Going Deep (Coastal Heat #1)

by Maggie Wells

  “Yes.”

  It was the truth. She was happy to have him back. She liked seeing him happy and at home in a hole-in-the-wall barbecue shack. It was a relief to sit across from him as an adult. Now she understood the pull that confused her as a teenager. It was attraction, plain and simple. The connection between them was as elemental as water and air, and irresistible as gravity. It had always been there, sparking between them long before they were old enough to know what it was or had any clue what to do with it. They both knew now, though. And she wasn’t exactly sure how to handle it. Yet.

  Clearing her throat, she set aside the polite inquiries that were as natural to her as blinking and breathing. The only way she was going to get through this lunch with her ethics intact and the interview she needed, would be to plow straight through to the heart of the matter, niceties be damned. Wiping her fingers on a paper towel, she pushed her basket aside and picked up her pen. “When did you realize the footage had been switched?”

  Brian’s shoulders tensed and an eyebrow twitched, but he gave nothing away. His smile remained in place, but the warmth in his eyes disappeared.

  “Right away,” he replied with equanimity. He dropped his gaze to the basket of food in front of him then reached for his bundle of cutlery. Extracting a fork, he speared a chunk of mayonnaise-coated potato with practiced negligence. “Unlike those guys who make a living spewing jokes other people write for them, I do know the difference between an eruption and an earthquake. Too bad they can’t tell the difference between funny and not.”

  The tiny brackets of grim dissatisfaction she’d seen often in high school were back. Brooke tightened her grip on her pen, afraid she might give in to the temptation to reach across the sticky table and wipe them away. Remorse soured her stomach. She hadn’t planned on going there. As a matter of fact, her strategy had been to avoid all mention of the made-for-Hollywood scandal. But he made her tense and fluttery all at once. Decisively indecisive.

  He stabbed another hunk of potato salad and shot her a glance from under thick-fringed lashes. “I’d given you more credit, Brooke. I didn’t think you’d take the low road. Guess I was wrong.”

  “The low road?”

  “I thought you were a serious journalist. I mean, it seems a little sad to go from Pulitzer Prize quality reporting to tacky tabloid tactics.” He stared straight into her eyes, but his voice softened to a murmur. “I’m seldom wrong,” he mused. “Funny how it’s always when it comes to you.”

  How dare he imply he might only be fallible when it came to her? She couldn’t magically be what he wanted her to be. Disappointing the people who mattered to her was nothing new. But disappointing Brian felt different. It wasn’t the sharp, slicing pain of a knife in the gut, but an aching, inescapable agony she imagined might accompany of thousands of paper cuts.

  She wanted to strike out at him. Slap his handsome face for having the gall to imply her standards had slipped. “I couldn’t care less about the interview.”

  “Then what’s this all about?”

  “I told you, I have a story.”

  He continued to stare at her, an expectant eyebrow raised, his gaze challenging. And hot. Hunger rolled off him in waves and it had little to do with the basket of ribs in front of him. He wanted her. Sleazy tabloid tactics or not.

  Professional ethics be damned, she wanted him to kiss her again. Over and over. Everywhere. She wanted to melt into his arms again and give up the fight. She’d let him call the shots, say or do anything he asked, as long as he kept looking at her like he was in that moment.

  “It’s about the clean up,” she blurted, then clamped hand to her mouth, shocked she’d given it up to him so easily.

  Someone jostled her shoulder and she looked up, expecting to see their waitress back with another round of flirty smiles for Brian and a side of scowl for her. Instead, she found Jack Tucker grinning down at her.

  “Hello, sugar. Fancy meetin’ y’all here, huh?”

  He slipped onto the bench beside her and stretched one arm possessively across the back of the booth. The audacious move struck her dumb.

  “Byron,” Jack said with a nod in Brian’s direction.

  To her surprise, Brian laughed and reached for another rib. He saluted Jack with the slimy bone and smiled broadly. “Jackass,” he replied, mimicking Jack’s inflection to perfection.

  His teeth showed brilliant white as they sank into the meat. His eyes locked on hers, his gaze steady and unperturbed. He chewed lazily, the muscles in his neck and jaw flexing. His foot bumped hers beneath the table. The nudge somehow managed to be both annoying and reassuring, just like Brian.

  Brooke released her breath in a rush. Before he could pull back, she hooked the toe of her shoe behind Brian’s ankle and held him in place. Then she turned her attention to their intruder. “What are you doing here?”

  Without asking, Jack plucked the piece of Texas toast from her basket and started tearing it into pieces. “Why, I suppose I’m here for the same reason you are.” He shoved a hunk of sauce-smeared bread into his mouth. To make matters worse, he tried to smile at her when he did. “Lunch,” he mumbled.

  She stared at him, stupefied by his oblivious conceit. Frankly, she couldn’t credit it. Jack’s classic matinee idol features looked bland next to the crags years of sea and sun etched into Brian’s face. Tucked close beside her, Jack’s body was warm but soft. Not that he had gone to seed, exactly, but like he thought he didn’t need to work quite as hard as other guys did. He had other things going for him, and he knew it. What he didn’t know was the prospect of inheriting his family’s chain of car dealerships held very little sway in comparison to the memory of Brian’s lean, muscular body pressed tight against hers.

  Plucking the last of her bread from his hand, she tossed it back into the basket. “And you can’t afford your own?”

  Jack’s good old boy grin expanded, showing off fancy orthodontia. “Don’t you worry about me, darlin’. I can afford to splurge and order the banana pudding.”

  “Can and should are two very different things, but some people never understand the difference,” Brian murmured.

  Brooke jerked her foot back, her gaze snapping to the man across the table. It was more an observation than a statement. Typically Brian. Blunt and truthful, cutting straight through her confusion and questions.

  Could she have him? Yes, she could. Easily. He didn’t bother hiding the hunger in his eyes. Even now, with Jack wedged into the booth with them. Should she? No. He would be a distraction at a time when she needed to be focused on her next move. She understood both of those things all too well. Unfortunately, she was afraid she already knew the answer to the question left unspoken. Would she?

  Of course she would.

  The admission triggered a white-hot flash of desire. Biting the inside of her cheek, she wriggled away from Jack’s overbearing presence. It took a full minute for the rush of blood in her ears to simmer down to a dull roar. Another passed before she tuned into the verbal volleys the men had begun to launch.

  “So, how’s the used car business?” Brian smiled as he tore a hunk of meat from a rib. “Saw you on a billboard out by the interstate.”

  Jack bristled, but she didn’t dare glance in his direction. Instead, she reclaimed her own basket and feigned an intense interest in her coleslaw.

  “We deal mainly in new cars.” Tension all but hummed off him, but Jack kept his voice level. “You know, Brendan, we got a new shipment of hybrids in. Maybe you’ll want to trade for something economical now since you’re unemployed.”

  Brian’s chuckle was as effective as sparkly bait. She looked up, letting his easy amusement roll over her. The bashful dimple in his cheek winked at her, but his eyes were sober as he returned Jack’s stare. “You know, I might stop by one day. I have to admit, sometimes I worry about leaving the Italia parked at the marina when I’m out on the boat for a few days.”

  The conversation seemed congenial on the surface, but Brooke
felt the urge to duck, nonetheless. Hoping to ease the tension, she latched onto the first word that jumped out at her. “Italia?”

  Jack quivered, strung tight as a tripwire, but Brian’s gaze never faltered. He waved his sauce-stained hand in casual dismissal. “It’s a car.”

  “A Ferrari,” Jack said tightly.

  Oops. Not a good change in topic. Brooke cringed when she spotted the muscle ticking in Jack’s jaw.

  But it was Brian who frowned. “Beautiful machine, but better suited to California than Alabama, I think.” He picked up his fork and started poking at the potato salad again.

  “Of course, you can’t just trade a car like that, can you?” Finally, Brian turned his attention to her, a mischievous smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. “Most car dealers can’t tie up that much cash in one car,” he explained. “I’ll probably end up selling her to a private collector.” He paused, his fork dangling from his fingers as he eyed her speculatively. “Think I should get a truck?”

  The image of Brian Dalton tooling about town in a jacked up dually popped into her head and a laugh sputtered out of her. “No!”

  “No?” His smile spread as he cocked his head. “Why not? Lots of guys around here drive trucks.”

  She shrugged. “Okay, but you should know most women think the bigger the truck, the tinier the equipment.”

  The bit of insider information sobered Brian instantly. “I see.”

  Brooke reached for her tea as he turned his attention back to his meal. She took a sip, trying to hide her smile. She wasn’t at all prepared for the serious set of Brian’s mouth or the cool, calculating gleam in his eyes when he looked up.

  “I bet you drive a really big truck, don’t you, Jack?”

  The tea slid down the wrong pipe as she whipped her head around to catch Jack’s reaction. She pressed her hand to her mouth and coughed. Their waitress landed a couple of hearty slaps on Brooke’s back when she passed. Brooke looked up to find Jack glaring down at her, the front of his polo shirt spattered with tea and spit. Brian was out of the booth and at her side, paper towels clutched in his hand as he gently lifted her arms over her head to clear the airway.

  “Relax and breathe,” he coaxed. When her coughs began to subside, he released one hand long enough to mop the tears from her face. A lopsided smile twitched his lips and he lowered his gaze. “Sorry about that.”

  “S’okay.”

  “I shouldn’t bait your boyfriend,” he whispered. “It’s just…he makes it too easy sometimes.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  The answer was as reflexive as her cough. She couldn’t have stifled the denial if she wanted to. Nor could she stop the montage of flashbacks playing through her head. All the times Jack rose to take the bait Brian dangled. The big man on campus’ lame attempts to prove he was as quick and clever as the class nerd. He wasn’t. Unable to intimidate Brian physically, Jack relied on his ability to stir the tide of social scorn. He’d never understood that Brian didn’t measure himself by the subjective standard of popularity. He required substantive data.

  As if to refute her breathy statement, Jack placed a hand on her shoulder. “I wanted to let you know I picked up my tickets to the Bay Ball. I promised your mama I’d bring you along.”

  The Bay Ball was the high water mark of the Mobile social season, and her mother was this season’s chairwoman. The night would be a culmination of years of hard work in the name of charitable good works. Looking up at Jack’s set jaw and smug smirk, she felt resentment rise inside her. She had long ago promised Emmaline she would be at the ball, and she would be, but she’d never agreed to let her mother choose her escort.

  She drew a steadying breath and tossed the wad of paper towel onto the table. Bumping Brian with her hip, she shoved him to the edge of the bench. He laughed as he spilled from the booth and onto his feet with a sailor’s rolling grace.

  She plucked two twenties from her wallet and dropped them onto the littered table then turned to face Jack. “Thank you, but I’ve already made other arrangements for the ball.”

  “Wha—”

  Before he could finish forming the question, she whirled and pinned Brian with a hard stare. “I’ll be in touch to set up an alternate day and time for the interview.”

  Winding her way through the tables, she kept her sights set on the exit. The soles of her shoes stuck to the worn linoleum, but there was no force in the world strong enough to hold her. The scarred wooden door swung out and her step faltered as a sharp shaft of bright spring sunlight blinded her.

  That moment was enough for the boy who’d surprised everyone by lettering in track to catch up to her. “Hey.” Brian grasped her arm, but instead of holding her back, he stepped out into the sunlight with her. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll get it another time,” she said, attempting to sound unaffected by both his proximity and his concern.

  “Not about the interview.” He froze for one long second, then the next sentence burst from him. “When can I see you again?”

  Her heart jumped up into her throat. The intensity of his stare sliced through her, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable. She pulled her arm from his grasp and took a step back. “I guess it depends on your agent.”

  “Brooke, please.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t make this more than it is, Brian.”

  “It is more,” he insisted. “Come to my boat. No one will bother us. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  Wagging her head harder, she backed away. “No. I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both,” she answered, hoping to put an end to this seduction by semantics.

  Her heels scraped the broken pavement as she shuffle-ran for the parking lot. Slipping into the seat, she caught a glimpse of Brian in her side mirror. He stood still, his hands sunk into his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. Looking like a man utterly comfortable with embracing the inevitable. She gripped the steering wheel and pressed her forehead to the backs of her hands.

  “I won’t,” she whispered, but the reinforcement didn’t take the second time either.

  Chapter 5

  Brian was getting to Brooke. He had to believe he was, or he’d go crazy. All the signs were there. Each night as he fell asleep he catalogued the data. And his response to the stimuli. The flutter of mascaraed eyelashes made his body tighten. He’d spent a full week thinking about licking the pulse below her jaw. The memory of her pink tongue gliding over glossy lips kept him awake into the wee small hours. Frustrated and aching, he rolled from his bed before dawn Wednesday morning, left the boat, and headed for the opposite end of the island.

  He’d closed on the house within a week of moving back to Mobile. At the time, it was basically four walls and a freshly shingled roof. Of course, he didn’t mention as much to his mother as he packed his clothes and thanked her for the use of the guest room that was once his bedroom.

  The minute the plumbing and electrical passed inspection, he paid a crew to hang the drywall then kicked everyone out. Well, almost everyone. More and more often, his brother could be found installing crown molding or hanging cabinets. It was funny to see his aerospace engineer brother with a drill in his hand, but Jake claimed it helped him unwind after a long day of being a rocket scientist. Brian suspected he just liked the whir of the power tools. Still, he appreciated the help. He also appreciated Jake’s heretofore unseen talent for blackmail. In exchange for the opportunity to live out his fantasy of being Bob the Builder, Jake refrained from telling their mother her younger son had ditched her tastefully comfortable accommodations and lovingly prepared breakfasts in favor of a triangular berth on a boat.

  It wasn’t that Brian didn’t appreciate his mom’s efforts to ease his transition. He was glad she wanted him nearby. He didn’t want to be close enough to hear her tapping on his bedroom door at seven-thirty each morning as if he had a school bus to catch. He tried to tell her she didn’t need to do his la
undry for him, honest he did. It wasn’t his fault she scoffed and continued separating his whites from the colors. The truth was his mom, while sweet and loving and undoubtedly still beautiful in an aging Disney princess sort of way, was terrifying in the efficient way women who’d made marriage and family a career could be. She’d managed a too-brilliant-to-tie-his-shoelaces husband and two sons with all the earmarks of becoming chips off the old block with an almost militaristic respect for routine. And a firm belief that the day started as soon as the sun peeked over the horizon. Now it was a habit so ingrained, he doubted he’d ever shake it.

  Chronic fatigue aside, Brian enjoyed working on his house. The other early birds trilled as he trudged to the unadorned entrance. Beyond the non-existent back deck, the Gulf of Mexico pitched and rolled, but inside all was silent and still. Plywood subflooring absorbed his footfalls as he crossed the large open-plan living room. Floor to ceiling windows showed the faintest line of pink spreading along the horizon. He started toward the glass wall and the sole of one work boot skidded on a streak of sawdust. He frowned at the pervasive layer of dust, but the scowl faded as his eyes took in the honeyed glow of the maple trim, molding, and baseboards. His brother might be a slob about cleanup, but he sure as hell did beautiful carpentry work.

  He had two rooms left to paint, then he’d turn his attention to learning to lay tile flooring. Rolling eggshell onto each wall provided the right amount of monotony in task and color. Bland as they may be, the smooth, blemish-free walls represented a clean start. His brain could run free without running wild. There, in his blank slate of a house, he could plan and plot a new future. Possibly one involving the girl who’d haunted his past.

  Just inside the bedroom door, he paused and pulled his phone from his pocket. Brooke hadn’t returned any of his calls. His agent hadn’t made a peep. The flimsy excuse of the interview was wearing thin on both sides. He had to do something. He decided to downshift and started moving them forward by conducting his own interview via text message. The idea had come to him the night before. He started with a simple, Q: What do television stars eat for dinner? A: Mac ’n cheese with a side of grilled cheese. Without giving her a chance to respond, he fired off a follow-up. Q: Aren’t you afraid you’ll clog your arteries? A: No, I like to live on the edge. Makes women think I’m dangerous and therefore hot. He managed two or three more texts, fascinating stuff along the lines of Q: What are you reading? A: A signed copy of Al Gore’s Earth in the Balance and Q: Is that supposed to impress a girl? A: I hear women think Al is sexy.