Anything But Love

by Abigail Strom

  Even though she had little idea what they were talking about, she found herself caught up in the enthusiasm. Before the ride was over, she agreed to a young girl’s suggestion to tie back her hair with a St. George ribbon.

  “Very nice,” Ben said as they got off the bus and went toward the line of people snaking out from the stadium ticket booth.

  “I couldn’t say no. That little girl was so adorable.”

  “You’re pretty adorable, too.”

  She was taken off guard, but Ben reached the ticket booth just then, so she didn’t have to answer.

  He thought she was adorable?

  She was surprised at how good it felt to hear that. But was her pleasure because of the compliment, or the person who’d given it to her?

  No. For once in her life, she wasn’t going to second-guess herself. She was going to follow Ben’s example and enjoy this beautiful day in the company of thousands of people doing the same thing.

  Once they got inside, they found that the stadium was crowded. Tall bleachers enclosed the playing field and every seat seemed to be full. There were hundreds more people standing between the seats or milling around behind them, in the fairgrounds surrounding the stadium.

  She and Ben wandered for a little while, hearing the cheers first of the St. George fans and then the Somerset fans without being able to see the match.

  “I guess we won’t find a seat,” Jessica said after a few minutes. “Maybe we should just—”

  “We’ll find a seat,” Ben said confidently, grabbing her hand. “I just spotted a friend.”

  He led her through the crowd to a section of the stands that had been roped off.

  “Juliette!” he called out, grinning at the woman they’d met on the bus. She was manning a table with a dozen pitchers of some fruity-looking beverage.

  “Well, hello there!” she said, pouring some of the drink into two plastic cups and handing them across the table. “If it isn’t the young married couple that isn’t really a married couple. You know there’s a section on the far side that’s just for tourists?”

  “Oh,” Jessica said quickly, feeling like an interloper. “I’m sorry, we—”

  “Luckily for you, you won’t have to sit with them. Come on back here with me.” She came out from behind the table, calling out, “Take over for me a minute, Fred.”

  Clutching her plastic cup and hoping she didn’t spill whatever it was, she followed Juliette into a dark space under a section of bleachers until they came out into a bright patch right on the edge of the action. A handful of Bermudians—in St. George garb, she was happy to see—were sitting on lawn chairs.

  “These are friends of mine,” Juliette said to them. “The girl’s got her head on right, but this boy has sadly been led astray. They’re from America and need some kind soul to explain the game to them.”

  They called out their thanks as Juliette hurried away, and an elderly man and a woman who turned out to be his daughter pulled their chairs close and started giving a play-by-play of the action on the field.

  Jessica took a cautious sip of her mysterious drink and tasted fruit juices and alcohol.

  “It’s a rum swizzle,” Ben said, leaning close to be heard over a sudden roar of approval for something or other.

  “A rum swizzle? But it’s not even noon yet. Isn’t it a little early for alcohol?”

  “Think of it as fruit juice with a kick,” Ben said, taking a healthy swallow of his. “And considering we’re going to be watching cricket for the next several hours, I’d give some serious consideration to getting sozzled. It might make the game—sorry, match—seem more comprehensible.”

  “Fair point,” Jessica said, taking another and bigger sip of her own drink.

  Having one rum swizzle was one thing. But when Juliette came over with a pitcher and refilled her cup, she hesitated.

  She’d only just recovered from last night’s hangover with the help of water and Advil. She still hadn’t entirely recovered from the embarrassment of her behavior. Alcohol was going to play no part in the rest of her vacation—or at least, no more than a glass of wine with dinner.

  Ben saw her frowning down at her newly filled cup and grinned. He leaned close again, close enough that she caught a whiff of soap and sun-warmed skin.

  “Afraid you’ll try to kiss me again if you have another?”

  A rush of heat went through her—equal parts embarrassment and something else she didn’t want to identify.

  “Of course not,” she said with dignity, taking a sip to prove her point.

  As the hours passed and the game—match—wore on, she found herself leaping to her feet with the other St. George fans when one of their batsmen hit one to the boundary or one of their fielders made a spectacular defensive play.

  “In your face,” she said to Ben with a grin as their score mounted in the fifth inning. “You know, it’s not too late for you to switch allegiances. We’re not too proud to take you in.”

  “Yes, we are!” one of their new friends called out.

  “No, we’re not,” another one contradicted—a young woman who’d shown a lot of interest in Ben once she learned that he wasn’t “with” Jessica.

  He shook his head sadly. “I’m no fair-weather fan. Once for Somerset, always for Somerset.”

  At some point—Jessica had lost count of how many rum swizzles she’d had and was a little hazy as to details—Ben grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet.

  “Come on,” he said, leading her back through the throng and toward a tent in the fields beyond the green.

  “What’s in here?”

  “Apparently gambling is illegal in Bermuda except for one two-day period.”

  “The Cup Match?”

  “The Cup Match.”

  “But I don’t gamble,” she objected as she and Ben ducked under the shade of the tent and into happy chaos—dozens of tables scattered around with crowds of shouting, laughing people clustered around each.

  “Neither do I—and neither does Bermuda, except for today. I was told we have to give it a try.”

  They worked their way close to the action at one of the tables, but though Jessica tried to make sense of the grids marked on the tables and the passing of money back and forth, she had absolutely no idea what was going on.

  “It’s called crown-and-anchor,” Ben said in her ear, and she shivered. She hadn’t realized he was so close.

  “I don’t know what people are betting on.”

  “Me neither, to be honest. But we should definitely have a flutter.” He opened his wallet and pulled out a five-dollar bill, placing it on one of the squares on the table. Some mysterious things happened and then there was another five on top of their first one.

  “You won!” she cried out, delighted, and Ben grinned down at her.

  “We won,” he corrected her. “Should we keep going?”

  “Yes!”

  They won again, and then again. She still had no idea what was going on, but she was almost certain she’d never had so much fun in her life.

  Even when they lost it all on the next throw, she still thought so.

  “It’s a good thing they only do this once a year,” she said as she and Ben wandered out to the fairgrounds. “Come to think of it, that’s not a bad system. I mean, it’s hard to become an addict or ruin your life if you can only gamble once a year.”

  “I’m glad to know I haven’t led you down a path of irresistible temptation,” Ben said, squeezing her hand.

  She hadn’t actually realized he was holding her hand until that moment.

  She was surprised at how right it felt—so right she hadn’t even questioned it.

  Of course, she was also well past tipsy and on her way to truly inebriated . . . for the third time in three days.

  As the afternoon wore on, Jessica focused half her attention on the match and the other half on a burning question.

  Would the world come to an end if she kissed Ben again?

  Mor
e importantly, would he reject her if she did? Or would he . . .

  She closed her eyes as her imagination took over.

  “You’re not falling asleep on me, I hope,” he said in her ear.

  God, she loved it when he leaned close and whispered like that. His breath against her skin made her shiver, and the warmth of his nearness made her feel safe and excited at the same time.

  A little while later, as they were wending their way through the crowd toward the exit—they’d decided to leave before the day’s match was over to avoid a crush of people all leaving at once—she heard herself ask, “What would you do if I kissed you again?”

  Of course it couldn’t be her who’d asked that question. That wouldn’t be like her at all, and—

  Ben had stopped walking, and she stopped too.

  “Oh my God. I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

  Ben put his arm around her shoulders as they started walking again, toward the bus stop on the side of the road.

  “You did,” he said. “But we can pretend you didn’t, if that’s what you want.”

  “I—” She stopped and started again. “I—”

  They reached the bus stop and sat down in the shade of the shelter. It was plastered over with flyers and St. George signs, and it smelled the way you’d expect a bus stop to smell, and it occurred to Jessica that she couldn’t have chosen a less likely location for a seduction . . . if that’s what she was doing.

  But that was the thing. She didn’t know what she was doing.

  “If I didn’t want to forget I said it, what would you say?” she asked.

  As the words came out of her mouth, it occurred to her that a more cowardly pass had never been made . . . if she was making a pass.

  Was she making a pass?

  Oh God, she was making a pass. Ineptly, but still. A pass was being made. By her.

  “Hedging your bets, huh?” Ben asked.

  A foot of space separated them on the concrete bench.

  She felt her color rising. “I’m not very good at this,” she said after a moment.

  He held up a hand. “Hey, I wasn’t criticizing your moves. Men struggle with this from the age of fourteen, and frankly, we should all be grateful for the women brave enough to wade out into the fray. I was just teasing you because it’s fun to tease you . . . and because I’ve had such a great time with you today.”

  “You have?”

  “Of course I have. Wasn’t it obvious?”

  Nothing was obvious to her. Her understanding of human signals—at least when it came to man-woman signals—had gotten screwed up somewhere along the line.

  But that wasn’t going to stop her this time.

  “Ben—”

  He held up a hand again. “I haven’t answered your question yet.”

  “My question?”

  “About what I would say if you asked me to kiss you.”

  “Oh.” She paused. “What would you say?”

  “For starters, I would say that I’ve been fighting the urge to kiss you all day.”

  Warmth spread through her. “You have?”

  “How can you be surprised? You’re one of the sexiest women I’ve ever known.”

  “You think I’m sexy?”

  “Hell yes, I think you’re sexy.”

  She looked down at herself. “But I’m a mess. This shirt is three sizes too big, and I’ve spilled food and rum swizzle all over it, and I smell like cheap sunscreen and—”

  “Jessica.”

  She blinked up at him. “Yes?”

  Ben’s eyes were surprisingly serious.

  “Please don’t ever doubt how sexy you are. I’ve been imagining what it would be like to slide my hands under that T-shirt all day. I’ve been remembering last night, too, and feeling like the world’s biggest idiot for turning you down.” He took a breath. “And I’m going to have to do it again, because this time, I’m drunk. But, Jessica, if you ever want to ask me that question when we’re both sober . . . the answer will be hell yes.”

  She frowned down at her shoes. It was the nicest rejection she’d ever heard, but it was still a rejection.

  “But what if it’s hard?” She swallowed. “I mean . . . what if I can’t ask you unless I’ve been drinking?”

  He cocked his head to the side and studied her for a moment. “Why would it be hard?”

  The alcohol in her system was loosening her tongue, lifting her inhibitions. She realized that she was actually close to telling him what made it so hard.

  That realization, more than anything else, was enough to sober her up a little.

  She didn’t say anything. She looked at Ben, and he looked at her. And then, thank God, their bus came rumbling down the road.

  The moment was past—again. Was every day in Bermuda going to come with these temptations? The temptation to set aside chivalry and whatever the hell else was stopping him from acting on his instincts?

  He had the bathroom first when they got back to their cottage. They were eating at the hotel’s informal restaurant tonight, so after he showered and shaved he put on a pair of khakis and a polo shirt.

  When Jessica came out of the bathroom, he had to catch his breath. She looked fresh and sweet and lovely. She was wearing a light blue dress, very simple, and she’d tied a navy blue scarf around her throat.

  After a moment he realized the significance of her choice.

  “You’re wearing St. George colors,” he said with a sudden grin.

  “They’re playing again tomorrow,” she reminded him.

  “I know.”

  A few minutes later, strolling up the flagstone path to the main building, Ben tried to identify the feeling that kept creeping into his consciousness as he walked beside Jessica.

  And then, with an uncomfortable shock, he realized what it was.

  It was the first-date feeling.

  Which, of course, made no sense on any level.

  This wasn’t a date, for one thing. And even if it were, it wouldn’t be their first.

  But neither of those very obvious truths made the feeling go away. That subtle desire to protect, to impress, to brush up against her at every opportunity.

  Not to mention the slow burn of desire running through his veins.

  A few hours had gone by since they’d had their last rum swizzle. If they avoided alcohol during dinner, would that satisfy his criteria for sobriety?

  He let Jessica precede him into the lobby and shook his head. A sober Jessica, he felt sure, would retreat to the safe and predictable. Fooling around with him was a temptation that came over her while she was under the influence. In her right mind, she’d always think better of any random desires she experienced when she was drinking.

  But there was nothing stopping him from eying her curves as she walked in front of him, or admiring the subtle sway of her hips.

  The first-date feeling carried over into dinner. Everything felt different, and not just because they both drank iced tea instead of wine or cocktails. He was aware of the candlelight that illuminated their table and the way it flattered Jessica’s creamy skin. She wore her hair down, the soft blonde waves moving like water over her bare shoulders. When she bent her head toward her plate, a strand would fall forward, and every time she tucked it behind her ear he wished he could do that for her.

  They talked about cricket and rum and gambling, and the music and dancing they’d seen when they went to the food tents for lunch.

  It wasn’t just a first date. It was one of the best first dates he’d ever had.

  No, he reminded himself. Not a first date. Dinner with an old friend who was going through a rough time.

  They’d finished their entrees. Jessica was sitting with her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, gazing out the window. It was a clear night, and the crescent moon, a little bigger this evening than last, hung in the sky above the ocean.

  He remembered the way she’d looked earlier that day, sitting at the bus stop. She’d been relaxed and
happy until the moment she’d (sort of) propositioned him. But then her expression had changed, almost as though she was haunted by something.

  What if I can’t ask you unless I’ve been drinking? What if it’s hard?

  Why would it be hard to ask for what she wanted when she was sober? To kiss him when she was sober?

  Maybe it wasn’t only about Jessica’s fear of acting on her impulses. Maybe there was something else going on, something beneath the surface. Something that didn’t have anything to do with him at all.

  Something that was none of his business.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The next day, he got to see Jessica swim with dolphins.

  He’d had a restless night. Jessica’s delicate scent had floated toward him from her side of the bed, and it was hard to lie beside her without pulling her into his arms. His body craved hers, and he was starting to think sleeping on the floor might—ironically—be a more comfortable option.

  Eventually he’d fallen asleep. When he woke, Jessica was already up and dressed.

  He sat up in bed and dragged a hand through his hair. “Morning.”

  “Good morning.” She came over and sat on the edge of the bed. “You know,” she began—and then she stopped.

  “Yeah?” he asked after a moment, wondering what had happened to the rest of the sentence.

  “Well. You know this is my day with dolphins?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well,” she said again. “Tom was interested in seeing the program, so when I reserved my spot, I asked if he could watch part of it. They said he could observe the last half hour. I thought . . . if you’re interested . . .”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Her face lit up. “Really? You won’t think it’s silly?”

  “Even if I did, I wouldn’t say so after dragging you to an eight-hour cricket match. But as a matter of fact, I don’t think it’s silly. I’d love to go.”

  “Well, then. That’s great.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a few printed sheets. “Here’s your information, where to go and what to do and all that.” She paused. “So I guess I’ll see you there.”