Killian pulls me close, tucking me under his chin. I feel the shape of him against my belly, but for once I don’t think of sex. He’s like an anchor, a solid wall between me and emptiness. His arms are strong, and he holds me tight.

It’s been so long since I’ve felt the basic human contact of a hug, I come completely undone.

I can’t stop the great, ugly sobs that come out of me. “I’m just so…alone. They’re never coming back. And I know, I’m an adult, I shouldn’t be freaking out like this. Plenty of people don’t have parents. But they were the only ones who knew the real me. And now there’s no one else.”

“There is,” he whispers fiercely. “You have me. You have me, Liberty.”

But for how long? And in what way? I can’t ask. I’m too far gone. The stress of waking up in another dark storm, the loneliness, all the shit I try so hard to ignore crashes over me. I cry until I can’t cry any more. It’s messy and loud. And he holds me the whole time, stroking my back, murmuring nonsense words in my ear. He is warm and smooth and alive.

I fall asleep at some point, worn out and weak. When I wake up, it’s morning, and I’m alone. My throat is sore, and my eyes burn. The bedroom is hot, the air heavy and oppressive. I stumble to the bathroom and wince when I catch sight of my puffy eyes and blotchy skin.

A cool shower does a lot to revive me. I brush my teeth and put on a tank and shorts. My wet hair keeps me fairly comfortable, but it’s too hot. And too silent. I realize the power is out and sigh, shuffling my way to the kitchen.

I stop at the sight of Killian’s broad back as he stands before my counter. Shirtless and wearing army green shorts that cling to his trim hips and tight butt, he moves with grace. I take a moment to admire the way the muscles on his back bunch and flex beneath taut, tan skin, and how his long bare feet flex when he shifts his weight to grab a couple of forks. Weird that I notice his feet, but seeing them seems intimate somehow.

He must feel my stare because he turns and gives me a soft look. “Hey. Power is out. I made fruit salad—if you can call chopped peaches, oranges, and one banana fruit salad—because that’s all there was.”

He’s adorable. Still, I hover by the kitchen entrance. I think of how I lost my shit last night. No one has seen me that way since I was a kid. Not even my parents. Maybe he gets my embarrassment, because he sets down a big bowl of roughly chopped fruit and holds out a fork.

“Today, we shall eat from the trough. Later we shall play Fun with Water Hoses.” His gives me a cheeky smile. “You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to payback.”

“Yeah, I bet.” I take a bite of sun-ripe peach. “Never mind the fact that I was performing a community service.”

“Don’t worry, Elly May. I’ll be kind. Ish.”

We grin at each other like idiots, and then his phone rings, the muffled sound coming from his pocket. His smile fades as he reaches down to turn it off.

“You’re not even going to look and see who it is?” I ask.

He shrugs and stabs a peach chunk with his fork. “Don’t need to. That’s my manager’s ringtone, Scottie.

“And you don’t want to talk to him?”

“Not particularly.” He spears another piece of fruit like he’s hunting game. “He just wants to talk business and…” Killian gives me a large, kind of fake smile. Anger and irritation flicker in his eyes. “I’m on vacation.”

“Well, all right then.” I try for teasing, but my mouth is stiff.

A lead weight settles in my gut. His manager wants him to go back. That much is clear. No matter how much Killian wants to enjoy his vacation, real life is still waiting for him. And eventually, I’m going to lose him to it.

“Thanks, by the way,” I rasp, hating the soreness in my throat.

He shakes his head. “It’s a horrible fruit salad, babe. And we both know it.”

“No, I mean for being there… Here.”

Killian looks at me for a moment, his brows drawing close; then he rests his hand over mine. It’s warm and heavy, his grip gentle but strong. “Thanks for letting me.”

Jesus. I’m in danger of clinging to his hand and blubbering. I need to get a grip. I lift up a slice of mangled orange. “You know, it’s ideal to include at least a little of the fruit with the rind.”

His lips twitch. “How about the seeds, Martha Stewart? Are they okay?” He flicks one at me before I can answer.

As I prepare to launch a banana in retaliation, relief eases the tightness in my chest. This, I can handle.

Chapter Eight

Libby

Usually after a storm, things cool down; the land gets to breathe a bit. Not so here. Heat settles like a thick blanket, smothering everything in its wake, turning the world humid, heavy, and slow. With the power out, there’s not a thing to do but wallow. Even going to the beach is useless. The full summer sun scorches the sand, and as soon as you leave the ocean, you’re baking, sandy, and miserable.

I settle for lounging on the porch’s sleeping couch, the shades lowered against the sun, and every now and then stealing a lump of the rapidly melting ice I’ve filled my cooler with. Cotton shorts and a thin tank is all I can manage, and for once, I’m grateful for my small boobs because it means I can comfortably go bra free.

Or maybe not. I’m all too aware of the ribbed fabric clinging to my damp skin, outlining my shape. But what can I do? I’m not willing to suffer this heat any further by putting on more clothes, so if Killian happens to get an eye-full, so be it.

He isn’t looking at me anyway. He’s sprawled out on the floor, plucking away at his guitar, and taking sips of the lemonade I fixed. The slow twang of his guitar lulls me, and I drift in and out.

“If the power doesn’t come back on by tomorrow,” Killian says, pulling me from my daze, “we’re going to a hotel in Wilmington.”

I don’t bother opening my eyes. “It’ll come back on.”

He makes an annoyed noise. “We should have gone this morning.”

“Didn’t know it would take so long then. Besides, the sun’s setting. It will get cooler.”

Killian hums, which might mean an agreement or the vocal equivalent of an eye roll. I don’t care. I’m too hot.