by Kate Angell
“How do you know him?”
“As Joe, a man who loves his dog. Kind. Considerate.” She half-smiled. “Persistent.” He’d wanted her. Once.
“Avoidance, Stevie?”
“I’m not escaping who he is. Who he might always be. I’m merely protecting my heart.”
He eyed her closely. “Sad?”
“Over a man I never had?”
“You may still have him. You just don’t realize it.”
“Joe is the poster boy of the single life.”
“Don’t fool yourself.” His voice was low. “The right woman wakes up a man. He suddenly finds being a couple more exciting than living alone.”
She appreciated his male perspective. “Speaking from experience? ”
A self-deprecating grin. “I’ve loved, lost, and wished things had turned out differently.”
She closed her eyes. “I’m wishing right now . . .” Only one man could make that wish come true, and he was in the bar, while she stood on the sidewalk outside. She sighed. “Time to call it a night.” She’d ridden to the beach with Dean and Lori, and had no idea where they’d disappeared to. She’d thought to catch a ride back to the house with Joe. No longer a possibility. A cab? Eyes opened, she noticed traffic on the street was bumper to bumper for as far as she could see. Walking was out of the question. Too dark. Too far.
Zane was a mind reader. “Can I give you a lift?”
“I live at a dog day care.”
“Rylan mentioned you were Twyla’s niece, in town while she recovered from a broken leg.” He knuckled his jaw. “Are you hungry?”
She and Lori had split a ham sandwich at lunch. Nothing since. “What did you have in mind?”
“I’d like to decompress after the crowd today. We can pick up a pizza, take it back to Unleashed. Work for you? ”
“Sounds good,” she agreed.
He had a sudden glint in his eye that hadn’t been there moments ago. Not until he’d mentioned pizza. They left the blaring music and the wild crowd, and walked a short distance, soon locating his 1967 Chevy Impala in the employee parking lot behind the boardwalk shops. The muscle car rumbled and growled with the turn of the key. Throbbing metal. Powerful.
“I restore old cars,” he told her.
“A mechanic at heart?”
“Antique vehicles pulse with the past.”
She liked Zane Cates. She felt comfortable with him. They’d only met that afternoon, yet he had the familiarity of an old friend. He drove to Zinotti’s Pizza, located on Commercial Boulevard, alongside other fast food restaurants.
It was a busy place, and parking was tight. He dropped her off at the front door. “Order whatever you like. I’ll be in to pay as soon as I find a spot.”
As Stevie entered Zinotti’s, she was greeted by a red-and-white-checkered floor, red booths packed with customers, enormous photos of pizzas with different toppings, and a short counter for orders. She studied the blackboard menu on the wall near the kitchen.
A striking woman appeared through the swinging doors, stepped behind the counter. She wore a Zinotti’s signature T-shirt and black jeans. Her name tag tipped over her left breast. Tori. A pile of auburn hair set off light blue eyes, arched cheekbones, and full lips. Her smile was welcoming. “What can I get for you?” she asked.
Stevie liked the basics, extra cheese and pepperoni. Zane was big, brawny, and appeared like a guy who’d order the works. “Large, the works,” she ordered.
“Crust?” Tori asked, her gaze on the computer screen.
Stevie had no idea. She was about to say “plain” when Zane swung through the door. Hearing the question, he went with, “Jalapeño garlic.”
Tori’s head snapped up. Her jaw clamped shut. A stunned, hurt look flickered in her eyes, followed by the flint of anger. The anger held. Heated.
“What are you doing here?” A low hiss that didn’t disturb the diners.
Zane approached the counter, his expression closed. “Picking up a pizza.”
“There are four pizza joints on the highway.”
“None have your personality.”
A dark glare and a harsh word. “Asshole,” muttered under Tori’s breath. Still audible.
The diners ignored them, as if they’d seen and heard it before. Stevie figured they were residents, not seasonal snowbirds. Locals would recognize Zane Cates. Tori was perhaps a long-term employee.
Silence lengthened, harsh and antagonistic. Stevie stepped aside, out of their line of fire. She eyed them from the far corner of the counter. She sensed a lot of baggage. Hostility or chemistry? Hard to tell. An invisible undercurrent between the two ignited tangible sparks. Tori’s features were tight with resentment. Zane’s face showed raw control.
Zane finally approached the counter. “Jalapeño garlic crust,” he repeated.
Tori’s voice sharpened. “I heard you the first time.”
Zane reached for his wallet. “How much?”
She deliberately quoted double the cost, according to the pricing on the blackboard menu.
A snicker from a corner booth, covered by a cough. No argument from Zane. He counted out thirty-five dollars, placed the money on the counter. Tori punched his order into the computer, took his cash, and returned to the kitchen.
Stevie watched Zane watch Tori. She disappeared, and his expression slipped for a heartbeat. Indifference fell to pain and disappointment. A moment’s vulnerability. He cared.
Zane stared for an inordinately long time at the tip jar between the straw container and napkin holder. Thoughtful. He added a Benjamin Franklin to the singles and change. Stevie’s eyes widened at the hundred-dollar tip. For a pizza. Generous man.
He fully detached with Tori’s return, pizza box in hand. Tori regarded Stevie and Zane, and Stevie picked up on her look. Her quiet evaluation of their relationship. Were Zane and she a couple? A tinge of hurt appeared in her eyes. Rapid recovery. Back to being mad.
Tori handed the box to Stevie. “Zinotti’s thanks you.” It was a stiff good-bye. Totally dismissive.
Stevie had the sudden urge to tell the woman that she’d just met Zane, and that they were no more than two new friends sharing a pizza. Zane disrupted her thought, delaying her confession. He curved his hand over her shoulder, nudged her toward the door. “Let’s go.”
He released his hold in the parking lot. Soon leaned his hip against the rear bumper of his Chevy Impala. He blew out a frustrated breath. Said, “Tori still hates me.”
“Who is she to you?”
His pause was so long, she wondered if he’d even tell her. “My ex-wife.”
“Oh . . .” Made sense. An explosive history. No surprise, then, to those in the diner. There was a good chance they’d witnessed similar exchanges. Passionate, yet unfriendly.
“An unresolved misunderstanding.” He left it at that. He opened the passenger-side door, held the pizza box while she settled on the seat. Told her, “You’re taking the first bite. Tori had poison in her eyes.”
* * *
They arrived at Unleashed as the last pet owner, Livia Taylor, fetched her Brussels griffon, Chester. Stevie found Twyla in the entry hall, leaning heavily on her crutches. She looked tired. There was no one else around. Stevie felt suddenly guilty for taking the time off.
“Where’s Dana and Berkley?” she asked her aunt, mentioning their two loyal employees.
“I let the girls leave early,” said Twyla. “Several of the owners ran unavoidably late. There was no reason for all of us to wait for them.” She pursed her lips. “Dean called, requested an overnight for Etta. I fed Turbo and her. They’re out back playing. He chases her. She chases him. They’re fun to watch.”
She slipped off her glasses, rubbed her eyes. Resettled them low on her nose. Stared at the man beside Stevie. Familiarity lightened her eyes. “Zane Cates, I thought that was you. How are you, son?”
“Well, Twyla, thanks. On leave, home for a week. Catching up with family and friends.”
&n
bsp; “How’re your parents? Your granddad?”
“My folks are on a cruise. Grandpa Frank is living large at the retirement village. He turns ninety this summer.”
Twyla smiled. “Good to hear. Did you take part in the game-day fund-raiser?”
Zane nodded. “Rylan recruited me. That’s where I met Stevie.”
“Two hours of checkers, and he brought me home,” Stevie supplied.
“Joe?” her aunt questioned.
“Having a beer with friends.”
“You didn’t join him?”
No official invitation. She’d stood beside him on the beach until the push, shove, and wave of humanity lifted and landed him at the Blue Coconut. He hadn’t missed her. Hadn’t come looking for her. She hedged, “I was more hungry than thirsty. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Appreciated, but I have plans.” She turned and hobbled down the hallway ahead of them. She paused at the back door. “George is stopping by later with Chinese. We’re both fond of pepper steak.”
With one foot out the door, Twyla snapped her fingers, remembering. “There’s a message for you on the table. A feature editor from I Do magazine would like to stop by late tomorrow afternoon. She’d appreciate an interview to go with the photo shoot.”
Stevie held her breath. “Just the bride, or the groom, too?” She’d much prefer to do the interview alone.
Wasn’t meant to be. “The couple, if possible,” her aunt informed her.
“Might be just me.” If Joe declined, preferring to be with Alyssa and his party posse.
Twyla’s expression was sympathetic. “You know best, dear.” She slipped out.
Did she know best? Stevie wondered. She wasn’t so sure. A headache threatened, and her heart hurt.
She walked with Zane into the kitchen. Set the pizza box on the table. Then went to the cupboard and found paper plates. “Forks or fingers?” she asked him.
“Pizza tastes better with fingers.”
That it did. Ripped sheets of paper towels became their napkins. She looked in the refrigerator, asked, “What would you like to drink? Iced tea, Dr Pepper, beer?” Joe’s beer.
“Brand of beer?”
“Red Dog.”
Zane’s brow creased. “I know only one guy who drinks Red Dog.”
“Me.” Joe now stood in the doorway, his fists clenched. The calmness in his voice was deceptive.
Her breath caught. Stevie turned so quickly, she banged her hip on the refrigerator door. “You’re home early.”
“Early enough to catch you having pizza with Zane.”
“A great pizza with the works,” Zane said casually.
Joe widened his stance. He crossed his arms over his chest, hooked his thumbs in his armpits. His Team Rogue shirt appeared stretched, as if it had been pulled by fans. He glared at Stevie. “Where did you go?” His tone was low, accusing. “You disappeared. I thought you were behind me as we left the beach. I turned around inside the Coconut and found Alyssa instead.” His gaze darkened. “I waited for you. Saved you a seat. You never showed. I left.”
Alyssa had taken Stevie out with an elbow to the ribs and a stomp on her toes. Stevie didn’t rat her out. Instead, she said, “We got separated with the first crush of the crowd.” It had been enormous.
“I came to look for you,” he stated. “Too late, apparently. You hooked up with Zane.”
Hooked up for supper, nothing more. “I lost—”
“Lost you, found me,” said Zane around his first bite of pizza. His tone was intimate. Expectant. Goading.
Stevie started. What was he doing?
Provoking Joe, apparently. The muscles in his jaw flexed hard. Joe’s blue eyes turned midnight dark. His temper was barely contained.
She held up a bottle of Red Dog, asked, “Share a beer with Zane?”
“Only my beer.”
Sounded ominous. She didn’t fully understand. What more could Zane possibly want, that Joe wasn’t willing to give?
Something, apparently. Zane looked at Joe. A checkmate stare. Provoking. Intense.
Stevie returned to the table. Set down the beer. Zane pushed back a chair with his foot, offering her a seat. Next to him. “Don’t let the pizza get cold, sweetheart.”
“She’s not your sweetheart.”
“The night is young,” Zane dared.
Tension vibrated between the two men. The air was thick with testosterone, and escalating rivalry. Spiked irritation.
Stevie sat slowly. Uncertainly. On edge. Zane leaned close, and their shoulders bumped when he scored his second slice. Selecting one piled with more meat than vegetables.
“Join us?” she invited Joe.
“Not sure there’s enough to go around.” Zane’s response shook her. Only two pieces were missing from the large pie. There was plenty left.
Joe’s refusal was evident in his silence.
“Try this, Stevie.” Zane held his slice near her mouth, offering to feed her. A couple’s gesture.
She had no choice but to take a bite. A small bite, otherwise she would’ve choked. Cheese stuck to one corner of her mouth. Zane thumbed it, pressed it between her lips. Familiar. Overly friendly.
Joe crossed the kitchen in three long strides, before she could even swallow. He flattened his big hands on the table, his fingers curled on the wood. “She can feed herself, and she has her own napkin.”
Zane had the balls to touch her mouth a second time. “Missed the sauce.” He traced her lower lip.
Stevie was certain there was no sauce. That Zane was merely taunting Joe, for whatever reason.
Joe’s growl was guttural. Hellhound-menacing. “Touch her again, and—”
“You’ll what?” Zane draped his arm over the back of her chair just to annoy Joe further.
Joe dipped his head, dragged air deep into his lungs. Brought calm to his chaos. “If you weren’t Rylan’s brother . . .” The threat hung between the men.
“You’d what?” Zane pushed.
“Show you the door. You need to leave.”
Zane’s grin came slowly, annoyingly. “There’s no ring on Stevie’s finger. She’s free to see whomever she likes.”
“Her call.” Joe’s tone was sharp. “Choose, Stevie. Him or me.”
So un-Joe-like. He’d put her on the spot with his seeming jealousy. Demanding a decision. She balked. Said nothing.
“Pick me, and I’ll pick you back,” Zane said around a mouthful of pizza. Challengingly.
Ludicrous. Stevie recognized a blatant lie when she heard one. Especially from a man who was still hung up on his ex-wife. She realized he was matchmaking. In the most obvious, obnoxious way. Shoving Joe into a corner. Requiring him to commit. Zane’s intentions might be good, but it wasn’t fair to Joe. She didn’t want him to feel trapped.
She held back. She knew Joe liked her; he’d told her so. But did his feelings go deeper? Liking and loving were very different. Joe held his emotions close to his chest. She refused to force his hand.
She placed a piece of pizza on her paper plate. Pushed off her chair. Took both men in with a glance. “I’m the one leaving. You two need to get along.”
Zane’s chuckle followed her out.
Along with Joe’s, “What the hell?”
“Hell is what women put us through when we love them,” was the last thing she heard from Zane, as Stevie climbed the stairs.
“I need a beer,” came from Joe.
Men!
* * *
Stevie hadn’t mentioned the magazine interview to Joe. He’d spotted the message beneath a corner of the pizza box. Read it. He’d done the photo shoot. He was the designated groom. She might not want him answering questions, for fear of what he’d reveal. Too bad. He planned to field at least one or two. Like it or not.
He’d left practice and headed back to Unleashed. His teammates had teased him unmercifully in the locker room about leaving the Blue Coconut before he’d even sat down. He didn’t give a damn. They had no complaint.
He’d paid for two rounds of drinks, got the party started. Stevie was a no-show. He had missed her. She filled a part of his heart he hadn’t realized was empty. It was a scary realization, but worth investigating. He’d cut out, desperate to find her.
Finding her at the dog care with Zane had twisted his nuts. Of all the men on the beach, Zane was a straight shooter. The last to steal another man’s woman. Yet Zane had pissed him off. Joe had nearly punched him. Over Stevie. His lady. One minor problem—she didn’t know he wanted her in his life permanently. There was always a chance she’d reject him. The interview would tell all.
Joe parked in the circular driveway, exited his Jag, and bounded up the steps. Banged the front door wide. Closed it more gently. Turbo spotted and greeted him, for all of a second. Only to take off again after Etta. Etta slowed to sniff a male pit bull named Biff. Turbo cut between them, herded Etta out the back door. His boy was territorial.
He glanced in the office, saw Stevie behind the desk. Her blond hair was spiky, as if nervously tugged. Perhaps she’d contemplated telling the truth. That she had no real fiancé. She’d have to face judgment in that case. He didn’t want her hurt or embarrassed. A dark-haired woman faced her on a wingback chair. He didn’t knock, just entered. His gaze was on Stevie. “Hey, babe.”
She straightened, stiffened, unsure of him. They hadn’t spoken since the previous night. Her “Hey, yourself,” sounded forced. Awkward. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”
A twist to his lips. “Almost didn’t make it. The note was under the pizza box. Not in plain view.”
He introduced himself to the feature editor. A pretty lady in a red pantsuit with a notepad on her lap. “Joe Zooker.”
“Candace Mayne.” They shook hands.
He was used to women checking him out. Candy of the light eyes and parted lips openly stared. He was barely presentable. Hair uncombed, unshaved, scraped cheek, scripted T-shirt reading In My Defense, I Was Left Unsupervised, ripped jeans. Old, unlaced Adidas sneakers. Nothing much to look at, as far as he was concerned. Still, her gaze held on him. He shrugged. Moved over to Stevie.
Stevie’s eyes rounded when he hefted a second wingback over the corner of the desk, jammed it in beside her. Big chair, small space. Tight. He dropped down, hooked his arm about her shoulders, and hugged her close. The moment called for him to kiss her full on the mouth. He went with it. No tongue, but he did nip her bottom lip. Stevie blushed as red as the editor’s pantsuit. Candace smiled approvingly. Stevie was clearly shaken. Unsettled.
