Not that she was looking for romance anyway.
Lauren grinned. “Well, then, you can hook up with an attractive stranger. Lots of hunky Marines around.”
“I don’t do strangers, either.” Not since Travis. “And I’m definitely not interested in some gung ho guy with a gun.”
Oh, dear. Jane winced. She sounded as sulky as six-year-old Aidan when he didn’t want to do something.
But Lauren, bless her heart, never lost her smile or her patience. “I’m not saying you should marry one of them. Or even have wild wedding hookup sex. But it’s a party. You should enjoy yourself. Live in the moment.”
Jane admired Lauren’s attitude. Her daring. Of course, Lauren didn’t have a child at home, dependent on every decision. Or an ex, threatening to bring her carefully constructed life down around her ears.
“I’ll think about it,” Jane promised.
“Think about what?” her father asked.
Wild heat stormed Jane’s face. Please, please don’t let him have heard the part about wild hookup sex.
“Dancing,” she said.
Hank scowled. “Well, how about it, then?”
Jane resisted the urge to fidget. “How about what?”
“You want to dance with your dad?”
She blinked. “I . . . Yes.” Something expanded in her chest, warm and light as rising bread. “Yes, I’d like to very much.”
She took his hand. He pulled her close, his muscles hard and sinewy as a ship’s rope. He smelled familiar, of laundry detergent, bay rum, and tobacco, and just for a moment she was transported back to the days before her mother left them, when her daddy waltzed her around the living room while she stood on his shoes.
They never had been any good at talking.
Sometimes it was better to communicate without words.
* * *
LAUREN WATCHED THEM go with a lump in her throat.
I’ll never dance with my dad. The thought nicked her heart, a tiny, unexpected slice as sharp as a paper cut.
“You all right?” Jack asked behind her.
She resisted the urge to turn and throw herself against his chest.
Hastily, she pulled herself together. It was good to remember and to feel, even to feel pain. But to wallow in it . . . Not so good.
She turned and smiled at him. Live in the moment. “I am now.”
He didn’t say anything. He stood there, solid, self-contained, and imperturbable, regarding her with those dark, watchful eyes.
“Do you ever miss your family?” she asked abruptly.
He took her right hand in his and set his arm around her waist. “You’re doing it again.”
He pulled her forward, stepped back. She followed automatically, distracted by the brush of their legs, the clasp of his hand. “What?”
“Answering a question with another question.”
She nodded. “Deflecting.”
“Dodging.”
She widened her eyes and batted her lashes, hoping to make him smile. “Maybe I simply find you fascinating.”
A corner of his mouth ticked up.
Encouraged, she asked, “Do you?”
His arm tightened around her as he turned. Her breasts brushed his chest. “Ask questions? What do you think?”
She grinned. Talking with him was like dancing or sex, each of them alert to the other’s moves. “Miss your family.”
“Yeah. Some.”
She waited. She didn’t recognize the music, something smooth and slow and country. When he didn’t say anything more, she asked, “Do you ever think about going back?”
What did she want him to say? That he was staying on the island? She wasn’t staying. What did it matter?
His shoulder bunched and flexed under her hand. “For the holidays, maybe. Sure. My folks are still there. But longer than that, I’ve got to ask myself, what for? Am I going back to be with them? Or am I trying to get back to the way things used to be? Because if it’s the second thing, it’s not going to happen. That boat’s already sailed.”
She almost lost a step.
He gathered her in. “What?”
“You’re not . . .” She shook her head. “Every time I think I have you figured out, you surprise me. You’re nothing like what I expected.”
He raised an eyebrow, his black eyes impenetrable. “You’re not what I was expecting, either.”
Hostage Girl. He’d seen her on TV. He’d read her book. Reality couldn’t live up to that.
She stuck out her chin. “Disappointed?”
“No. Not at all.”
She flushed with pleasure.
He held her close, not grinding, but apparently the past five days had sensitized her to sex or something. She was constantly aware of him, the strength of his arms, the solid muscles of his chest and belly. His animal heat, rising through his civilized clothes.
The afternoon whirled like a kaleidoscope toward evening, the action breaking and shifting, falling into bright, glowing patters. Sunshine, flowers, music.
Moments.
Tom and Tess Fletcher, married forty years, cheek to cheek on the dance floor. Meg, flirting outrageously with Sam. Taylor, grinning up at her uncle Matt. Love, radiating from the bride and groom, all around.
Thalia, glowing and grown up, danced by in Josh’s arms. Lauren’s heart clutched at the sight of them, clumsy and happy as puppies, full of hope and hormones.
“They’re so cute together.”
Jack followed her gaze. “Teenagers. That won’t last.”
She frowned, feeling out of step. Statistically, of course, he was right. “I don’t think it matters. Love doesn’t have to last to be real.”
“You’re talking about puppy love.”
“First love,” she corrected. “It’s formative. The first—maybe the only—relationship where you haven’t had your heart broken yet. The novelty of the experience creates a chemical rush that makes it memorable. It’s the lens through which you see all future relationships.”
“What about parents?”
She beamed at him as if he were a particularly bright student. “Your parents’ example is significant, too,” she said in her classroom voice. “And of course, early loss of a parent can cripple your ability to form attachments, to trust yourself completely to another relationship.”
Another dark, unreadable look. “So where does that leave us?”
“Us?” she repeated uncertainly.
“Yeah. Basically you’re saying that since I got dumped and your dad died on you, we’re screwed.”
Oh God. The sunny wedding scene shifted and re-formed again into a picture she did not want to see. “I did not say that.”
“Pretty damn close.”
“I just meant . . .” Her brain scrambled. “A negative first relationship can set up an expectation of failure, make it more difficult to build intimacy.”
He slanted a glance down at her. “Or it can teach you what you really want.”
She nodded. “Your first love is like a starting point. It dictates where you are. But you decide how to go on.”
“Moving forward.”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He held her tighter. “Because I’m in this thing, all right? I’m in this thing with you, whether it fits your theories or not.”
Her heart jumped. Her feet stopped moving. She couldn’t keep up with him, in the dance or in the conversation. I’m in this thing with you . . .
That didn’t sound like a hookup. Or even a rebound relationship.
Breathe. “That doesn’t . . . We haven’t . . .”
“‘Enjoy the trip,’” he said softly, and she realized he was quoting.
Is that what she’d said? It sounded like her. “Yes.”
His hand on the small of her
back urged her closer into the warmth of his body, the hard planes of his torso, the ridge of his erection.
She sucked in her breath.
He kissed her hair. “So let’s enjoy.”
Live in the moment. Savor the moment. Store up as many moments as you can, a bright and shining hoard against the time when you are gone.
Resting her head against his chest, she closed her eyes and let him lead her where she wanted to go.
Fifteen
THE ISLAND SPARKLED in the wake of a summer squall. High piled clouds, the color of a bruise, swept west over the mainland, dragging a thin curtain of rain behind them. The water had the dull gleam of tarnished silver.
Lauren walked from the bakery to the Pirates’ Rest, the wind tugging at her hair, her laptop bumping at her hip. When her pocket buzzed, she grabbed her phone and looked at the number on the display.
PATRICIA BROWN. Her agent.
Lauren sucked in her breath.
Two days ago, shaking with nerves and bravado, she had e-mailed the first seventeen chapters of her book to her editor and her agent.
Now . . . She fumbled with the phone, cupping the device against her ear to block the rustle of the wind. “Patricia?”
“Lauren, darling. I just got off the phone with Colleen.” Her editor.
Lauren’s heart slammed against her ribs. “And?”
“Well, she loves it, of course. We both just love it.”
The horizon blurred, soft and bright. She’d been braced so long under the pressing burden of failure. Now, with that weight lifted, she felt ridiculously light, her head like a balloon, her legs wobbly. Her chest inflated with air.
“Really?” Her voice squeaked as if she’d inhaled helium.
“Absolutely. I laughed, I cried,” Patricia said. “Colleen is thrilled.”
Lauren pressed a hand to her chest. After so many months of churning panic, of feeling like a fraud, of being unable to write, she couldn’t quite take it in. Her agent’s reassurance felt almost surreal. “That’s . . . great. So great. Thank you.”
Jack. Her heart swelled.
She had to tell Jack. She was seeing him again tonight. Every night. The thought brought another rush of pleasure.
“. . . very emotional, very powerful,” Patricia was saying. “All those memories of your father, the reactions of your friends . . . I had no idea. And Colleen and I loved the way you used Ben’s letters from jail to talk about what you were both going through.”
“I’m so glad,” Lauren said. Maybe they should go out tonight. To celebrate. She could buy.
“She did mention that the story feels a little . . . unfinished,” Patricia said.
Lauren jerked her mind back to the present. “Maybe because it is?” she suggested.
“Don’t get me wrong, we both think it’s terrific. But Colleen was hoping for some sort of blockbuster happy ending.”
Blockbuster?
“I was thinking a car chase,” Lauren said. “Or me standing on a fire escape and Richard Gere driving up in a big white limo.” Jack climbing toward her, a whole bouquet of roses in his teeth. Save me.
“Excuse me?” Patricia said.
Lauren shook her head. Clearly, Mom should never have let her watch Pretty Woman at that sleepover when she was twelve.
“A happy ending,” she repeated. “You bet.” Meg had said the same thing.
“Just a little kick,” Patricia said. “A little oomph. Your readers want that big emotional payoff. They want to be inspired.”
“Sure.”
But all she could think of was Jack, cooking her dinner on his boat while the sun sank into the sea. Jack in his uniform, talking softly to the cat. Jack, smiling at her with that crooked half smile, making her laugh. Making her come.
“Lauren? Did you hear what I said?”
Lauren blew out her breath. Not the kind of inspiration her editor was looking for.
“I’ll work on it,” she promised.
“Of course you will. I have total faith in you.”
Given that her agent had just read—in raw, real, irreverent detail—Lauren’s struggles with anxiety on the road, Lauren appreciated her confidence very much. “Thanks, Patricia.”
“You are better now, right? No more problems?” her agent asked.
Lauren heard the concern in her voice. “Much better, thanks.”
Sex was a proven stress reliever. But it wasn’t only the orgasms. She felt safe around Jack. Free from danger, yes, but also free to be herself. She hadn’t had a panic attack since she’d set off the alarm at Jane’s more than three weeks ago.
Of course, nothing had happened recently that would trigger her symptoms.
But she was well enough to finish her book.
She shivered despite the bright sunshine, goose bumps breaking out on her skin.
“Wonderful,” Patricia said. “Let me know if there’s anything you need. And tell Meg to copy me on your speaking schedule. When do you get back?”
“I don’t know.” Out in the harbor, a seagull hung suspended in midair, making no headway at all against the wind. “I might . . . I was thinking of staying awhile after the book is finished.”
Where had that come from?
“Smart girl. You deserve a break. I would kill to get out of the city right now. Well, listen, darling, you finish up and copy me when you send the final manuscript to Colleen, all right?”
“I will,” Lauren promised. “Thanks so much, Patricia.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s a wonderful story. I can’t wait to read the ending.”
They said the usual things and hung up.
Lauren floated up the hill from the harbor, buoyed by the wind at her back, almost giddy with relief.
Her editor liked—her editor loved—her book.
Her agent loved her book.
All Lauren needed now was a blockbuster ending.
A bubble of panic rose under her breastbone. Her story had no end.
She swallowed hard. One step at a time. A month ago, she couldn’t have imagined getting this far. Enjoy the trip.
The pitched roof of the Pirates’ Rest rose above the trees. Lauren lengthened her stride. She and Jack weren’t at the keep-my-toothbrush-at-your-place stage. She still needed to pull some things together before he picked her up.
The puddles by the side of the road reflected back the windswept sky. Raindrops glittered from the blooming branches of crepe myrtle by the fence, the heavy clusters scattering pink petals on the wet grass.
Lauren pushed open the front gate.
A man waited in the shadows of the porch, sheltered by the eaves from the rain and the heat. A young man in military fatigues. A young, sunburned man with familiar features beneath his buzz cut, standing as she came up the walk.
Her heart pounded. The swing swayed gently back and forth.
Her past, waiting for her.
Lauren stopped, her lungs constricting. “Joel?” she whispered.
* * *
UP NORTH, JACK was known as a by-the-book cop. But he was slowly learning that if he enforced every ordinance on Dare Island, he’d have to lock up half the tourists and a quarter of the town into two little jail cells.
The native islanders figured that since they were here before everybody else, including the chief of police, whatever laws they didn’t agree with did not apply to them. The dingbatters moved here because they loved the idea of living at the beach and then complained about the resort town regulations. The tourists believed that their money entitled them to a good time.
Jack figured as long as he kept the peace and no one got hurt, he was doing his job.
But today dealing with one more bored rich kid rebelling against too much family vacation kept him at the station almost an hour past his scheduled shift.
�
��The merchants don’t want to press charges,” Jack said to the bored rich kid’s dad. “But they don’t want to pay the town for every time the police have been called to respond to a false alarm at their businesses. Marta, here, can give you a total of the fines.”
The father scowled. “That’s extortion.”
“Restitution,” Jack said calmly. “Seems to me you’d want your boy here to take some responsibility for his actions.”
“You can’t prove Cliff set off all those alarms.”
“Yeah, that’s probably what a lawyer would say,” Jack agreed. “The good news is, Cliff won’t be sixteen for another couple weeks, so he can’t be charged as an adult. If you want to go the juvenile court route, there’s just a little paperwork and then I can release him into your custody. Or we can handle things here.”
“You’ll pay for this,” Cliff’s dad said, but he was looking at his son.
Jack left them settling the tab with Marta and drove to the Pirates’ Rest.
He couldn’t say when seeing Lauren at the end of the day became a necessary part of his routine. Forward his calls, drive patrol, feed the cat, sit on his boat as the sun went down, and listen to Lauren talk about her day. Unlike a lot of people, she always had something interesting to say.
Plus . . . sex. With no trouble at all, he could picture Lauren, hot and glowing, naked and coming, in his bed. In his life.
At least until she left.
The thought caused a twinge. More than a twinge, if he was honest.
But he knew better than to try and kid himself. He wasn’t seventeen anymore, clinging to a summer romance when summer was over, making stupid promises that he wouldn’t keep. I’ll call. I’ll write. I’ll visit.
Not going to happen. When Lauren was gone, she was gone.
But maybe he could talk to her about leaving a toothbrush or something at his place.
Wet asphalt hissed under his tires as he turned onto the inn road, lined with gnarled oaks and tall pine.
Carolina Blues Page 19
