“Bears,” he said. “There might be bears.”
She snorted, looked him up and down, and turned away. “Something like that.”
Man, how he wanted to pick her up and do wet, happy things to her body.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and watched her walk away. It was almost worth having her leave to be able to study that ass move like that. He wondered if she had a tattoo. Bet she did under there somewhere. Somewhere good.
Readjusting his jeans, he headed back to his cabin where he found Huntley sitting on the steps with his chin propped in his hands.
“Need your help,” Huntley said.
Miles went past him into the cabin and kicked off his shoes. “It’s too early. Come back after noon. I’m going back to bed.”
“You need to talk to my parents.”
“Close the door. I’m taking off my pants.” Miles sat on the bed and shoved his jeans down to his ankles. The bed was still unmade from the night before, but it was soft and cool and didn’t demand any unusual flexibility on his part. He slid under the covers and let out a deep sigh.
“Please, Miles. They’ll listen to you.”
He closed his eyes. “No. Your job. Past time. Good-bye.”
“What’s the matter with you? Not like you were out drinking last night.” Huntley hesitated. “Right?”
“Jealous?”
“All you have to say to them is that you’ve changed your mind about Fawn. You realize she loves me. That she’s brilliant and hard-working and wonderful and everything.”
Miles pulled a pillow over his head. It was only Wednesday, and early morning at that. That left at least twelve hours today, and all of Thursday and Friday. “What time is the wedding on Saturday? Morning or night?”
“Morning,” Huntley said.
“Thank God.” He might even make it home in time for the game. And all of Sunday would be his, quiet at home in blissful solitude.
Miles thought of Lucy and sighed into the down pillow. What would she think of his apartment in the city? Would she call it a dump in the ghetto like Felicia had?
He was sick of defending himself and the choices he had made. Lucy wouldn’t ever see his apartment because Lucy wanted a husband. Whatever fun they might have over the next few days, it wouldn’t follow them into their real lives. They’d spend the afternoon together, then he’d try to extend it through dinner and many hours past that—but next week? Her spreadsheet didn’t have room for him next week.
How ironic. He’d like to pursue his attraction to her, hers to him, see where it led—but she’d fight him at every step of the way because she was the one who wanted a commitment.
“Women are irrational creatures,” Miles said, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“Fawn’s got a point, though,” Huntley said. “I’ve been paranoid about any public displays of affection because I don’t want to push my parents over the edge.”
Flinging the pillow aside, Miles looked at him. “There’s a lot of wiggle room between treating her like a leper and going down on her while they watch. Maybe hold her hand. I know that’s a big step for you, but I think your parents can handle it.” He pulled the covers up to his chin. “She deserves at least that much.”
“You’re right, you’re right.” Huntley sat on the bed, crushing Miles’s toes. “Think how much more effective it would be if you warmed them up a little bit beforehand.”
“You want effective? Man up.” Miles pulled his feet out from under Huntley’s bony ass and kicked him off the bed. “You’re too old for this. Handle it yourself.”
“Some best man you are.”
“We’ve established that.”
Huntley ran his hand through his pale hair and walked to the door. “I know you’re right. I just wanted a little backup.”
“This is your backup.”
“Just one little conversation—”
“The only conversation I’ll be having is right here with Mr. Pillow.”
Huntley snorted and slammed the door on his way out.
Miles rolled over to dream about an irrational, round-bottomed redhead.
* * *
He was at her door at two fifty-nine, smiling at the blue sky with a bounce in his step. He’d put on new hiking boots, a fresh sweatshirt, and shaved a second time—he wasn’t James Bond or anything, but at least he smelled okay.
She came out before he knocked, her cheeks flushed, and didn’t hold his gaze for more than a split second. But he saw the spark there and smiled again.
“How’s the face?” he asked.
She glanced up at him, a smile twitching in the corner of her mouth. “Fine.”
“I agree.”
“Miles—”
“Sorry. I’ll tone it down. I thought we could stop by the lodge for water and trail mix. I brought my pack.”
“Is that really necessary? My plan is to be back by five-thirty.”
“What’s at five-thirty?”
“It’s only three. Do you think we’ll be gone that long?”
“Easy. I was just curious.” If she had a firm date with Alex, she’d say so, wouldn’t she? “You want to be back at five-thirty, we’ll be back by then. I’m very punctual.” He held out his wristwatch. “See? Got here right at three. Reliable guy, Miles Girard.”
She snorted and walked ahead. “I suppose it would be a good idea to have some water.”
“And an energy bar or something. Bears like me have to eat frequently. Storing fat for the winter.” He patted his stomach, watching her carefully to see if she look disgusted, but she was fighting down another smile.
The sun slipped through in a white diagonal stripe through the trees, illuminating a vast spiderweb that stretched between the redwoods across their path. Lucy paused, glanced back at him to see if he noticed it, and they both set to discover the orb weaver at its center. When they found her, a surprisingly small creature for such an enormous web, they silently admired her and her miraculous accomplishment for a long moment. However hopeless the gesture, they both ducked below the web to continue walking down the path.
With a deep, contented sigh, he followed her the rest of the way to the lodge, reflecting that Huntley had picked a nice spot to get hitched. Miles had backpacked through the north coast before, but he had to admit it was nice to enjoy the beauties of nature after sleeping in a heated cabin with all the perks of a luxury hotel.
He watched Lucy’s bouncy step, the way her bottom swayed, the hint of skin at the nape of her neck under the copper-bright hair.
She was one perk he hadn’t anticipated. They had rare chemistry—mutual, sudden, instinctive attraction—and they were in an oasis away from their normal lives where they could actually enjoy it.
It would be stupid to waste it.
He jogged ahead of her to open the door to the lodge, holding her gaze with his as she came up the steps, sliding his hand down her back to usher her inside. Pretty sure he saw her shiver, he grinned.
But as soon as he stepped inside after her, he felt a sixth sense prickling the back of his neck. Smile falling, he looked over to the right.
A woman stood with her back to him. Tall and fashionable, she had honey-blond hair, tight jeans, and a lean figure that would be the envy of a woman half her age. She was only—Miles clenched his jaw, remembering—in her mid-forties now.
Of course she still looked good. Heather had always looked good. That’s why his father had married her.
Then he saw him.
Alan Girard, looking shockingly older than the last time they’d seen each other. His hair was white, not a hint of dark brown remaining. The pale skin of his scalp was visible through the fine strands. Miles had always thought of him as a giant, bigger than he would ever be, but today, with fresh eyes, he saw the slight sag to his father’s shoulders, a thinness in his cheeks, the whiff of weakness. He’d been a middle-aged man when Miles was born. No longer.
Miles had to wait until his breathing steadied and he was in comple
te control of himself before acknowledging him. The last time they’d seen each other, neither had spoken—in rare accord that his half-brother Chas’s wedding was no place to end a cold war and start an open one.
But Huntley wasn’t family, years had gone by, and all bets were off.
Miles shoved his hands in his pockets and gave him a cool stare. He hoped the emotion flooding his body wasn’t obvious. “Father,” he said carefully.
Neither took a step toward the other.
His father stared, frozen in place, unblinking.
Just as he looked as if he might say something, Heather swung around and flung up her hands. “Miles!” she cried. “We hoped to see you here!” She walked over.
Warily, Miles watched Heather approach, distastefully aware of how she checked him out. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him. The one that got away? Her lucky escape?
Jailbait no more?
“Heather,” he said roughly. His face felt hot. Childish shame washed over him.
At least his father wasn’t going to pretend this was some lighthearted reunion. He stayed on the other side of the room and stared into a coffee cup.
Heather’s pale blue eyes flicked over to Lucy. “Who’s this?”
Without thinking, Miles put a protective arm around Lucy. “We’re late for our hike. See you later.”
But Lucy held firm and stuck out her hand. “Lucy Hathcoat. Maid of honor.”
“Heather Girard.” She gave Lucy a slow once-over, her gaze lingering on her heavy black boots. She turned her attention slowly back to Miles, making a show of tilting her head back as though the journey from Lucy’s face to his had taken her a while. “Old friends, you two?”
“Very. Have to go.” He squeezed Lucy’s shoulder.
This time, she got the hint.
“Sorry, Miles knows I’m pressed for time. The bride needs me in a few hours but I’m dying to see the ocean while the sun’s out.”
“The beach is close by?” Heather turned back to his father, still standing there like a secret service agent, cold and important and silent.
“Close enough,” Alan said.
They stood awkwardly for another moment.
“We’ll see you around.” Miles took Lucy’s hand in his and pulled her back outside. When the sun hit him in the face, he realized he’d fled without buying anything at the store. “I forgot to get water and snacks.”
Lucy didn’t pull her hand free. “We’ll be fine.”
He forced a deep breath and turned his attention to the soft, warm palm pressed against his.
“Yeah,” he said.
Chapter 13
HE DIDN’T SAY MUCH. LUCY didn’t mind. The afternoon was bright and clear, and feeling the sun on her face for the first time in three days made her realize how much she’d missed it. Everything seemed lighter, warmer, easier.
For her, anyway. Miles was obviously shaken by his family reunion back at the lodge. She pulled a field guide to birds out of her pack pocket and flipped through aimlessly, not really caring about the difference between Great or Snowy egrets but not wanting to force unwanted small talk.
The physical resemblance between Miles and his father had been striking. Both were linebacker-sized men with gray eyes and broad faces, each visibly tense and unhappy to see the other.
“Sorry I didn’t introduce you,” Miles said suddenly. They were walking along a narrow path next to the creek, sheltered from the wind by the hills to the northwest. Soon they’d be passing out into the open, grassy wetlands that led to the coast. “He and I aren’t very close.”
“I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“No details. Just that you had some falling out years ago.”
“Alex tell you that?”
“He might have mentioned it. And Fawn, too.” She picked up a long stick and snapped off the thin side branches one by one. “We love to sit around gossiping about you, of course. Exchange notes. Secret pictures.”
He snorted, but some of the gloom faded from his eyes. “I’d like to see your secret pictures.”
“It’s amazing how small they can make cameras these days. I’ve got a great one of you doing Downward Facing Caterpillar.”
“Now I’m really interested. Was this a hidden camera? Any self-portraits?”
“Afraid not. All of you.”
He grinned. “None of Alex?”
She’d walked right into that one. Throwing the stick into the bushes, she smiled brightly at him. “Loads. I don’t have to hide, so I just click away.”
“Hmph. I bet he’d love to pose.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and strode over a jagged crack in the path. “A born poser, Alex.”
“That your snobby upbringing shining through, Miles?”
“Me?” Miles turned to her. “You have been listening to Alex.”
“You call him a poser because he’s ambitious. Determined to make something of himself.”
“I call him a poser because he’s a poser.”
“Snob.”
“That too.”
“I mean you.”
“I’m not a snob, but you’d know that if you were processing your analysis with a little more objectivity.”
She laughed. “I’m processing just fine.”
“No, you’re indulging in heavy bias. You want to like him, ergo, you’ll ignore the evidence before your eyes. You don’t want to like me, ergo”—he raised his eyebrow and held out his arms—“you ignore the evidence before your eyes.”
She brushed past him. He thought he was so damn cute. “‘Poser’ implies somebody pretending to be something he’s not, as though he’s not entitled to be educated and respected—”
“He’s a phony, Lucy, always has been. He cares more about how he looks than who he is. He’s been putting on the show so long I bet he’s even fooled himself.”
“What about him is a lie? You met him at Stanford yourself. He must have gone to law school—or do you think he made that up?”
“Forget it. The more I say about him, the more you’ll convince yourself he’s Mr. Right.”
“I’m not like that.”
He looked at her. “Maybe not. Never mind. I shouldn’t say any more. He’s the last person I want to be thinking about. Well, maybe not the last. Second to last.” He kicked a rock. “Third to last.”
She studied the tension in his broad shoulders as he walked ahead of her, debating how much she could pry. The sun was still high but tilting west, shining in their eyes—at least until the blanket of fog crept back in.
“Is your father in first place?” She remembered the scary blond woman with the mean eyes. “Or would that be your stepmother?”
He swung his head around to look at her. “How do you figure that?”
She stared back, lifted an eyebrow. “Just processing the analysis.”
“Hmmph.” He gestured for her to walk ahead of him. A fork in the path was marked with a tidy wooden sign; a couple of miles ahead was the ocean, to the left a single loop trail through the wetlands and back to the lodge. He looked at his watch then up at the sky. “Fog’s coming in again. If you want to get back by five-thirty, maybe we should just head back now.”
“Nice try. Ask one little question, and you’re already trying to get rid of me.” She began striding down the path to the ocean. “It’s an easy trail. Two miles won’t take very long.”
“It’s a lot colder than I expected.”
“Look, it’s all right if you want to take a rain check, but I’m going to keep going. I can handle a little walk by myself. I’m a big girl.” Looking back, she saw the look on his face and stuck out her tongue. “In all the important ways.” That made his look get even more suggestive so she went back to him and poked him in the chest.
Capturing her wrist, he held her hand against his heart and looked down at her, a small smile on his lips. “Wherever you go, I go, big girl.”
She froze. He felt warm and vital under her palm, a livi
ng mountain of a man. Something old inside her soul rose up in recognition. I know this one.
His grip softened. His thumb stroked the back of her hand, sending tendrils of sensation up her arms, to the back of her neck, down her spine.
Then he released her hand and lightly touched her shoulder. “Let’s go see this ocean. Find out what all the fuss is about.”
She let her breath out slowly and swallowed. He waited for her to resume walking, and in a moment they were on their way single file down the path, through the golden, matted grasses. The creek met up with a widening river, and Highway 1 came into sight on an elevated bridge. They walked under the road, into the wall of wind.
Lucy used the time to reboot her brain. Reattach the cranium to her nerve endings, apply overrides to the hormonal malfunctions going rampant in her body.
Yes, he was adorable. He was big and sweet and charming, had dimples she wanted to touch, a trustworthy demeanor, sensuous hands, gentle eyes.
All wonderful qualities, qualities that would be great in a pal or a boyfriend, but she was looking for a different kind of man. She’d wasted eight years waiting for Dan to be “ready” for marriage. There wasn’t time to waste eight more. Men had it easy; they could dawdle. Women might have more years at the end of their lives, but her ovaries didn’t know that. They hadn’t even realized the Ice Age was over. They wanted her to have babies before her stone tool wound got infected or she got eaten by a giant prehistoric bird with obsidian-sharp claws.
Lucy glanced back at Miles, reflecting that he would be a good candidate for continuing the species. She could easily imagine him whacking a flying predator with a club, a heavy fur pelt on his broad, powerful shoulders—
He grinned at her, his dimple flashing. “What?”
This was why she had to use her brain, not biochemistry, for decision-making. Flying predators were not on any of her lists.
She swung her head around and focused on the path ahead. “Nothing.”
He tromped up next to her. “What?”
“You and your dad look alike,” she said, if just to make that dimple go away and stop tempting her.
Sure enough, his smile fell. “There’s an evolutionary advantage to looking like your father. Helps pressure the man to stick around. Not that it always works.”
The Supermodel's Best Friend (A Romantic Comedy) Page 14
