“He was a big tipper,” Matt said.
Tess looked fondly at her husband. “We were married two weeks later.”
“Wow.” Allison blinked. “That must have been an adjustment.”
“Sure was. I thought I’d be a bachelor all my life,” Tom said.
Tess rolled her eyes. “She means for me.”
“And for your family,” Allison said. “How did your parents react to you relocating to North Carolina?”
“We didn’t right away,” Tess said. “Tom had fifteen more years in the Corps, so we moved around a lot. We even stayed with my folks awhile when he was in Lebanon. I think they were grateful when we finally settled in one place.”
“It seems like a wonderful place to raise a family,” Allison said.
Matt reached for his wineglass. Kimberly sure hadn’t thought so.
“That’s why I brought Josh back. Eat your salad,” he said to Taylor.
“I don’t like this lettuce.”
“Then eat the carrots.”
“So, what brings you to the island, Allison?” Tess asked. “You must have had opportunities to teach elsewhere.”
“This isn’t my first teaching job. I interned one summer at the childhood development center of the Yankton Sioux in South Dakota. And I spent two years in rural Mississippi with Teach for America. What I discovered is that I love to teach, I enjoy natural surroundings, and I want to be part of a tight-knit community. Basically, I came here hoping to find all of that in a school system with more resources and slightly less isolation.”
“Then you haven’t been here after a hurricane,” Tom said. “We’re not just isolated then. We’re completely cut off.”
Tess shot him a look across the table. “Don’t you listen to him. We didn’t get hit nearly as hard last time as the folks on Hatteras.”
“Road washed out,” Tom said. “And the bridge. Couldn’t get any cars or supplies across for two weeks except by ferry.”
Allison nodded. “I read about that. I also read that even before help reached you, the island had already organized rescue and cleanup efforts.”
“That’s what we do,” Tom said. “A man’s got to help his neighbors.”
Allison leaned forward, earnest and animated. “That’s my point exactly. You’re all fiercely independent, but there’s this enormous sense of connection with each other as well as with the environment. That’s really what attracted me, those deep bonds, that sense of belonging.” She smiled at Matt. “You told me once the island was the first place that felt like home to you, that it was in your blood. Well, it’s gotten under my skin.”
For a moment, meeting her eyes, he felt he couldn’t breathe.
That’s it, he thought. That’s it exactly.
“‘It is the Force,’” Josh said in a deep voice. “‘It surrounds us, it penetrates us, it binds the galaxy together.’”
Allison laughed. “Thank you, Obi-Wan. The Force is strong in you.”
The boy grinned.
She fit in, Matt realized, unsure how he felt about that. Pleased? Relieved? Regretful? She got on with his family. She belonged on the island.
But for how long?
By her own admission, she was still testing things out, trying things on.
Most visitors to Dare fell in love with its beauty and its beaches. Seduced by the rhythms of the island, maybe they even flirted with the idea of staying. But by vacation’s end, most of them were ready to scurry back to their real lives on the mainland, to big box stores and reliable cell phone service, to twelve-screen movie plexes and four-star restaurants.
Sure, they might indulge in a summer romance with the idea of island life. But few embraced the hardworking reality, the sweat, salt, and uncertainty, of wresting a living from the sea.
They didn’t stay. The first long, dull winter, the first hurricane, sent them packing.
Across the table, Allison was teasing Josh, talking with his mother.
Odds were she wouldn’t stay, either.
Matt stared down at his plate, which at that moment looked a hell of a sight more appetizing than his future.
Ten
“THANK YOU. I had a good time,” Allison said as Matt walked her away from the inn down the garden path. She carried her wet clothes in a plastic Piggly Wiggly bag over one arm, leftovers in another, the recipe for lasagna al forno tucked into her purse next to her blinking cell phone. A quick glance at the display revealed her mother had called.
No doubt with a full report on Johnny-the-divorced-anesthesiologist. Allison pushed the thought away.
Matt slanted a look at her. “You sound surprised.”
She collected herself to smile at him. “Sunday dinners have never been the highlight of my week,” she said lightly.
“Sundays can be tough,” he said, “without family and friends around.”
She appreciated his attempt at comfort. She didn’t need it, but it was…nice. He was a nice man with a really lovely family. Which made her own rather strained relationship with her parents seem even more pathetic.
“Usually I just grab a sandwich or something. I have papers to grade. Lesson plans to write. Honestly, I prefer it that way.”
“You don’t miss your mother’s cooking?”
Her mother’s staff had Sunday afternoons off. To be with their families, Allison realized now.
“My mother doesn’t cook. Sunday dinners are always at the club,” she said.
A memory slapped her of hard white rolls and smooth white tablecloths, of sitting on her best behavior next to Miles, miserable in the jacket and tie required by the dining room.
She made herself joke. “At least now my parents can’t send me to wait in the car when I screw up.”
Matt took the grocery bags from her and set them on the grass.
She frowned, confused and resisting. “What are you…?”
Putting his arms around her, he pulled her against his chest. His unexpected gentleness made her want to weep.
She closed her eyes instead.
“You were supposed to have dinner with them today,” he said. “They wanted you to drive home for the weekend to meet some guy.”
She nodded against his shirt, surprised all over again by his ability to listen. To remember.
“They want parental bragging rights,” she explained. “They don’t like my job, they’re disappointed in my friends, they think I’ve wasted my opportunities. The least I can do, in their minds, is provide them with a big society wedding and a son-in-law they can talk about to their acquaintances.”
“They want the best for you,” Matt said.
“By their standards, maybe. Ever since I graduated from college, they’ve been trying to fix me up with the kind of man they think I should want.” She raised her head from her chest, shaking herself out of her funk. “As long as he’s a high status white male with an investment portfolio, a penis, and a pulse, he’s good enough for their daughter. Every time I go home, dinner turns into this bizarre ritual, a cross between an arranged marriage and a job interview.”
Matt laughed. “Most parents want to see their children married and settled.”
She smiled, relieved to return to firmer emotional footing. “Yes, but yours are more subtle.”
“I think they’ve just given up.”
Right. Because he didn’t do long-term relationships. The thought was vaguely depressing. She took a step back, finger-combing her hair.
Matt picked up the grocery bags. “Anyway, they approve of you.”
“Mm.” She shot him a sly look. “Your father thinks I’m a good catch.”
A slight flush stained his cheekbones. “You heard that?”
“I’m a teacher. I hear everything.”
Hooked, Tom Fletcher had said. The prospect left her oddly breathless.
Of course, their parents’ generation thought that way.
Allison wasn’t trolling for some trophy husband to stuff and mount over her fireplace.
“My mother always claimed to have selective hearing,” Matt said. “That way she could pretend not to hear Luke and me when we bitched about doing chores.”
“Your mother is a wise woman.”
“She likes you. She doesn’t give her family recipes to just anybody.”
Allison’s heart gave a happy little hop. “Too bad I get my cooking skills from my mother.”
“It’s not that hard.”
She tilted her head. “You cook?”
He smiled his lazy smile. “I learned to, for Josh. I can manage more than peanut butter sandwiches and scrambled eggs, anyway.”
There was no one in Allison’s life to cook for. To care for. But she didn’t have to be defined by her family. Isn’t that what she’d come to Dare Island to prove?
“I guess if I can read, I can follow a recipe. I’m up for trying new things.”
“Good.” He stopped under the blooming crepe myrtle. Took her by the shoulders and drew her in. “Try this.”
He kissed her.
She was prepared for the familiar rush of blood, the blast of heat. But his mouth was warm and soft on hers, testing, tasting, tempting her with little bites. Not a demand this time. A question. Her body loosened, moistened, as his tongue coaxed hers to play. She sucked in her breath and kissed him back, yes, answering with her body and her mouth, yes, promising him everything she had, yes, please, yes. His arms tightened. She felt him, the hard, lovely planes and angles of him hard against her breast, belly, thighs. Matt.
“Matt…” She opened her eyes to a pink haze of crepe myrtle and lust, a sweet, melting ache inside her. “Where are we going with this?”
“I don’t know.” He kissed the corner of her lips. “Does it matter?”
The ache was a hollow, begging to be filled.
“I’m not sure,” she whispered.
“I know where I want it to go. I want to come home with you. I want to touch you, Allison. Make love with you.”
He wanted her.
“I want that, too.” Of course she did. “But your parents…Josh…What will you tell them?”
“I don’t have to tell them anything. We’re not kids, Allison. Let me take you home.”
Her heart thumped. Yes. All right. Why not? She’d had sex with other guys for less reason and certainly with less attraction.
But Matt wasn’t like any other guy. Sex with Matt would mean something. She shivered deep inside.
“Give me half an hour,” she said. “I’m not, um, prepared for company.”
He smiled and stroked her hair from her face, his touch gentle. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”
He thought she was talking about birth control.
Her eyes went a little misty. She’d told Gail she wanted an honest, adult relationship. Not only was Matt adult, not only was he responsible, he was sparing her the embarrassment of plopping a big box of condoms in front of the teenage checker at the Island Market. Who, with Allison’s luck, would almost certainly be a student in one of her classes.
“That would be good. Thanks. But I have a few things to do. To get ready.”
Change her sheets. Light some candles. Clear the tornado debris from her bedroom.
“You look perfect to me,” he said.
Her heart expanded like a balloon in her chest.
“Half an hour,” she said. “You can follow me.”
“And how will you get home?” he asked. “You can’t carry all these leftovers on your bicycle.”
She half turned, gesturing to the silver Mercedes coupe under the trees. “I brought my car.”
Matt’s gaze flickered over her shoulder and back to her face, his expression unreadable. “That’s yours?”
She nodded.
He released her. “Nice.”
She felt an absurd impulse to apologize, to explain. “It was my high school graduation present. From my parents.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I hardly ever drive it. I’m afraid of running out of gas. It’s a diesel. My father thought it would be more economical, but half the time I can’t find a gas station with a diesel pump.”
“Bring her down to the dock. I can fill her up for you. Most boats take diesel.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets. “No problem.”
She felt something slipping away, a mood, a moment, an opportunity. Maybe she shouldn’t worry about the wardrobe bomb blast in her bedroom. Maybe she should drag him home with her and the hell with her cluttered bedroom and dirty sheets. But then he’d be stuck at her place without a car.
“I really appreciate it,” she insisted.
Matt smiled at her. “What are friends for?”
The word trickled through her like melting ice. Friends?
But sure, yeah, friends was okay.
If she were going to make a life here, she needed friends. They could be friends. Adult friends. Friends with benefits. She knew him well enough now to trust that whatever came next—or after—Matt was a man whose friendship was worth having.
She smiled back.
“See you in half an hour,” he said.
MATT PARKED HIS truck in front of the Armstrongs’ empty vacation rental, two doors down from Number 214.
Not that he was sneaking around or anything. No harm in being discreet.
Allison’s cottage loomed in the dusk. Yellow light spilled from her windows, threw barred shadows from her porch. His heart beat like a schoolboy’s.
In the shadows beneath her deck, the silver Mercedes gleamed like a shark.
It was a good thing they’d had a chance to cool off, he thought. To slow down.
Allison was a smart, beautiful woman. She was also a lot younger than he was. Probably less experienced. He’d had relationships…Well, he’d had encounters that hadn’t lasted as long as the two-and-a-half dates he’d shared with Allison. But from her perspective, things must be moving pretty fast. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.
He wasn’t looking to fall in love, wasn’t interested in marriage.
He would never let himself feel that desperate need, that stunned, bewildered, punch-in-the-gut loss, again.
He’d learned his lesson. Don’t get too close to someone who could leave you. Don’t depend on someone who could let you down. Don’t peg your future, don’t risk your kid, on anybody who wasn’t family. Keep things simple, keep things light.
But Allison deserved to know that as long as their relationship lasted, as long as she stuck around, she would be the only woman he slept with.
He would treat her with all the care and gentleness he was capable of.
And with respect, now and after.
He rang the doorbell.
He should have brought wine, he thought now that it was too late. Or flowers…No, she’d done that. Or candy.
The door opened and there she was, long blond hair, smiling brown eyes, and…Hello, breasts. She’d changed the jeans and T-shirt for a pink dress, elastic on top and loose on the bottom, that molded to her curves and exposed a lot of bare, perfect skin.
Deliberately, he returned his gaze to her face, shoving his empty hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t do something stupid like grab her. “Hey.”
Very smooth.
“Hi.” She stepped back to let him in.
Her house was furnished like every other beach rental, plenty of faded blue cushions and wicker, but somehow she’d turned the standard décor into something uniquely hers. A bright cardigan tossed over a chair, her messenger bag tucked under a desk. A framed museum print, a woman in an old-fashioned dress looking out over the ocean, hung over the sofa. Thick white candles burned on the table. The room even smelled like her, like vanilla and spice. He wanted to sniff her, lick her, all over, the curve of her neck, the swell of her breasts, the inside of her thigh.
Down, boy. He couldn’t jump her the minute he walked through the door.
The display shelves aroun
d the TV were crammed with books, fat, bright paperbacks jammed in with college textbooks, childhood classics mixed with mystery and romance. He wandered closer to look at the titles, hands in his pockets, searching for the thing to say that would make his visit seem less like a booty call.
“Lot of books,” he observed.
“Occupational hazard.” He felt her move up behind him, a whisper of heat along his skin. “I don’t feel at home without my books.”
“You have to travel light in the military. We moved around too much to hold on to things. But we had this one kids’ book—some duck family living in a park—I must have read that story to Meg and Luke about a million times.”
“Make Way for Ducklings by Robert McCloskey.”
“That was it.”
He’d bought a copy for Josh’s first birthday, trying to give his son…What? A sense of continuity, a feeling of home.
“But that’s so perfect.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder, a little taken aback by her delighted tone.
She smiled at him warmly. “It’s about a pair of mallards who decide to raise their family on an island. No wonder you liked it.”
“I guess. Yeah.” He’d sure as shit never thought of it that way. He moved his shoulders, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. He hadn’t come over tonight to talk about children’s books.
“Do you like poetry?” she asked.
He looked down into her cleavage. Up into her eyes. Respect, he reminded himself. He could manage a few minutes of conversation before falling on her like a dog on a bone. “I haven’t read much.”
“Edna St. Vincent Millay?”
Never heard of her. “No.”
She smiled. “Would you like to?”
Was she kidding?
“Now?”
“I think now is an excellent time.” Standing back from him, she grasped the hem of her pretty pink dress and pulled it over her head. And there she was.
Naked.
His heart stopped. Sweet Jesus, she was beautiful.
And naked. Hard to miss that. Her nipples peaked, pink against the creamy white of her breasts.
And blond, honest-to-goodness natural blond between her long, smooth, honey-colored thighs.
Her naked thighs.
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