It took several minutes for them to collectively catch their breath. Then Callie whispered, “I love you.”
“Who you talking to?” Rand asked.
“Both of you,” she answered.
“I love you, too,” Rand whispered.
“And who are you talking to?” Clint asked.
“Both of you,” Rand replied, with a sheepish grin.
“I suppose it’s my turn,” Clint said, “and since I don’t normally do this on a first date, this must be love.”
They all laughed, joked about their ridiculous positions and passed around a few lingering caresses as they worked on untangling their bodies.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink,” Rand said as he moved from the bed to the bathroom.
“Ditto,” Clint said as he shoved his legs into his trousers. “We’ve a fully stocked bar and kitchen.”
“I’m for food. How about I make some omelets?” Callie said.
“A woman after my own heart,” Rand murmured as he came back from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his torso.
“I hope I already have it.”
He bent and kissed her neck as he cupped her breast. “You do. You definitely do. I love you Callie, have from that first day.”
Clint came alongside and nuzzled the other side of her neck. “You’ve had my heart from the first day, too—from the moment I laid eyes on you.”
“Wasn’t I topless at the time?”
“I didn’t say where I was looking.”
He turned her so he could kiss her, “Callie,” he breathed, “you are one amazing woman. Look at us,” he motioned to the three of them, standing in various stages of undress in their bedroom. How many women would put up with this? A man bringing his best friend home and sharing her, in their bedroom?”
“Only every woman who has the chance—and the stamina.”
“I want you two to have a ceremony. Even though it won’t be legal, I want to watch you both say vows and pledge yourselves to each other,” Clint said.
“I want that, too,” Rand said as he cupped her ass. “I want to marry you Callie, and hear you say you’re going to love, honor and obey until death do us part.”
“And I want you to think about having a baby,” Clint said. Then added, “Our baby.”
He looked over at Rand who nodded his agreement. “We won’t care whose it is, we’ll both love it and provide for it. Callie, I hope that’s what you want, too.”
“I want . . . a nice long honeymoon, with lots and lots of sex.”
“We’ll take care of it,” both men said simultaneously. Then they vigorously shook hands, sealing their bargain to love, honor, and cherish this woman who was their wife.
Chapter Fifteen
Garrett managed to toss his laptop to a safe place on the floor before he groaned from exhaustion. His back hurt, his neck was stiff and his right hand was in a perpetual working-the-mouse grip. He flipped over and plowed his head into one of the pillows on his king-sized bed. He was tired, for the moment sated sexually, and both happy and sad. It had been a perfect ending as far as he was concerned, there couldn’t have been one better; but he was sad that the story had ended, the characters on their happily-ever-after lives while he was left alone in this big ol’ bed. Humping the mattress. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t as sated as he thought. That last scene, so vividly told, was still conjuring images in his mind. But really, he was beat. If he had any chance of zeroing in on the woman who was writing this stupendous fiction, he knew he had to get some rest. His body, his mind, and his penis needed some R & R. He glanced over at the alarm clock on the nightstand. 3 A.M.
Most nights he’d be checking the foreign markets after having slept four or five hours. But today, whatever was going on in Australia, Greece, or China, was the last thing on his mind. Was she blonde? Redheaded? Brunette? Was his mystery woman even close to his age or was she a seventy-year-old woman dabbling in a second career. The image of a sweet gray-haired lady, librarian by day, romance writer by night, swept through his mind.
Nah. Her writing was too fresh, too contemporary. Her style was more in line with the new chick-lit generation. Her ideas and her way of writing dialogue spoke of a woman in her twenties or thirties. He didn’t know this, he just felt it. There seemed to be a bond pulling him to her, and at times he could feel it. And without anything to back up his wayward thoughts, he knew she was starved for sex. Or at least she wasn’t getting her jollies off the way she wanted to.
This woman was earthly, sensual, free-spirited . . . and not afraid of anything that could go on between a man and a woman. In his mind he saw her as having dark hair, a cute spiky hairdo, legs encased in boots that went over the knee and smooth, long thighs, with eyes so green and clear they took your breath away. Damn he was hard again just trying to conjure her up. He groaned, rolled out of bed, and went in search of some Ambien. He had to get some sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
Laurel was having one of those days, the melancholy ones that brought her low and reminded her of all the things she didn’t have anymore, instead of all the things she did have.
Facing the mirror, she was distressed that her hair wouldn’t behave, and that her skin was lined where her pillow had creased it. To top it all off, she felt bloated—face, arms, legs, you name it—even her eyebrows looked puffy this morning.
And her normal breakfast of hazelnut coffee and a cup of blueberry Chobani, followed by an apple, wasn’t sitting right on her stomach. The Gevalia coffee that she was so enamored of, felt as if was burning a hole in her gut. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn she’d been on a bender last night instead of at home watching a Lifetime movie.
Showering helped the physical ailments but not her mood. Dressing in an uninspired tunic top, and not even bothering to match her shirt to her standby jeans, she grabbed the vacuum from the closet and rolled it onto the carpeted area for its weekly cleaning. Even having her iPod shuffling through her favorite songs couldn’t dispel her gloom. And the vacuum—never cooperative—constantly ran over its cord, got stuck on thresholds, and smashed her big toe.
Her household chores, normally fulfilling and satisfying to tick off her to-do list, were just dragging her down more. And of course, the sunshine streaming in through the tall Cathedral-type windows in the family room was inviting her out to play. Although Eric on Channel 6 predicted rain, it didn’t look as if that was going to happen. Which meant watering the flowerpots this evening was added to her list of things to do today. After forcing herself to empty the dishwasher and put away the folded laundry, she said screw it and grabbed her car keys. The keys to the fun car—the car she’d had since college, the vintage Firebird Convertible that had seen her through the good times as well as the bad.
The gentle rumble of the V-8 engine, amplified as it bounced off the walls of the garage, did something to brighten her mood and lit a spark inside her. The fact that a warm sunny day waited beyond the open carriage-style doors helped too.
With no destination in mind, she was surprised that the screaming yellow Pontiac headed directly toward Sunset Beach. She hadn’t been on the island for a week or better and agreed that maybe the fresh breezes over the ocean were exactly what she needed to sweep out the cobwebs and cleanse her head.
As always, the view from the top of the new bridge made her sigh. It was so lovely here, the view in either direction heartwarming and so picturesque you couldn’t help but sigh with contentedness. No bad moods allowed, she intoned to herself as she goosed the pedal to crest the top of the bridge and then eased off to coast down to the curving bottom.
The causeway was perhaps her most favorite place in the world. A little over half a mile, it was like driving through a travel brochure of the south—pristine, meandering marsh grasses occasioned by the
token heron, wood stork or crane—and all within spitting distance from her car. It was like being on a safari where all the wildlife surrounded her car, questioning her arrival on the scene. Only here, there was no tour guide, everything was free, and nothing, absolutely nothing was staged. All the pictures she saw in the galleries were here, live, in front of her. She began singing, “Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the moooorrrning.” And stopped with a scowl on her face when she heard the booming rap music coming from the gleaming black car behind her drowning her out.
She was tempted to flash her brakes to stop his tailgating, but instead resorted to a lighthearted revenge. She pushed the button that sprayed her windshield knowing full well that he was within range. He surely was, and his frantically waving hands indicated he was not happy. It cheered her to see him back off a little.
Parking on the beach, always chancy after 8:30, was never a problem for Ocean Ridge residents as they had their own Beach Club, a magnificent beach house right next to the pier. Grabbing her bottle of water, Laurel made her way to the beach access and walked west until she realized that the tiny flies that were sometimes a nuisance were out in spades today. And some were in a biting mood. Naturally. She took it as a sign that the day was not going to do a total about face and miraculously improve for her.
Walking back to her car, she smiled at the mother washing her baby in the outside shower. The outside shower door was unlatched and blowing open in the breeze. Both mother and child were naked and not at all self-conscious. The crooning and patter in German explained the lax attitude. But nothing explained the hideous tattoo covering most of the mother’s chest when she turned to face her. Why would anyone who had decent breasts detract from them that way, she mused as she climbed back into the Firebird and left the island. Had that actually been a devil, complete with a forked-tongue serpent snaking between her breasts?
Looking down at her own chest, she snorted. As if anyone had taken the time to look at hers lately. God, how long had it been since a man had seen her breasts, touched them, kissed them? Her mind flew back through the days, months, hell years . . . and stopped at a time in her life that was four years gone now. She could see the scene as if it were yesterday—her hand cupping a man’s head to her chest as he suckled, her fingers entwined in his dark brown hair. What was his name? Oh yeah, Jonathan. Jonathan of the dashing smile and dimpled chin, from Clyde’s, where she and her friends had often hung out on Friday nights after work.
She’d been sitting at a Trivia machine, stumped by a question when he had leaned over her shoulder and whispered the answer in her ear. She had arranged to be there every night after that, and so had he. Two Friday nights later she had taken him home to see if he was as smart about a woman’s body as he was about random trivia. Turned out he was adequate when he put his mind to it, which he stopped doing six Friday nights later when his wife knocked on her apartment door.
She shook her head and came back to the present just in time to see the most striking man running toward her up the steep incline. He was in the bicycle lane as she approached the summit. Gaaaawd, what she’d do to have that man’s lips plastered around her nipple!
She had just enough time to take a second glance at the tall runner as she crested the top and began the downward coast to the curved slope that led off the bridge. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second and held. Instantly she knew that this man would be more than adequate, much more than adequate.
She regretted that she had to drag her eyes back to the road. He was all hunk, but not worth sideswiping her car over. No man was, she said resolutely. The devil and the snake were beginning to make sense. Temptation could easily make you drive off a bridge.
Chapter Seventeen
Typical of people used to the old bridge, she turned the wrong way coming off the lower ramp and ended up heading in the wrong direction. But because of it, she saw the sign the Town of Sunset had erected at the new park. Gosh, what a controversy that had been. But not having been a resident of Sunset Beach, she had been able to sit on the sidelines and read each letter to the editor in The Brunswick Beacon with a prejudiced view. In favor of the park, as many non-residents were, she thought it was a wonderful idea. People like her, who lived outside the town limits wouldn’t have to pay for the enjoyment of it.
The park wasn’t developed yet, but since the Town owned the land, it was now proudly proclaiming the area as belonging to its residents. She saw a dirt road to the left of the sign and debated driving back to see the space that was now slated for the new park and boat ramp. If she’d had a 4-wheel drive truck she might have ventured, but knowing how low-slung her Firebird was she chose instead to pull into the parking lot of the coffee shop on the corner. It, too, hadn’t been there all that long. When she’d moved here, the ABC Store had owned that corner, now Mavericks was posted above the door.
Laurel decided it might be nice to get a latte and then saunter over to the park to enjoy it. She liked to scout out new businesses and cheer them on. A coffee shop during the season would have no problems—off-season, well that was a different story—the locals had to carry the banner for retail businesses, and well she knew it.
In the three years she’d lived here she’d seen many nice restaurants and shops fold for not being able to make it from one season to the next. Ten weeks is an awfully short time to make the income one would normally generate in a year.
She was greeted by a sweet young woman, who Laurel learned was one of the owners. Jen was her name and she was more than accommodating, as Laurel dictated her preferences: large, extra hot, skinny, sugar-free hazelnut, no whip—with a straw please. They chatted about where they both were from, and how they ended up here at Sunset Beach, as Jen went through the tedious production of making the latte.
Then Laurel strolled around the store sipping her latte and admiring the wines on display and promising to come back for a tasting. She was pleased to see the vintage Wurlitzer jukebox, and was fascinated with Zoltar, the fortune-telling machine in the corner. Jen plugged it in for her and she got a fortune printed on a bright yellow ticket.
If you subdue yourself and return to the practice of what is right. If one day you achieve self-control and return to what is right the world will acknowledge you as a person at his best. Being the best must come from you yourself. One cannot
acquire it from others. Look at nothing which is contrary to what is right, listen to
nothing contrary to what is right, speak nothing
contrary to what is right, and do nothing contrary to what is right. You will then be a person at his best.
She would have loved being able to focus on, “Being the best must come from you yourself. One cannot acquire it from others.” And that her lucky numbers were: “27,05,28,06, & 30.” But instead her mind jumped around from one “right” to the next. “Look at nothing which is contrary to what is right, listen to nothing contrary to what is right, speak nothing contrary to what is right, and do nothing contrary to what is right.” If it had said, “Write nothing contrary to what is right,” it could not have fit her situation more perfectly.
Taking her latte with her, she crossed the parking lot and the street, then made her way to the park, stepping over a rope barrier. Despite the lovely day, the majestic live oaks, and the amazing views of the waterway, she slipped back into her melancholy mood. “Being the best?” What did that mean exactly?
Thoughts of her parents crowded her mind and as she walked along a seawall that held back the marsh. She lamented the fact that they could not see the beauty of this place, that they could not enjoy this glorious summer day. That they could not lean against this solid and imposing tree that had stood here for so many generations, or marvel at the air plants known as Spanish moss that draped and cascaded from practically every limb like lacy netting. Laurel had been on a tour once where they talked about the gray fuzzy pla
nts that were mistakenly thought to leach the life out of trees.
She’d learned that they actually absorbed water from the humidity in the air and sent life-giving nutrients in the form of dust particles with every breeze. And that the silvery scales on the feathery leaves were designed to capture water and minerals, and with enough rain, that they could actually cast a green shadow because of the plant’s own chlorophyll. She was told that the moss, soft as horsehair, was as strong as cotton and was once used in the Deep South to make fishing nets. Looking up at it, she smiled as she recalled that the shabby drapery fed the tiny denizens of the forest and made a fine nesting material for squirrels and bats, and as a side benefit to her, was used as decorative bedding by florists. Walking around the tree she stroked a long silky vine and said aloud, “So contrary to popular belief, you don’t kill the trees you grace with your draping tresses, you just make them look mysterious and romantic.”
She’d seen pictures of her mom and dad when they were newlyweds, posing under trees as majestic as these, adorned with the tangled dark fibers that are a symbol of southern grace and tranquility.
Back to thoughts of romance, she leaned into the tree and closed her eyes as she envisioned an eager young man pressing into a soft and yielding woman as he caged her body against the very same tree, telling her that he wanted to make love to her mouth. Her sultry reply, given with a winsome smile, “So what’s stopping you?” would have made his blood heat just before his head lowered and his lips crushed hers.
Flash Drive Page 15
