the corner of his mouth. I track its path as it slips down his chin and onto the column of his neck.

“Well?” he asks.

And it’s the challenge in his voice that gets me moving off of the futon and sitting on the floor in front of him.

I study him silently for a moment, taking in all that is Carter Steel. His hair is messy and mountain man again, thank God. It’s slightly longer than chin length and has a slight wave to it, and even though it’s only April, it already has some sun streaks in it. I know that in the summer, the medium brown color will go almost blonde depending on how much time he spends outside. His jaw—strong, straight, slightly pointed—is covered in stubble that is already starting to grow out into a beard. And his hazel eyes are bright and sharp, missing nothing.

I could reach out so easily and wipe the drop off with my thumb, just like he did to me. But that’s too simple. And I find I want to shock him. I want to do the impossible—I want to be the person who surprises Carter Steel, who wrests his control away from him.

It’s what I’ve always, always wanted.

So instead of wiping it away with my thumb, I get up on my knees, brace my hands on his crossed legs and lean in towards him. He goes completely still in response, like he’s worried if he moves, I’ll spook.

I angle my head down under his, and just the scent of him—pine, soap, and something bright I can’t put my finger on—makes me dizzy with need. Still, I don’t hesitate, I lean in even closer and then lick the drop away, right from the hollow at the base of his throat where it’s come to rest.

He still doesn’t move, and for a moment I don’t either. We just sit there and breathe each other in.

“Ange,” he says, his voice low and guttural, and the spell is broken.

I reel back, disentangling myself from him.

“Sorry,” I say. “I wanted—I wanted to shock you.” Honesty seems like the only possibility at the moment.

“That all?” he asks.

“Yes, that’s it. Surprising you used to be my favorite hobby.”

“You always surprise me, Angela. Every time I see you, you do something I don’t expect. I’m always cataloging you, and finding new entries I need to make.”

I’m silent because how does one react to that? How do I react to Carter telling me he catalogs me?

“You’re such a scientist,” I say.

“Is it—is that too much?” He looks nervous—I think anyway. It’s not a look I’ve seen on him very often.

“No, just right. Just you,” I say, hoping to ease the look on his face. I don’t like nervous Carter. I don’t know how to handle it—him showing any vulnerability. Because if he does, then maybe I’ll have to as well.

But my words don’t seem to make things easier for him. Instead, a blush rises in his cheeks and he looks down, breaking the eye contact we’ve been holding.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” he says. “I’m just not used to, uh.”

He doesn’t finish the thought right away, and I study him as he thinks. His hands flex where they rest on top of his thighs, as if he’s physically trying to conjure the words.

“You don’t have to explain,” I say. “I get it.” Because I do. Neither Carter nor I is used to being anything other than cool and composed. We’ve always been so alike.

But that blush on his cheeks? I put it there. Me.

That feeling, as well as the whiskey, keeps me warm for the rest of the day, and well into the night.