Public Relations

by Tibby Armstrong

  Georgia shifted and sighed, burrowing deeper under the covers. Peter lifted his gaze to her, a plan forming. What if they just had fun today? He’d show her his old haunts, get to know her better before he seduced her. Just because he had a conscience didn’t mean he didn’t have a cock too. Being friendly before the fucking didn’t have to mean a lifelong commitment. Did it? And who said at the end of the day the friendly intimacy wouldn’t take the edge off his arousal? If familiarity bred contempt, then he ought to be good and sick of her and she of him by the time they returned to New York.

  He thought of Hank’s Coffee Cup, a little shack overlooking the Sound, and rose from the sofa. As if pulled in by her personal gravity, Peter approached Georgia and stared down at her sleeping face. Auburn hair a wild tangle against the white pillowcase, she lay on her back, pink fingertips clutching the covers. Soft snores rose from her lightly parted lips. He bit the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing. Without conscious thought, he bent to brush a kiss against her mouth.

  Georgia snorted and sat up so quickly she almost brained him. Laughter shot from Peter’s stomach, a full-blown guffaw. He gasped against the giddy mirth as Georgia pushed her hair from her eyes and glared up at him accusingly.

  “You were snoring,” he said when he could spare enough oxygen to speak.

  “Was not.” The clipped roundness of her speech took him aback.

  “You sound like…” He shook his head. Obviously the two women spent a lot of time together, both in the States and abroad, if the family photo in Gigi’s apartment was to be believed.

  Georgia shot out of bed, wearing her shirt and jeans from last night. She hadn’t worn the nightgown, but he decided not to remark on it. He could hardly blame her for not wanting to make herself more vulnerable around him.

  “We’re going out for breakfast,” he said, peeling off his pajama bottoms as he crossed to his overnight bag.

  A sharp inhale from Georgia made his lips quirk upward once more, but he didn’t turn around. Let her ogle. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen, or grabbed, before.

  “I’d tell you to put some clothes on,” he continued as he stepped into his underwear and adjusted his package, “but you never got undressed.” He pulled his clean jeans from the bag. “You probably want to brush your hair though.”

  “I know all about personal hygiene, Peter.” Arms folded protectively, Georgia eyed him with sleep-tinged rancor as he buttoned his pants. “Unlike you, I’ve been washing my own backside my entire adult life.”

  Oh, so it was that way, was it?

  Knowing it would only bait her, he gave her a faux arch look. “Don’t make me wait. I’m hungry.”

  The grin spread across his face once more when she flounced away, her hair whirling around her shoulders with the motion. He kept smiling as she yanked the bathroom door closed. He’d give her fifteen minutes. If she wasn’t out by then, he was going in after her.

  Turned out he didn’t need to wait that long. They were zipping down the road within twelve. He downshifted as they went into a sharp curve and shot out onto the Y of the road into town.

  “I didn’t think women could get ready as quickly as you,” he teased. “Did you decide to go European today?”

  Georgia rolled her eyes and shifted her shoulders away so she stared out the passenger window. “Ever hear of waxing, lover boy?”

  Thoughts of other places she might’ve waxed besides her legs jerked him back to the moment last night when he’d nuzzled the heat of her sex. Come to think of it, there hadn’t been a hair in sight or any telltale prickling against his lips. Either then or when he’d fucked her. He gripped the wheel harder and winced at the awkward angle of his awakening cock against the seam of his jeans.

  He lifted his hips from the seat and adjusted, attempting to gain some room. “There’s a seat heater, if you’re cold.”

  Georgia didn’t look at him.

  “My parents seemed to like you,” he tried.

  She made a noncommittal sound in the back of her throat.

  “Thanks for, you know, being here. Convincing them…” He rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. “It’s been awhile, and you made it easier. So. Yeah. Just…thanks.”

  “Why didn’t you have sex with me last night?” Her voice was laced with sleep’s throaty warmth.

  “Well, that was direct.” And it was, though he couldn’t fault her for it. Part of him had been wondering the same thing all night long. He shrugged. “Call it an attack of conscience.”

  She dropped her hands to her thighs and faced him more fully. Though his skin crawled with the reflexive need to look at her, he kept his eyes on the road and had to trust his peripheral vision to tell him what he needed to know.

  “You didn’t sleep with me because you didn’t think I could handle you?”

  He scowled. When had he said any such thing? Though, come to think of it, he wasn’t entirely certain she could’ve. Handled him, that was. “You’re the one who asked me not to hurt you.”

  She faced away from him and recrossed her arms. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Didn’t mean it what way? Physically? Or mentally? At the time he’d thought she meant mentally, because it wasn’t like he’d come on hard and fast. He’d even kissed her, for chrissakes. So…had she meant mentally? He glanced at her, wishing he could see her expression better. “Then what way did you mean it?”

  “I can take anything you can dish out, Peter Wells.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “And I don’t have to wear six inch heels and sequins to prove it.”

  Frowning, he steered them into a tight parking space near the wharfside restaurant. She was actually upset because he hadn’t treated her like his flavor of the week? After she’d been so pissed when he’d walked out on her at the gallery? Now he’d offended her by not following through with his come-on? Women did not, in his book, make any sense what-so-fucking-ever. Feeling as if he were waging a battle with one foot on quicksand and the other on a rocky boat, he released his seat belt with a jerk and shoved his door open.

  On the sidewalk, he paused to gather his wits. The tang of sea air widened his nostrils, inviting him to breathe deep. He closed his eyes. Metal clinked against masts, the buoy bells a far-off toll, wrapping him in nostalgia’s warm embrace. He pictured the schooner on his fridge, felt her rocking beneath his feet, and longing tugged his middle tight.

  Fog blanketed the Sound, hiding all but the closest whitecaps from his view. There’d be no real point to grabbing a window seat today, but he would anyway. Georgia’s car door slammed behind him. He held open the door to Hank’s little gray shack and stepped back to let her enter before him.

  She paused, looking from the restaurant’s faded sign to Peter’s face and back.

  “What?” he asked, though he’d read her thoughts in her expression.

  She shrugged. “It’s just not the kind of place you usually frequent.”

  Wondering if he’d misjudged her—if perhaps money meant more to her than she’d let on—he let the door creak closed. “Is there a problem with this place?”

  He’d known the Browns his whole life. Mrs. Brown had been his second grade teacher, and Mr. Brown had served him a slice of apple pie every day after Peter brought him his share of the lobster catch. Even when the catch stopped coming, the pie hadn’t.

  Georgia tugged her lower lip between her teeth and worried it as she shook her head. Releasing her lip, she said, “No. I just don’t understand you sometimes.”

  “Welcome to my world.” Peter grunted and pulled the door open once more. “Sometimes it’s like you’re two different people.”

  She stopped short, forcing him to walk into her. His momentum pitched her forward, and only his quick grip on her elbow kept her from crashing headlong into the nearest table. Good thing too, because Arnie Harkness’s wife hated it when he let other women sit in his lap.

  “Hey, Arnie.” Peter pulled Georgia with him as he walked past the gaping bait-shop own
er.

  Arnie nodded as the conversation in the restaurant lulled. The man had never been able to look at Peter’s face since the day of his father’s accident. In fact, a lot of people in town hadn’t. It was one of the reasons he’d gone away to school. Just to get away from the stares and speculation. All the whispering gossip that crawled like spider legs over his skin whenever he turned his back. As if someone pressed Play on the conversational sound track, the lull turned into a quick buzz before winding down to a normal speed once more.

  Peter pulled out a pleather-padded metal chair for Georgia and took her coat. He hung it on the back of her seat and took the one opposite. The three-foot by three-foot square bistro table rocked on an unstable central pedestal as he sat. Outside, fog rolled by, parted only by the occasional whitecap and a diving gull. Through the mist the darker hulk of a few small fishing boats bobbed like ghosts on the water, reminding him of the pieces of his past he’d rather forget.

  Maybe coming here hadn’t been such a good idea…

  A waitress he didn’t recognize came over with a coffeepot in each hand. Peter flipped his cup right-side up, and she filled it with the high-octane brew.

  “Know what you want?” she asked.

  “Blueberry pancakes, bacon, eggs scrambled.” He ordered on automatic before both he and the waitress turned to Georgia.

  Georgia blinked at him. “Come here much?”

  He shrugged, secretly pleased he’d surprised her. “Since I was a kid, but not recently.”

  “Um.” Georgia scanned the walls, trying to peer at the menu board from a distance while the waitress shifted impatiently from foot to foot.

  “Order anything you want,” Peter said, trying to make things easier on them all. “As long as it’s breakfast, it’s probably on the menu.”

  She shifted, and the table rocked. Peter’s coffee sloshed over the rim of his cup, and he grabbed napkins from the dispenser, pressing them at the river before it threatened to crest the table’s edge.

  “Sorry… Okay.” She chewed at her lips. “May I have tea and a soft-boiled egg with whole wheat toast?”

  “You don’t want coffee?” The waitress lifted the glass carafe a little higher, making the hard sell.

  “Er…” Georgia fingered her cup and slowly flipped it over. “I don’t want to make trouble for you. You can give me coffee if it’s easier.”

  The waitress tilted the pot. Coffee streamed into the cup, sealing the deal. Georgia eyed the murky liquid with a barely concealed lift of her lip.

  “You usually have coffee with me in the mornings.” Peter peeled open a plastic half-and-half container and dumped it into his coffee. “I thought you liked it.”

  “I’m a coffee snob,” she muttered darkly. “Tea is harder to screw up because I have control over it.”

  The fishermen who came in every day to have their thermoses filled before going out would’ve raised a hue and cry if they’d heard her words. Peter lifted both brows and cradled his cup in his hands. Bringing the coffee to his nose, he sniffed. The nut-rich aroma tickled his palate even before he took a sip and rolled it over his tongue. He closed his eyes and sank into his chair to savor a larger mouthful. He’d never had better coffee. Even in New York.

  His blissed-out expression must’ve convinced Georgia to try the stuff because when he focused on her again, she’d tentatively lifted the cup. The delicate flare of her nostrils emphasized the freckles along the bridge of her nose. A ridiculous urge to count and kiss each speck made him look away. When he looked back, the wonderment in her expression said it all.

  “Oh my dear God.” She looked at the cup in her hands as if it contained pure gold before slowly lifting her eyes to his. “This stuff’s incredible.”

  “Still want a tea bag and some hot water?” He tried not to smirk and failed. Miserably.

  “No.” She gripped the cup and shook her head. “No way.”

  That’s what he’d thought. The bell over the door rang brightly as a few customers entered and several left. Peter glanced their way on reflex and saw a man in a grease-splattered apron making his way to their table with three plates in his oversize hands. Warmth flooded his stomach, and he stood, pushing the chair back with a scrape against the worn linoleum.

  “You rascal.” Hank Brown plunked the plates on the table and turned to Peter. “You should’ve told me you were here.”

  The bear hug he saw coming, but not the burning tears that threatened to overwhelm his ducts. Patting Hank extra hard on the back, Peter ducked his head so the overly interested patrons wouldn’t see his red face. They separated, and Peter coughed, making a joke out of his inability to breathe.

  “I didn’t know I’d be here. I wanted to”—he turned to Georgia, anxious to divert Hank’s attention—“show Georgia around. Give her a taste of where I grew up.”

  Georgia’s eyes widened, but if she was surprised by his admission, she gave no other sign.

  “Georgia Whitcomb, I’d like you to meet Hank Brown. Hank, Georgia.”

  One elegant hand extended, Georgia stood to greet the man who’d been like a second father to him. Hank’s expression narrowed as he took her measure; then a grin spread across his face. Two gold teeth flashed, showing he was truly entranced.

  “Well, it’s about time Peter brought a lady home. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  “Thank you. The pleasure is all mine.” Georgia smiled and glanced to Peter, her lightly furrowed brow clearly asking you mean to tell me you’ve never brought a girlfriend here?

  Avoiding the question in her gaze as well as Hank’s scrutiny, Peter instead lifted a forkful of the apple pie the man had placed on the table along with their breakfast. Tart fruit and the earthy sharpness of cheddar cheese bathed his taste buds, immersing his brain in memories and sensations long forgotten.

  Wet and crisp, a Granny Smith apple turned in his fingers as he scraped the peeler across its surface, attempting to reveal the white flesh underneath in one, unbroken strip. The sound of oven doors banging and metal against metal as Mrs. Brown withdrew another batch of homemade treats, making sure he sampled every one. Her taste tester, she’d called him. In retrospect he knew she’d fed him because his parents couldn’t. Still, the knowledge didn’t make the memories any less sweet.

  “Where’s the missus?” Peter looked around expectantly.

  “She’s in Maine with the new grandbabies. Dory had twin boys in October.”

  Peter laughed, more than startled to have missed so much. “Dory’s married?”

  A brief hurt ghosted Hank’s expression. “A year ago June. We’re sorry you couldn’t make it, but we know how busy you are.”

  “Hell, Hank.” Peter laid down his fork and grabbed the back of the chair. “I’m so sorry. I don’t think my assistant told me.”

  Feeling like the slickest eel to ever get caught in a net, he wrung the metal bar harder and shook his head. He had no good excuse for not keeping up with Hank. No real reason other than a misguided sense of self-importance for not giving the man a way to get in touch with him personally.

  “We understand.” Hank grasped Peter’s arm, then yanked a thumb toward the kitchen. “But my customers are waiting. Come by and see us at the house next time you’re in town?”

  “I will, Hank. You can count on it,” Peter said, grabbing the man into another hug.

  He watched as Hank walked away, a limp to his gait Peter hadn’t noticed previously. On his feet all day for years, the man had to be in his late sixties or early seventies at least. He should be off enjoying his grandkids, not slaving away in a kitchen without so much as a vacation to show for his troubles. Stunned, Peter wondered at himself. How in God’s name could he have taken such good care of his family and never, ever once considered the people who’d been so important to his happiness and well-being outside his home?

  Sitting heavily, he forked up another bite of pie and regarded Georgia as she spread the egg around on her toast and lifted the jumbled mass. He’d neve
r seen such impeccable table manners. Where he’d have made a mess of his shirt and likely his jeans as well, she never let a drop of yolk or a crumb of bread fall to the table or her clothes.

  “You had an entire New England breakfast menu at your disposal, and you ordered a soft-boiled egg?” For some reason the odd question left his mouth rather than the thirty other things vying for his brain’s attention.

  She nibbled at her toast and looked up at him through her lashes with a wry smile. “I’ll only regret it if you tell me the pancakes are as good as the coffee.”

  “Try the pie.” He held out a bite on the end of his fork, the intimacy of the gesture striking him only after he’d made the offer.

  Georgia leaned forward, her lush lips open just far enough he was able to slip the pie past them and onto her waiting tongue. Chewing, she closed her eyes and sighed. Not until she swallowed did she open them and smile. A dimple popped to life in one cheek, and his heart lurched dangerously.

  “Well,” she said, “I can sincerely say I regret ordering the egg instead of the pie.”

  Without looking away, Peter raised one hand to summon their waitress. When she approached, he said, “Another piece of pie please, for the lady.”

  Georgia’s startled blink made him cock his head when the waitress walked away. “What’s wrong? Don’t enjoy being called a lady?”

  Placing her elbow on the table and her chin on her palm, she glanced toward the window and back to him. Her mouth twitched before widening into a sly smile. “I do find being a lady quite limiting.”

  The question don’t you think? hung in the air, implicit and heavy. She wanted him, even after last night’s debacle. Blood thrummed to southern climes, and Peter shifted in his seat. He mirrored her posture and grinned.