She sat, looking wound tighter than a top, her eyes on the deck for a moment. Did she want to be here, or not?
Taking a deep breath, she lifted her gaze, trailing up him not unlike how his eyes had trailed over her—perhaps not as consuming but not altogether indifferent—noting his cargo pants and short-sleeved Henley. She met his gaze. He could tell she was reacting to their connection, a small jolt in her breathing, another rush of color to her cheeks. He decided to decipher it as a blush; it’s what he wanted it to be.
“I…” Her alluring hazel orbs danced away, then back. “Marge wanted me to—”
Mac held up his hand, shaking his head. “I’m not interested in what Marge wants. You look like you’d rather burrow through the bottom of this boat right now. Are you here because you want to be here or because Marge wants you to be here?”
Her eyes widened before she glanced away guiltily.
Well, okay,busted. She wanted to be here, didn’t want to admit it.
The fuck was going on?
“Got coffee. Want some?”
Her eyes flew to the cabin, cheeks flaming now.
Mac chuckled. “I’ll go get it.” But he was thrilled her memories were as fond as his—at least he was hoping they were—and that’s what had caused her cheeks to go red. He told himself her hesitation was because she knew if he had her down there, he’d talk her into a repeat performance.
He wouldn’t allow himself to think maybe her hesitation came from embarrassment, regret, or mortification. Couldn’t allow himself to think it.
Fetching the coffee for her was a strategic maneuver, too. If she wanted to bolt, now was her opportunity, when his back was turned. But she didn’t. And she accepted the cup from him with the faintest hint of a smile, polite woman that she was.
Resuming his stance against the back of the captain’s chair, he watched as she sipped the coffee, waiting patiently. Well, not patiently, but she was here, on his boat, and she’d come here under her own steam. If it took her all day to get towhyshe was here, he’d be content to look at her.
Lowering the cup to her lap, she looked up at him. His heart squeezed; those eyes of hers killed him every time. Her eyes, her face, her lips. She was guarded, looking for a way to start. Because he wasn’t sure why she was here, he couldn’t help her.
Her eyes wandered back to his arm again, to the one scar, then dropped away from him altogether. He was beginning to understand—slow jackass that he was—so he started for her. “Doctors didn’t tell me anything afterward. Worst fucking feeling, not knowing.”
She shot a skeptical look his way. “Worst?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Because I’d done it before, is that what you’re asking?”
She shook her head to deny it, but that’s what she’d meant. Turning the cup in her hands, she glanced back up. “Darlene called me.”
“I know that. I know what happened at the bar.” Frowning, he added, “Day, I can’t imagine laying a hand on you. Hitting you? Fuck, woman, makes me sick imagining it. Fred was right to take me down.”
She searched his face for a few minutes. “I don’t think you knew it was me. You were going after whoever came through the door.”
His stomach lurched.
The coffee mug in her hands became far more interesting than him as she continued, “I know you were drunk; I know you were grieving; I know you don’t remember—”
“Don’t make excuses for me.”
“I’m not. I’m just…” She shrugged.
“Tell me what I did to you.”
With another shrug, she said quietly, “I think I actually started it.”
“The fuck you did,” he interrupted again, blown away that she was trying to takeanypart of what happened on herself.
“I slapped you,” she admitted, looking back up at him.
Mac’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve slapped me before.” Her face infused with color once more, probably remembering he’d fucked her harder afterward, but he hadn’t hit her.
Now she was staring at the dark liquid in her hands as though she could divine the name of the farmer who’d cultivated the coffee bean if she stared hard enough.