So, to repeat: sleeping with Jonny is a bad idea.

  God, I’m so gonna sleep with Jonny, and I know I’m going to regret it.

  * * *

  Don’t sleep with Jonny.

  Don’t sleep with Jonny.

  Don’t sleep with Jonny.

  * * *

  “I’ll make sure to keep my hands to myself, since you feel so strong about it.” His voice is a low rumble, amused.

  What?

  Oh no.

  “Did I . . . Was I talking out loud?” I ask, straightening up off his shoulder.

  He rumbles again, and it’s a laugh, I think. “Yeah, you were chanting it. Been whispering ‘don’t sleep with Jonny’ for, like, five minutes now.”

  “Shit. My mouth sometimes runs away from my brain.”

  “Funny. I got the exact opposite problem.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Jonny, listen, I just—”

  He gazes at me, and his eyes are totally opaque and unreadable. “Why shouldn’t you sleep with Jonny? Just asking for a friend.”

  For once my mouth is shut, instead of blabbing all the reasons I’ve been obsessively going over in my head.

  I blurt out, “I, um. Because I want to.”

  “That’s not a reason not to sleep with Jonny. Sleeping with Jonny is a good thing, from what I hear. And if you want to, then . . . presto, not a problem.”

  I laugh. “But it’s a bad plan. For me and for you.”

  “I’m not hearing too much by way of actual reasons.”

  “There are a lot of them, but they’d just bore you.”

  “I don’t get bored very easy. Try me.”

  “Um. All this, to start with?” I wave around us.

  He shrugs. “Good enough reason for now, I guess. Later, though, it may not stick.”

  “My sister, Ava, for one,” I say. “And . . . Christian, for another—her husband, my brother-in-law and your best friend. Which kind of connects us in a weird way.”

  He frowns. “Gotta give you that one. Those are both good reasons.”

  I sigh. “And because I have a son.” I sigh again, more heavily, because this is when dudes tend to check out on me.

  “What’s his name?”

  I’m silent for a moment, because this isn’t how this conversation usually goes, leaving me at a loss. “Um. His name is Alex.”

  “How old is he?”

  People don’t usually ask his name, much less how old he is. Well, okay, that’s not completely true. Little old ladies, grandmas and grandpas, cashiers, servers, cops, security guards, etc., they all ask his name, because he’s a ridiculously adorable little human being. But guys who want to get me naked? They don’t ask his name.

  So either Jonny isn’t like other guys, or he doesn’t want to get me naked.

  Not sure which; he’s a hard man to read.

  I also don’t want to read anything into this and create things that aren’t there . . .

  Like feelings.

  And potential.

  And the fact that Jonny might not be an asshole like every other male on the planet.

  I have an absurd desire to light a bonfire on this beach, play my guitar, and sing.

  If there was a bonfire, and a guitar, I would.

  I really want Jonny to know I’m, like, a person with something to contribute to the world, besides a skill with a pen and an order pad, and my banging-for-any-age-let-alone-a-thirty-eight-year-old body.

  I want him to . . .

  I want him to like me, for who I am as a person.

  I haven’t wanted anyone to like me since my senior year of high school when I had a crush on the starting quarterback of the FSU varsity football team.

  I want Jonny to like me.

  Which creates a question and thus a conundrum: if I want him to like me, then I’m pretty sure I have to like myself first. That’s how it works, I’m pretty sure.

  And at this stage in my life, I’m not positive I like myself very much.

  Which is a problem.

  Or not, if I keep to my determination that I’M NOT GOING TO SLEEP WITH JONNY NÚÑEZ.

  If I don’t sleep with him, it won’t matter if I like him, or if he likes me, or if I like myself.

  Although . . .

  I could JUST sleep with him, in which case it wouldn’t matter whether he likes me, or I like me.

  Just sleeping with him isn’t really a possibility, though. I’m gonna be clingy, and I’m going to like him, and I’m going to be a problem for both of us.

  Dammit.

  This was supposed to be a visit to my sister, to help her through a difficult, emotional time in her life.

  It wasn’t supposed to create a crisis for me.

  God, I’m so gonna sleep with Jonny.

  2

  Dawn breaks slowly in front of us, a low glimmer of pink staining the rippling marble slab that is the sea.

  I’m deeply, intensely uncomfortable right now: Delta fell asleep with her head on my shoulder, and so I’m sitting on the beach, my back against the retaining wall separating the beach from the boardwalk. I slid her down so her head was resting on my lap, which is where she is now, right on top of my screaming bladder. My legs are numb. I only managed to doze a little, seeing as I was sitting up, but I didn’t want to disturb her, and I still want to let her sleep as long as she can.

  It’s truly bizarre, this situation.

  I’ve known Delta for about seventy-two hours now, and the frenetic, driving pace of the rescue efforts thrust us into an unnaturally close bond. I’ve spent literally every moment of the last three days with Delta Martin, who was, until the tin boat dropped her off, a complete stranger. Now . . . it’s hard to remember what life was like before she showed up. That may be exhaustion speaking, of course, but she’s wormed her way into my head.

  Normally, if a girl were to fall asleep on my shoulder on the beach, I’d slip out from under her and be on my way. But with Delta, I don’t think she’d think anything of it if I were to do so, slip out, hit the port-a-potty, and go back to digging out survivors and the deceased.

  But for some reason, I don’t.

  I stay put.

  My bladder screams and aches, my back hurts from being in one position for so long, and I’m so exhausted I’m literally delirious. Yet something about Delta pins me in place. Not her, in a literal, physical sense, since she’s light as a feather, but something less tangible.

  Something about the way she has her face on my thigh, her mouth slightly open, soft, feminine breaths sighing out, her hair a messy tangle across her face in inky-black strands. Something about the way she’s curled on her side, knees drawn up. Something about her vulnerability.

  Something about the way she’s worked, the last few days, even after Ava was rescued. She never questioned it, just kept right on going beside me. We have taken a break, once per day, to go see Ava. I go with her, escorting her to the hospital and through the crowded halls, and I wait quietly while Ava and Delta murmur to each other in low tones, and then I escort her back.

  Ava, while I’m there, avoids even looking at me.

  I think she’s terrified of what I have to say about Christian. I understand that, and I’m willing to wait until she’s ready. I mean, as far as I know, all Ava really knows about me is that Christian is my friend and sailing partner, that we’ve known each other for several years, and that we’re pretty close. Which must be nervewracking, to her, to know I have the last item he ever touched, and that he gave it to me to give to her? What does that say? I can only imagine how that must feel to her.

  I have the box, tucked away beside me. I’ve claimed this little spot on the beach as mine, leaving the box and a small collection of supplies I’ve stockpiled—bottles of water, an unopened bottle of rum I found floating down the street, a dirty and tattered blanket rescued from the rubble, and a dented and rusty but useable flashlight.

  Honestly, living on the beach on burnt coffee and stale, flat sandwiches, my only belongings rescued from rubble, is a throwback to my teenage years. Living in tent cities, wandering from slum to slum, city to city, barely surviving, eating literal trash sometimes, everything I owned in a backpack, and those belongings were all dumpster-diving prizes. Not the most amazing memories to be reliving, truth be told, but it is what it is.

  I’ve been homeless since I was thirteen. I haven’t had a permanent home—at least one that didn’t float—since then. My homes have been berths on boats, a hotel or motel or hostel occasionally, often the beach, and sometimes a woman’s bed for a week or two. That’s my life, my identity: I belong nowhere, to no one; home is wherever I lay my head; the world is my home.

  This is different, though. Why, I’m not sure.

  The fact is: Chris is gone, possibly dead, and I have no way of knowing for sure. I’m responsible for telling his wife, who won’t even look at me, so far.

  And Delta.

  She makes this different, too, in a distinctly intangible way.

  She stirs, murmuring unintelligibly. Wiggles, brings her hand up to her face, rubs her nose, and then wiggles again, seeking a more comfortable position as she sleeps. In the process of seeking a new position, her hand rests near her face, palm down . . . directly on my cock.

  She’s asleep, I remind myself. It’s not intentional. My body doesn’t seem to want to listen, though. All my body knows is that a hand that’s not mine is resting on—and almost clutching—my cock.

  Which is responding according to nature.

  I focus on breathing, staring at the sea and the sunrise turning the pink stain into a golden-crimson-peach glow on the horizon. I focus on having to piss, on the gulls hopping along the sand and wheeling overhead, keening occasionally. I focus on anything and everything except Delta, and the accidental, meaningless, totally coincidental positioning of her hand.

  It doesn’t work.

  I no longer have to pee, because I’m hard as a rock, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  I try to will it to go away, but it won’t.

  I think of my mother, my sisters, of the hurricane that took Chris and The Hemingway, of nuns and puppies and stray cats and rats scurrying in the gutters . . .

  I’m nearly successful at getting the hard-on to go away . . . it’s starting to subside a little, slowly and gradually.

  But then Delta stirs again, makes a muzzy, sleepy sigh, and her head digs into my thigh, and her hand tightens. Squeezes. Flexes, releases, and squeezes again.

  Intentionally.

  As if she’s waking up but hasn’t opened her eyes yet and is attempting to discern exactly what it is she’s feeling.

  I know the moment she truly wakes up, and the next moment, when she realizes . . . well, the rest of the situation.

  Her eyes flutter, and her vivid ultramarine eyes flit from mine, to her hand, and back up to my eyes. She blinks and doesn’t remove her hand.

  I do not blink, do not breathe. I remain utterly still, unsure now what this moment is, and what I’m supposed to do next.

  Her hand squeezes again as her eyes remained fixed on mine. And then, with a deliberateness that leaves nothing to question, she traces the outline of my erection behind my shorts, from top to bottom, and ends up grasping me, her eyes on mine.

  “Delta,” I murmur, and then I don’t know what else to say.

  She blinks up at me. “Hi, Jonny.” A small, shy smile curves her lips.

  I shift in the sand, flex my back, my buttocks, my shoulders, willing Delta to let go of me before I run the risk of indulging in curiosity. Which, as she said, is a bad idea for both of us. This situation is untenable, and the bond we feel is false, created by the closeness and the constant contact, and the intensity of the high-octane emotions that comes with digging out corpses and wounded survivors. It’s not real, this weird, intense, erotic moment.

  I remember her chant from last night/early this morning—don’t sleep with Jonny, don’t sleep with Jonny, don’t sleep with Jonny—and I know she’s right to remind herself of that. Yeah, she’s attractive. Yeah, she may feel some stirrings of desire for me, as I do for her. But there are no real emotions in this. And if there were? What then? I’m a nomad, and I owe it to Chris to be there for his wife however I can, which, obviously, doesn’t include sleeping with her sister out of some misplaced chemistry born through a dramatic situation.

  But Delta isn’t letting go. Nor is she looking away from my eyes. Nor is she making any move to alter this moment. If anything, she adjusts her grip on me to more fully and intimately cup me.

  I let out a breath, wondering how the hell I’m going to navigate this. “You, um . . . fell asleep.” I hunt for something else to say. “Didn’t want to disturb you.”

  She smiles up at me. “So you’ve been sitting here all night, letting me sleep?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, sure. I can sleep anywhere.”

  “That was very nice of you, Jonny.” Her smile shifts, and her gaze breaks mine, flits to her hand. “I feel like I should thank you. I slept better than I have in days.”

  “Not a big deal.”

  Her grip tightens. “I mean, Jonny, I should thank you.”

  I stare down at her. Try to be a more virtuous man than I usually am. “Don’t need to. All I did was let you sleep a few hours.”

  “You must have been uncomfortable, though.”

  “Eh, not so bad.” That’s a lie: my back and butt are a mess of knots.

  She slides her hand up and then down, tracing my erection with her touch. “You’re kind of hard to read, but for some reason I feel like that’s a lie.”

  I force myself to stillness. “Maybe a little. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Well, still, thank you.” She eyes her hand, and the thick bulge under it. “I’m . . . very grateful.”

  I’m an honest man. I don’t play head games, I don’t worry about being polite, or tactful. I say and do whatever seems right and true and natural. In this moment, though, I don’t know what is right or true or natural. Part of me wants to let her thank me. I mean, her hand does feel good, and she is a gorgeous woman—I’m a man, and any excuse to be touched like this is hard to refuse. But then, she’s Christian’s sister-in-law. Christian is missing. Ava is in the hospital. Ft. Lauderdale is in ruins, hundreds if not thousands are dead, there are millions of dollars in damage, survivors to rescue, dead to bury. It’s not my city, not my home, but it’s in my nature to help, to pitch in with a will when someone is in need. It’s just how I am. And this is the utterly most inappropriate time for any kind of indulgence in desire.

  I catch at her wrist, halting her movement. “Don’t need to thank me, Delta.”

  Her eyes reflect confusion and disappointment. “No? What if I want to?”

  “Those are different things, doing something to thank me, and doing it because you want to.”

  “True. Ends up the same, though, for both of us.” She squeezes, and short of physically removing her hand from me, I can’t stop that, and dammit, but I don’t want to. “Doesn’t it?”

  I make a sound that’s a cross between a growl and a hiss. “Not necessarily.”

  The corners of her mouth tip up, amused and aroused, and her eyes betray the humor she finds in my discomfort. “No?”

  I shake my head. “You do somethin’ like this because you feel like you should thank me, then it’s . . .” I shrug, a roll of one shoulder. “It’d feel kind of like a transaction, to me. You doin’ somethin’ out of . . . obligation.”

  Her smile becomes even more amused. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Sounded like it to me, though.” I hold her wrist, but she’s still squeezing me, a gentle throb of pressure that’s definitely getting to me, and I fight to hold the thread of why I’m not supposed to let this happen. “You doing something like what you seem to be inclined to do because it’s what you want to do . . . now that might be a different story.”

  “I like the sound of that story,” Delta says. “I just meant the whole thank you thing as . . .” She laughs, a bright, amused, self-aware, slightly embarrassed sound. “I was being coy, Jonny, that’s all.”

  “Ain’t into coy, Delta.”

  “What are you into, then, Jonny?”

  We’re saying each other’s names a lot, for some reason, and she still has her head resting on my thigh, which is a lot more intimate now that she’s awake than it was when she was asleep. She’s still squeezing my cock, applying pressure gently, rhythmically, insistently, and it’s maddening and arousing at the same time.

  “Saying things like they are.”

  “That happens to be my speciality. I can’t really help saying things like they are. Drives most people crazy.” She shifts, and her face is a few inches closer to my torso and her hand. A simple shift in position, but it’s laced with promise, and I’m having a hell of a time ignoring that unspoken promise.

  “That so?” I swallow hard and have to remember to breathe and to keep still and to leave my hands where they are, one on her wrist and one in the sand beside my hips. “You? Drive people crazy? Nah.” I smile, so she knows I’m teasing her.

  “Right? What a wild thought, that I would drive anyone crazy.” She bites her lower lip, tugging at the corner with her upper teeth, and then her tongue peeks out and slides along that plump lower lip, and it’s not my face she’s eyeing as she does this.

  “You being coy again, Delta?”

  She shakes her head. “Me? Never.”

  “Then what exactly is going on here?” I tighten my grip on her wrist in indication of my meaning.

  A shrug of a lithe shoulder. “I don’t know.” She bites that lip again, which shouldn’t make my heart thump, but it does. “I just woke up like this.”

  “I think this situation has kind of gotten away from us, Delta.”

  She nods. “Out of hand, you might say.”