He did, stretching out on the bed as she curled into his side. With his arm around her and her hand resting over his heart, they fell asleep. It’s where they lie now. It can’t be later than six in the morning, which leaves him wondering why he’s awake. He slowly opens his eyes in search of a clock when what feels like a foot jabs him in his side.
He grunts and his eyes shoot wide open. The room is a dusky yellow gray. His internal clock tells him it’s not even close to six, more like five thirty. Under the sheets, his hand searches for the culprit that jolted him awake and latches onto a small foot. He yanks up the sheet and peers underneath. Marc is sprawled on his back between him and Natalya, mouth wide open and face relaxed. He’s sound asleep.
The sheet flutters down and he flops his head back on the pillow. His gaze finds Natalya’s across the bed. She’s curled on her side, folded hands tucked under her face, watching him. She shyly smiles and whispers, “Good morning.”
He rolls to his side, careful not to disturb Marc. “Morning.” Worried he said too much last night or that what he said—how he treated Phil when they were kids and how he handled Aimee’s assault but still carries around her engagement ring—might have Natalya looking at him differently this morning now that she’s had time to digest their conversation, he offers her a cautious half smile. “I didn’t mean to keep you up so late.”
“That’s all right. Thank you for talking.”
“Thank you for listening.” He smiles and she smiles back. He can’t recall the last time he’s woken up with his conscience feeling clear. He realizes being up front with Natalya has a lot to do with that and he wonders if that’s how their relationship has always been, open and honest. No secrets. “Is it always like this with us?”
The tan skin between her brows folds and she blinks a few times. “No,” she whispers with a slight hesitation as though she’s chewing on her response. “Usually, when we were together, we’re frantic, as if we couldn’t get enough of each other in the time we had together. I visited a lot for weeks at a time, so it’s not like we didn’t see each other. It was more like you knew your time as Carlos would end. Despite that, it was still good between us. Like crazy good.” She plucks the edge of the pillowcase. “I love being with you in that way.”
He holds her gaze for a long moment, then grins broadly. “Thank you. But that wasn’t what I was asking.”
Her face turns crimson. “No?”
James sweeps a hand over them lying there in bed. “Is it always like this? Is there always a kid crawling into bed? I don’t remember reading about that,” he teases, lifting the sheet to show a sleeping Marc underneath. He couldn’t resist. Her reaction was adorable and her cheeks turned the prettiest shade of rose.
Natalya buries her face in the pillow and groans. “I’m so embarrassed.”
He chuckles and nudges her shoulder. “In all honesty, I suspected it used to be pretty awesome between us. Don’t forget, I kept a very detailed journal.”
“I know.” Natalya groans the word, her face still smashed in the pillow.
“I guess that’s why my wanting to talk last night took you off guard.”
“Yes.”
He can’t help goading her further. “We spent more time screwing than sleeping, didn’t we?” He also guessed she was used to spending their nights together naked under the sheets, not fully clothed, and having deep conversations that lasted for hours.
The back of her head bobs up and down. She mumbles something he can’t make out, but it sounds as if she said he wasn’t a good sleeper. That made sense, because Carlos often had nightmares and, at one point, excruciating headaches.
“Look at me.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Nat.” The nickname rolls unhindered off his tongue. He prods her shoulder.
She rolls to her side and he props up on his elbow to look down at her. He cups the back of her head and his thumb traces the hairline along her temple. “Seriously, though, is it peaceful like this in the morning? We’ve slept for less than three hours, but I feel more rested than I have in months. Years,” he adds with a smirk.
“Like I said, you didn’t sleep well, so, no, it wasn’t like this. But I do like this.” She motions between them. “Do you?”
“Yes, very much.” His thumb drops to her lips and so does his gaze. He thinks about kissing her when they both get a strong reminder they aren’t the only people in bed. Marc shifts under the sheet and his elbow connects with Natalya’s breast.
Her eyes grow saucer round. “Ow.” She rubs the tender spot.
“Roll this way, kiddo.” James drags Marc closer to him. “What time did he crawl in here?”
“Four thirty, I think.” She yawns. “I’m going to need a nap today.”
“I’ll take one with you,” James says, yawning. Then it occurs to him there’s more than one way to interpret what he said. He gives her an embarrassed smile. “I meant that I need a nap, too.”
She laughs softly. “I got that. You’re welcome to sleep here with me.”
They watch each other as the room lightens and the birds announce the day. Their hands meet over Marc’s sleeping form. “Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on me, and for convincing me not to give them up.”
“Your sons?”
He nods. “In Mexico.”
“I knew you’d love them.”
“Unconditionally.”
James leans down to kiss her. A shrill noise shatters the moment. He tenses. Marc groans under the sheets.
“Sorry,” Natalya says, rolling away. “I’m expecting a call from the mainland.”
She frowns at the screen and answers the call with a question. Her gaze cuts to James before she hands over the phone. “It’s for you. It’s Thomas.”
CHAPTER 28
CARLOS
Seven Months Ago
November 27
Puerto Escondido, Mexico
Señora Carla seemed unusually bothered by the dry heat. She was especially weary of the crowds. Last summer, Julian had convinced her to visit during Fiestas de Noviembre, so Carla moved up her usual holiday stay in Puerto Escondido by several weeks.
The torneo de surf was this weekend. Tourists packed the beaches, streets, and restaurants. Hoping to give her some reprieve from the tournament’s noise, traffic, and the day’s weather, I invited her to the gallery. Upstairs, after cleaning up from a workshop, we decided to spend the remainder of the afternoon painting. Unfortunately, my air conditioner was dying and the ceiling fans only moved stagnant, warm air.
Carla stared beyond the blank canvas, her eyes glazed and skin flushed. She fanned her blouse, a bright flamingo-colored linen, and patted her damp hairline and neck with a folded hand towel. She sighed, exasperated, and set aside her still-clean paintbrush before going to the bank of windows. For a few moments, she watched people mill below; then she opened a window. Air heady with the smell of sunbaked fish, rotting fruit, and sweat gusted into the studio, sucked in by the overworked air conditioner. Loud shouts, high-pitched laughter, acoustical music, and the rev of a motorcycle disrupted the studio’s solitude.
Carla’s face contorted into a look of disgust. She slammed closed the window. “Do you like living here, Carlos?”
“Sí.” I swirled a brush tip in the ultramarine blue and stroked the color across the canvas. The small fishing boat surfing on a sea of blue was slowly coming to life.
She studied me from across the room as though considering me to model for her next painting. I arched a brow. She fanned her face with the towel. “Why do you live here? This place is dreadful.”
“Dreadful?” I said on a laugh.
“Have you always lived here?”
I opened my mouth to tell her no and hesitated. The brush, heavy with paint, hovered a mere inch above the canvas. My hand started shaking so I set the brush down.
Carla waited for me to say something. Other than Natalya, Imelda, and Thomas, no one else in Puerto Escondido knew about my past and the condition I suffered. Not even my sons. Thomas had warned me to not reveal my identity to anyone. For reasons I couldn’t explain—maybe it was because Carla had once been open with me about her relationship with her art—I wanted to share my story with her.