It’s when I answered to the shaky voice of Mrs. Jones from cottage six that I was disappointed as well as charged up to have an excuse to drive to the cliffs. I took a quick shower and put on my cleanest T-shirt in the off chance I might run into Celia. I contemplated what I’d say on the drive over. If I bumped into her would I invite her to dinner? I haven’t been on a real date since before I enlisted and that was at eighteen years old, almost ten years ago when I was still thinking mostly with my dick. From then on, knowing I was married to the military indefinitely, I didn’t want to create any long-lasting attachments so my “dating” life was mostly the fly-by kind. In and out, not a chance of building any kind of connection longer than the physical.
When I pull up to the cottages I park in my property manager assigned spot and see Celia’s Thing parked down by her place. Something that feels an awful lot like excitement stirs in my gut and calls me up short. What the fuck? It’s been so long since I’ve felt excited about anything.
Soaking in this strange new feeling, I head over to Mrs. Jones’s cottage, making sure to keep my eyes forward when I pass Celia’s place. Last thing I need is to be caught looking in her damn window like some kind of stalker. But still, I can’t help but wonder why she hasn’t called me. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since she left the boat with the possibility she’d be in touch, and in that time she’s managed to turn me into a desperate jackass who’s hoping for the second date that never happens.
“Oh, Aden . . .” Mrs. Jones must see me from her open door as I make my way up the steps. “I’m so sorry to bother you, honey.”
“You’re never a bother.” I push in through the screen door and it slams closed behind me.
“I don’t know if I believe all that.” Her voice shakes with age and her eyes disappear behind her cheeks when she smiles.
I motion to her ancient television. “What’s this one about?” Mrs. Jones is always sitting in front of some cheesy Hallmark movie.
“This man is in love with this woman that he thinks is a waitress, but she’s really a very famous foreign actress in hiding.”
Wow, that’s stupid. “Sounds interesting.”
“Oh it is.” She places one frail hand covered in protruding purple veins to her chest. “She’s leaving for her country and if she doesn’t tell him soon he’ll lose her forever.”
I feign interest watching as some good-looking actor charms his way across the screen. “Hm.” A few seconds pass and I turn away from the TV before my balls shrivel up and fall off from the estrogen-infused romantic overload. “Is it your kitchen or bathroom sink?”
She struggles to stand, her arms shaking with the effort of pushing herself up.
I lay a hand on her shoulder. “You sit still, just tell me which sink and I’ll take care of it.”
She blows out an exhausted breath and smiles up at me, accentuating the grooves around her lips, evidence of the long and happy life she’s lived. “It’s the bathroom, honey. Thank you.”
I head to her bathroom and turn the water on, then drop to the pipes below to see a slow drip coming from the slip nut. I pull a monkey wrench from my tool belt and tighten the nut. I flick the water back on and watch for a leak.
Nothing.
After wiping up the puddle beneath her sink, I wash my hands, check the pipe one more time and, satisfied it’s fixed, head back out to see her dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
“You’re all set.”
She sniffles and jerks around to grab something off her side table. “Thank you, Aden.” She pulls a few dollars out of her wallet with knobby fingers.
“No.” I hold up my hand.
“But—”
“I’m just doing my job, Mrs. Jones.”
She blinks in confusion and then focuses back on me. “I have to wonder if today is my birthday.” She laughs softly. “Everyone is being so nice to me.”
“Is it your birthday?”
Her cheeks flush and she shakes her head. “I don’t think so. But the sweet girl from next door helped me with my trash and then you rush over to—”
“What girl?”
Her gaze swings to the window and she dips her chin toward Celia’s place. “Her. I can’t make it to the dumpster as easily as I used to.”
Celia did that? I feel my lips pull into a wide grin and follow her gaze out the window just as a flash of strawberry-blond hair catches my eye. My pulse kicks behind my ribs. “That’s nice . . . listen, I better get going.” I’m already moving to the door. “Enjoy the rest of your night.” I slip out the front door to see Celia walking to the cliff’s edge.
She’s dressed in a pair of jeans that hug every curve of her round ass, giving away everything she was hiding under her skirt yesterday. A black silky top with only strings to hold it up brings attention to her sun-kissed freckled shoulders and light hair.
My muscles tense when she gets to the railing and braces her weight on it as if she’s just run a mile and is trying to catch her breath. I come up behind her but not wanting to scare her I stop a good distance away.
“You okay, freckles?”
She whirls around and it’s then I notice she’s wearing makeup, not a lot but enough to cover the sprinkling of color on her nose and cheeks and accentuate her eyes. She either just got home or is headed out. The thought makes me agitated and curious. I rub the back of my neck as I tilt my head and continue to take her in.
Her eyes widen on me and she puts on a fake smile. “I didn’t know you were here.”
I study her from top to bottom and make sure to take my time so she can feel me doing it. It’s only when she shoves her hands into her pockets self-consciously that I finally ask the question I’m dying to know the answer to. “Where you headed, Celia?” The menace in my voice makes my own skin prickle and the way her breath quakes before her eyes grow wide tells me my question has an effect on her.
“I—I don’t know.”
I run my teeth along my bottom lip and lift my brows at her high-heeled shoes. “All dressed up and you don’t know where you’re going?” Dammit to fuck, it’s a date. She’s going on a motherfucking date.
“No. I mean . . .” She holds back strands of hair the breeze tosses into her face. “Maybe.”
“You going on a date, Cece?”
“Please.” Her face scrunches up. “Don’t call me that.”
I step closer. “Why not? I had my tongue in your mouth just yesterday and now you’re offended by a nickname?” I move even closer until our toes are practically touching. “Who’s taking you out tonight?”
Her eyebrows pinch together. “I’m not going out with anyone, I just don’t know where I’m going.”
“Explain that.”
She rakes the silky strands of her hair off her forehead. “This girl, Zöe, asked me to stop by a bar and I . . .” It’s hard to focus on what she’s saying with her lips covered in a pink gloss that makes them look like the sweetest candy. “It’s a long story.”
I cross my arms at my chest. She doesn’t owe me shit, but I’m a selfish bastard and I want to know why going to a bar is making her so edgy. “I got time.”
“Zöe asked me to meet her at a bar, but I don’t know which bar she’s talking about and I could ask Brice, but I’m afraid he’ll think he can come with me and to be honest with you I’d rather not go with Brice, or I’d rather not go at all, but I told her I would and if I don’t then . . . then . . .”
“Shh . . . You’re gonna hyperventilate.” I’m half teasing, but the way her hands are bunched at her sides makes me think it might not be far from the truth.
She blows out a long breath and shakes out her arms. “I know.”
“Are you always this high strung?”
“Do you always feel it’s important to point out my flaws?”
“Why do you care if I point out your flaws?”
“Why do you care about where I’m going?”
“I think we could go on for hours like this.”
&nb
sp; A tiny smirk hits her lips. “You’re probably right.”
“The bar she’s talking about is probably Lenny’s. She works there.”
“Oh . . .” She chews her bottom lip and a jealous urge to rip that lip from her teeth and pull it between mine tugs at me. “Do you know where it is?”
I do, but if I tell her she’ll go, and looking like that I’d rather she stay home, preferably with me.
“I mean, do you, would you want to, if you’re not busy, can you come with me?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Lenny, the owner, never officially told me I wasn’t welcome in his bar again, but the look he gave me that night I was arrested outside of his place about ten seconds after he fired me made it pretty clear he never wanted to see my face again. Not that I blame him.
“Why isn’t it a good idea?”
I shrug and try to act casual. “When I first moved here Zöe got me a job bouncing there on weekends.”
Her eyes narrow. “You and Zöe, did you guys . . .?”
“No.” Okay, almost once but I was too drunk to make that night fun for either of us. Not that Celia needs to know about that.
“So what happened? Why don’t you work there now?”
“Nothing to tell, just didn’t work out.” Lie, lie, lie.
“Oh, well, I don’t see why you can’t come with me, then.”
“Freckles—”
“Pleeeeaaase. . . .?” She puffs out that fat bottom lip and my blood howls in my veins to drag her back to my boat caveman-style.
I step close to her so that we’re almost touching. “Kiss me and I’ll go.” Yep, I said it, and I meant it. I’d face Lenny and all his bullshit if it means I get at those lips.
Her jaw drops open, and not at all in a bad way. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious.” I run my hands through her hair at her nape and my thumb along her jaw. “Thought about you all day.”
“You did?” she whispers, and her breath ghosts across my lips in a brutal tease.
“Mmm.” I pull her close until she reaches for me by pushing up on her toes. “You come the rest of the way, I’ll go to Lenny’s.” I’m a lying dick, I’d go anyway just for a chance to spend some time with this woman who keeps managing to totally fuck with my head.
She licks her lips and I’m amped with the anticipation of tasting her tongue again. In what feels like slow motion she presses the softest close-mouthed kiss to my lips. I clasp her hip and pull her body flush with mine, her breasts mold to my chest, and being on her toes she stumbles into me, giving me her weight.
Fucking perfect.
My arms hold her tight as I tilt my head and coax open her mouth. She hums low in her throat while letting me in, the sweet flavor of her lips and gentle friction from her gloss have me growling in response. When was the last time I’ve been this turned on by something so benign? Maybe it’s because I’m sober. Booze dulls everything and if this is what hooking up sober feels like, fuck, I’ve been missing out.
She relaxes into my grasp and the simple act makes me feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. Strong. Powerful. As if there’s nothing I can’t conquer, and I haven’t had that since the day I led my battalion on the last mission of our deployment. The one last op before we all got to come home.
But only half of us made it.
A flash of gunfire lights behind my closed lids and I jolt back, breaking our connection.
She’s breathless, her eyes still closed, not affected by my brief freak-out. She slowly blinks up at me. “Do you kiss all women like that?”
My lips twitch. “Only know one way to kiss.” But somehow kissing her feels different. Better in a way I can’t put my finger on.
“So you’ll go with me?”
“Yeah. I’ll even take you to dinner first.”
“A date?” Her smile is so big it stretches across her perfect face.
“A date.”
“I’ll just grab my purse.” She steps back and stumbles over a patch of ice plant.
I put my arm around her waist hoping our kiss is the cause of her lack of balance. “I’ll go with you.” Judging by her blush I think it might be.
I guide her to her place and once inside my stomach hardens. The main living space is littered with boxes and stacks of her things, a reminder that she’ll be moving soon.
“It’s in the bedroom. I’ll be right back.” She’s steadier on her feet as she goes to get her purse. I set down my tool belt and move around the room.
Stacks of books, tons of little junky figurines I’m guessing to be from all reaches of the world, are piled around along with packing paper. It doesn’t seem like she’s been working on any of this for very long, as all the boxes are still empty.
“I’m ready.” She smiles with a fresh coat of lip gloss that I can’t wait to wear all over my neck.
Down, boy! There will be plenty of time for making out later.
“I’m driving.”
As we’re walking to my Blazer I fight the urge to pull her hand into mine, because seriously, what the fuck is that all about? I’m not the hand-holding type, but with Celia I can’t seem to get her close enough when we’re together.
NINE
SAWYER
I was on the verge of an anxiety attack when I’d finished getting ready to go out tonight. I’d flipped that stupid coin like I promised my sister I would, and of course it determined I would go out to the bar tonight. After tossing around all the clothes I brought to San Diego searching for the right thing to wear, I succumbed to picking through Cece’s closet.
Tight jeans, a loose-fitting and still insanely flattering tank, and I left my hair wavy the way Cece wore hers. I felt pretty good when I was swiping on makeup heavier than I usually wear, but it wasn’t until I stepped in front of that mirror that I saw it.
It wasn’t Sawyer staring back at me.
It was my sister.
I was Celia.
The clothes, the hair, all of it was my sister, but that wasn’t what made the image before me so surreal; after all, those things are only skin-deep. It was the glow on my cheeks that even the most expensive makeup couldn’t provide, the spark in my eye that was looking forward to doing something irresponsible. It was my posture, the confident bend in my knee and the strength in my shoulders that spoke of a woman not constantly bogged down by worrying about every single tiny detail of life.
What I saw in the mirror was a girl who, even if for only that brief second, had given in to what could be rather than having her hands wrapped up in manipulating her future into what it needs to be.
And as soon as I recognized it, I chased it away.
Suddenly the room was too small, the clothes were cutting off my circulation, my legs felt numb, and I raced outside for air . . .
Only to run into him.
Aden.
The way he looks at me dulls my pulse to a slow and desperate throb. With him, I’m not Celia or Sawyer, I’m some hybrid that he seems to find interesting enough to be around, to kiss, to date.
When he opens the passenger-side door to his truck he flashes a cocky smile that makes me think he can read my thoughts. That he knows the effect he has on me. And he likes it.
But when I smile back something happens. His grin falls and he’s briefly knocked off his game as wonder dances behind his eyes.
A tense moment builds between us until he clears his throat.
“Buckle up.” He dips his chin and runs a hand over his hair before shutting me in.
I pull my seat belt on and blindly buckle it as I watch him jog around the hood with all the grace and agility of a seasoned athlete.
He climbs inside and the engine roars to life. “You like Italian food?”
“Yeah.”
He cranks the wheel around and takes us toward town. “I know a place. It’s a hole in the wall, but they have the best baked rigatoni I’ve ever had.”
“Sounds good.” I struggle for something to ta
lk about as he turns the dial on his radio to some alternative rock station. There’s no CD player, but only an old tape deck. Although the thing must be vintage, its interior is clean and well taken care of. “This is a great truck.”
“Thanks, it was Cal’s. It’s old but I like that I can pop the hood and fix shit if it breaks. No computers on these old Chevys.”
I don’t know anything about cars so I simply nod and grip my purse in my lap to hide my nervousness.
He makes a sharp right turn and something silver slides from beneath my seat to settle at my shoe. I reach down and scoop up a set of dog tags. They jingle as I pull them closer to inspect the name.
COLT
ADEN, R
A304823
O POS
CHRISTIAN
“Are you still in the Army?”
His eyes dart between the tags in my hand and the road ahead.
“No.” He leans over, pops open the glove box, then swipes the tags and tosses them in.
“Were you in the Middle East for a long time?”
He works his jaw back and forth for a few seconds then nods. “Four deployments, longest was fifteen months.”
“Fifteen months?” That’s insane. “I thought you guys only go for a few months at a time.” Over a year in a war-torn country sounds like hell. “You must’ve had a pretty important job.”
His eyebrows drop low and he hits the brakes so hard that if I weren’t wearing a seat belt I would’ve hit my head on the dashboard. He turns and smiles, but it seems forced. “We’re here.”
I look out the windshield to see a sign that has Rizzario’s Italian Ristorante painted on a red brick building. It’s quaint and has a romantic feel, which sends my stomach tumbling.
He hops out of the truck and circles the hood, but the way he’s carrying his body is different. Stiff shoulders and slower, more controlled movements. He opens my door, avoiding my eyes, but gives me a hand to help me slide as gracefully as possible out of my seat.
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