Carolina Blues

by Virginia Kantra

  “Wine’s good,” he said firmly. “I’ll get glasses.”

  It took him a minute or five to settle the cat. When he came out, Lauren had everything set up on some kind of picnic cloth she must have borrowed from Tess: a couple cheeses from the pricey shop in the harbor, bread from the bakery, a fat bunch of grapes, containers of olives and shrimp salad.

  He looked at the trouble she’d gone to, the cloth napkins, the bottle of wine and felt a pinch of something. Regret, maybe. He needed to step up his game. Next time he would make reservations.

  “I was going to call you,” he said.

  She anchored the lid from the olives under the plastic container. “You don’t have my number. Hard to booty text without a number.”

  “Booty text,” he repeated slowly.

  “Or booty call. Whatever.” She didn’t sound mad. Although with women, you never knew.

  Jack frowned. She wasn’t a booty call to him. She was . . .

  He covered both her busy hands with one of his. She looked up in surprise, glowing and exotic in the setting sun, the tiny jewel winking. He leaned forward and kissed her, long and soft and slow, until her eyelids fluttered closed and her hands flexed under his.

  He raised his head. “Hello, Lauren.”

  Her lips curved. “Hello, Jack.” She opened her eyes. Exhaled. “We keep screwing up, don’t we?”

  He checked her expression. Definitely not mad, he saw with relief. “I’m willing to practice with you,” he offered, straight-faced. “Until we get it right.”

  She grinned, widening her eyes in mock concern. “If we get any better, we’ll kill each other.”

  She was talking about sex. He laughed, as she obviously intended him to, and reached for the wine. She’d even packed a corkscrew.

  “This looks great,” he said, nodding at the spread. She’d transformed his deck to someplace he wanted to be.

  “I’m glad you like it. I owed you for last night.”

  His brows twitched together. Last night he’d walked out on her to take a call.

  “Last night,” she prompted. “The inspiration?”

  He thought back. They’d been saying good night, talking about her writing, and then he’d kissed her.

  Inspiration, he’d teased.

  Her eyes had gleamed with humor, her smile rueful in the moonlight. Am I supposed to thank you now?

  Thank me tomorrow.

  He shook his head. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

  “I wanted to.”

  He stared at her, oddly humbled. Shaken.

  In the past year, he’d gotten used to doing for himself. Cooking for himself. Caring for himself. He’d almost forgotten how it felt to have someone do for him. Freely. Because she wanted to. Renee always had a hidden agenda, a secret scorecard on which he always lost.

  He cleared his throat. “Guess that makes me a lucky guy.”

  Her grin flashed. “Lucky comes later. Pour the wine, will you?”

  He filled her glass. “How’d the writing go today?”

  She paused cutting the bread, like he’d surprised her. “It’s going.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Yes.” She picked up the bunch of grapes. Put it down. “I had . . . I guess you’d call it a breakthrough,” she confessed, almost shyly.

  “What sort of breakthrough?”

  She looked at him doubtfully. “We don’t have to talk about my work. Most of what I do, writing . . . It’s kind of boring if you’re not another writer. You don’t have to be polite with me.”

  Yeah, he did. He was sleeping with her. That entitled her to be treated with respect. But more than that, he was genuinely interested. He’d read her book—her first book—but he still didn’t know what made her tick. She was a puzzle to him.

  He’d always liked puzzles.

  He put some cheese on some bread and offered it to her. “If you were a cop,” he said, “and you told me you caught a break in a case, I would know what that meant. But I don’t know what a breakthrough is for a writer.”

  “Well.” She swallowed. “I don’t see the end yet. But for the first time, I can see how I might get there.”

  He frowned. “How do you know you’re on the right road if you can’t see the destination?”

  He wasn’t talking about her book anymore. Not entirely.

  And she knew it, too. She smiled her funny smile. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “Life’s about the journey, not the destination?” he asked with heavy irony.

  “Since we’re all headed to the grave, then, yes. ‘Thus, though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run.’”

  He liked the way she talked, her attitude, her optimism. Maybe he liked them all a little too much. “What is that, poetry?”

  She nodded. “Andrew Marvell, ‘To His Coy Mistress.’”

  “Yeah?” He grinned sharply to cover a sudden sense of inadequacy. “You know the one about the girl from Nantucket?”

  She didn’t get pissy. She laughed. “All I’m saying is, life’s too short. When you’re not sure of your destination, you might as well enjoy the trip.”

  He didn’t entirely agree, but he liked talking to her. He couldn’t imagine having this conversation with the guys back home. Or Renee. Marvell. Jesus. “You religious, Lauren?”

  “I believe that what we do in this life, the choices we make, matter,” she said carefully. “But whether they matter to some afterlife . . . I don’t know.”

  Not Ma’s Catholic girl.

  “So how does this thing with us fit into your travel plans? You’re a pretty girl. Smart. Well educated. A couple of book deals under your belt. What are you doing with a thirty-eight-year-old divorced cop from Philly?”

  “Well, if I’d known you were that old . . .” She trailed off teasingly, trying to make a joke.

  He didn’t smile. He didn’t know what he was asking. Why he was pushing her the way he’d push a suspect in an interrogation, trying to get her to confess . . . What?

  Her big, dark eyes fixed on him. Her take-no-shit therapist’s look, shrewd and warm at the same time. “I want to be with you, Jack. Don’t you think you deserve that? To be wanted? Desired? Loved?”

  O-kay.

  She’d turned the tables on him, turned the interrogation on its head. The talking portion of the evening was over.

  He took the wineglass out of her hand, moved the container of dip out of the way, and kissed her. Because he wanted to kiss her and also to shut her up.

  Her mouth was sweet and cool from the wine and hot, with a taste that was purely Lauren. She kissed him back eagerly, meeting his tongue with her own.

  Renee had always liked sex, but she was stingy with her mouth, like kisses were unsanitary or something. Lauren kissed with her whole heart, like she loved kisses, his kisses, exploring his mouth greedily, experimenting with different depths and tempos. Like being back in high school, when long, drowning-in-you make-out sessions were all there was, were everything, when a girl might let you touch her breasts but never past her panties.

  Kissing Lauren, he could almost believe she was right. Life’s about the journey, not the destination.

  Until she reached down and put her hand on his dick and squeezed.

  All the blood abandoned his head.

  He slid his hands up from her waist, taking her shirt with them, and pulled down her bra. The elastic caught under her breasts, shoving them up and together. Her nipples tightened under the kiss of cool air. Beautiful. He licked her nipple, sucking it into his mouth. She grabbed his head like she needed something to hold on to, like she wanted him to go on. So he did, using his tongue and the edge of his teeth, and instead of complaining or resisting or fighting him for control, she made this gratifying little noise, her hands moving down to his shoul
ders, rubbing him, patting him. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him with eagerness. With affection.

  He pushed her down and spread her wide. So pink. So beautiful. His stomach sucked in, like he’d been punched in the gut. She lay back in the middle of the picnic things and closed her eyes and let him do whatever he wanted. He worked her until he couldn’t stand it, until he couldn’t stand not being in her one minute more. Rising to his knees, he yanked at his belt.

  She half rolled away from him, reaching across the blanket.

  He grabbed her back, crazy-man possessive. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

  She grinned up at him. “Good.” Pulling her hand out of her bag, she slapped a condom in his palm.

  She was killing him. He was dying here, dying to have her moving and under him, dying to feel her around him. He covered himself and fell on her, kissing her hard and fierce and deep, finding his place between her thighs.

  He rammed home, filling her in one slick thrust. God, she felt good. So good. He gritted his teeth and began to move in and out, his breath coming in ragged pants, all his frustration and longing for her surging against his control.

  She planted her feet flat on the deck and arched to take him. He felt the tremors start deep in her body, moving through her, moving through him. He couldn’t breathe.

  “Jack.” She came around him, his name on her lips, her fingers digging into his butt.

  He buried his head in the warm curve of her neck and lost himself in her arms.

  Thirteen

  THE LAST RAYS of the setting sun glowed behind Lauren’s closed lids. She sprawled amid the ruins of their picnic, sweaty, sore, and slightly sticky, as if she’d lain out at the beach too long. Jack lay over her, heavy and golden and warm. She stroked his back, raking her nails lightly over the cotton of his shirt, and he shivered in reaction.

  “I’ve never made love outdoors before,” she said dreamily.

  He made a noncommittal noise into her neck, and she sucked in her breath as all the nerves there vibrated in pleasure.

  “Did you? Ever make love outside before?” she asked, seeking . . . More than sex. Emotional connection. Reassurance, maybe. That was amazing. Was it as good for you as it was for me?

  “Does the backseat of a car count?”

  Another little flutter of humor or doubt. “I don’t think . . . No.”

  “Then, nope.” He levered off her, their bodies separating by slow, near painful degrees. Her skin protested the loss of his heat. “This was a first for me.”

  She nodded, her chest uncomfortably full, her throat unaccountably tight.

  He looked down at her, his dark eyes unreadable. “Are you all right?”

  A flush swept from her chest to her hairline. Her bra was still twisted under her breasts, her skirt around her waist, leaving her feeling more naked than if she wore nothing at all. “Fine.”

  She struggled to sit. He allowed that, but when she started tugging at her clothes, he covered her hand with his until she looked at him.

  “Are you sure?” he asked quietly. “I was pretty . . . aggressive there. Rough.”

  Everything in her melted and surrendered at the concern in his voice and his eyes. “I liked it,” she answered honestly. Her flush deepened. “How . . . How are you?”

  That little half smile played around his mouth. “Never better.”

  She glowed from the inside out.

  “You’ve got dip on your, uh . . .” He gestured.

  “Oh.” She wiped it from her hip. “Thanks.”

  She tucked her boobs back into her bra.

  “Luke’s wedding is Monday,” Jack said.

  “Yes, I know. Kate—well, Meg, really—invited me. Isn’t that sweet?” She adjusted her bra straps, glancing at the deserted shoreline. “You don’t think anybody saw us, do you?”

  “Not unless they were spying from a low-flying aircraft,” Jack said dryly. “Your reputation is safe.”

  “I was thinking about your reputation, Chief.” She rolled to her knees to wriggle her skirt back over her butt. “You wouldn’t want it getting around town that you were performing lewd acts in public.”

  “I don’t think the fish will report us. So, Monday . . . You need a ride to the church?”

  Her heart stumbled. She stopped fussing with her clothes to stare at him. “Are you asking me to be your date to the wedding?”

  Another quirk of his lips. “You got a dress?”

  His teasing made her feel warm all over. “Do you have a tie? Or do you go everywhere in uniform?”

  “I own a tie.”

  “I can find a dress.”

  Their gazes met. Held. Oh, brother. Her breath went and her pulse quickened and little spots danced in front of her eyes. Like a panic attack, only better. Worse.

  Jack cleared his throat. “So, I’ll pick you up at four,” he said, his voice husky.

  Do not read too much into this. Rebound relationship, remember?

  “Do you dance?” she asked. “Or are you strictly a prop-up-the-wall-with-a-beer kind of guy?”

  “I dance. But I don’t shag.”

  She laughed. “I think we’ve just established that you do.”

  “Not Austin Powers shagging. It’s a Carolina thing. A dance.”

  “Never heard of it,” she said cheerfully.

  “Good. Then you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “You could teach me.”

  He shook his head. “I’m too old to learn new tricks.”

  She smiled up at him, big and dependable and dark against the sunset, and all the soft places in her body reminded her that this was a man who Knew Things. “It’s never too late to try something new.”

  His gaze met hers, and the earth moved. Or maybe that was the boat rocking. “I’ll remind you of that later.”

  She forced herself to speak lightly. “Lucky for you, I’m a big fan of wedding sex.”

  Another of those contained, heart-stopping smiles. “Then it’s a date.”

  “Gee, it’s like prom. Not that I went to my prom.”

  “I’ll bring you a corsage,” Jack said dryly. “What color is your dress?”

  “That would depend on what Meg has in her closet that will fit me.”

  “You’ll be beautiful whatever you wear.”

  She swallowed. “Now you’re making me nervous.”

  “It’s an island wedding. Friends and family. No big deal.”

  “Right.” Only a public date in a sanctioned setting among people he cared about. Only an opportunity to be part of his life on the island.

  “I can’t wait,” she said.

  * * *

  “I HAVE BOOBS!” Lauren exclaimed, turning from the standing mirror in Meg’s room with a little flourish.

  “You do,” Meg agreed. “And legs. Long legs. I’m trying not to be annoyed that you look better in my dress than I do. It’s because you’re taller and have bigger tits than me.”

  “Not better.” Lauren swiveled back to face her reflection. “Different.”

  On Meg, the bold red sheath dress projected confidence and class. On Lauren, the same dress screamed, well, sex. Classy, appropriate-for-a-guest-at-a-wedding sex, but still . . .

  She frowned, smoothing the fabric over her hips. “You sure it’s not too tight?”

  “Absolutely not. You look amazing.”

  Lauren grinned. “Thanks. And thanks for letting me borrow it.”

  “What are friends for? Jack is going to swallow his tongue.”

  “I hope not.”

  Meg raised her eyebrows in question.

  Lauren’s grin broadened. “He’s very good with his tongue.”

  Meg picked one of the discarded dresses from the bed and slid it onto a hanger. “Hm. Not that it’s any of my
business, but Mom says you haven’t slept at the inn the last two nights.”

  Lauren glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, should I have said something to her? Does she need the room? I know you have out-of-town guests for the wedding.”

  “Don’t be silly. There aren’t that many, they’re only here for a few days, and Sam put most of them up in Grady rental properties. No, I was just wondering how things were going.”

  “The writing’s going great.”

  “You’re not too . . .” Meg paused.

  “Distracted?”

  “I was going to say too busy going at it like rabbits, but distracted is a good word, too.”

  Lauren laughed. “I’m a writer. I know lots of good words.” She reached between her shoulder blades for the dress zipper.

  “Let me give you a hand.”

  “Thanks.” She presented her back, pulling her hair over her shoulder.

  “So, how long until you finish the book?” Meg asked.

  “Another couple weeks, I think.” Lauren stepped carefully out of the dress. “It’s the same basic outline, I’m just trying to dig a little deeper into how I felt. Feel. To be more honest.”

  Meg gave an encouraging nod in the mirror. “Sounds wonderful.”

  “It’s . . . cathartic,” Lauren told her. “Like a good cry. Or a cleanse.”

  Meg laughed. “I’m sure your work is not a pile of crap.”

  “Actually, I feel good about the work. About the changes,” Lauren confessed. “I just wish I had the resolution figured out.”

  “You mean, like a happy ending?”

  “Not exactly. I’m not writing fiction.”

  “You know, happy endings aren’t only in fairy tales. It’s just that in real life, they take hard work. And time.” Meg smiled crookedly. “And sometimes they don’t look the way you expect them to look.”

  Of course Meg believed in happy endings. Her parents had been married for forty years. Meg had recently reinvented her career to make a life with her longtime love, Sam. And her brother’s wedding was tomorrow. Lauren wasn’t going to rain on that parade.

  “I believe in happy moments,” she said. “In enjoying as many moments as you can make in the time that you have. What I’m really looking for, though, is meaning. Something that would take all the loose ends and tie them together in a neat little bow.” She slid the dress onto a padded hanger. She’d never stayed in a house with padded hangers before. Her mother would be so impressed. “But maybe the message of the book is that not everything in life is resolved. Not everybody finds closure.”