by Lori Foster
“Good,” he said softly. “Good to know.”
“I’m not even that same person anymore.”
“Hence the Meg.”
She nodded. “Starr still had stars in her eyes. When I left the cove, I felt like I was different, more of a down-to-earth woman than that sentimental, romantic girl.”
“Why does ‘down-to-earth’ sound like a synonym for pessimistic?”
Meg swiveled on her cushion to face him. “I’m not. I just don’t believe in fairy tales anymore.”
Before he could reply, the oven timer dinged. They got to their feet and trooped to the kitchen. Bitzer padded behind, exuding enthusiasm. “Still likes to eat, huh?” Meg asked.
“Likes to be part of the crowd. I even take him to the office.”
As they dished up the eggplant parmesan, Meg discovered that the start-up Caleb worked for was actually his start-up, and the apps his company developed were software products used by the triathlete crowd, from route analyzers to workout logs. As they sat at the kitchen table, plates accompanied by a bowl of tossed salad, the wine and a pitcher of water with a second set of glasses, she again sized up his broad shoulders and lean-muscled torso...for informational purposes only, naturally.
Ignoring the little heated pulse of reaction she experienced just looking at him, she picked up her fork. “Triathlons, huh? I take it that’s your competition of choice.”
He glanced up from his serving of casserole. “I’ve cut back, actually,” he said. “I’m trying for a...tamer lifestyle, I’d guess you’d say.”
Tamer? A man like this, self-made, self-possessed, flat-out sexy, didn’t have a tame bone in his body. Not even his pinkie was domesticated. Not even his little toe.
He laughed. “You look like you don’t believe me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He laughed again, and at that moment, they both reached for the pitcher of water. Their fingers tangled somewhere above the handle. And for a woman who no longer believed in magic, there had to be something else to account for the hot thrill that rushed like pinpricks up the tender inner flesh of her arm. Biology? Chemistry? A reason both logical and objective, likely involving pheromones as well as adrenaline, because two conflicting compulsions were at war inside her: to get closer to Caleb, and to run very far away from him.
Really, she should have paid more attention in her science classes, she decided, because she’d feel better with a solid explanation for why her skin felt hot, why her blood ran itchy through her veins, why her nerves were speed-dialing messages to random parts of her body.
Her belly tensed.
Her toes curled.
Her fingers clutched at his.
“Meg.” His quiet voice made her shift her gaze from their joined hands to his eyes. There was heat in them, and a curious kind of humor, too. “Are you seeing someone?” he asked.
The question gave her the impetus to slide her fingers from his. “No.” She watched him fill her water glass, then his, without spilling a drop. If the pitcher had been in her hand, it would have wavered all over the place. “I had a man in my life a while back, but he wanted marriage and that’s not for me.”
“Really?” Caleb asked, one brow rising.
“Really,” she said, finding his skeptical tone irritating. All women—even those approaching the supposedly dreaded 3-0—weren’t focused on white lace and promises. So she tossed her hair over her shoulder and said the first flippant thing that came into her head. “I’m more into short-term, for-the-physical-release-only affairs.”
Then she thought of how that sounded. Tackiness aside, some might construe it as an invitation. Her fingers tightened on her fork. “I mean, I...”
She had the distinct impression he was laughing again, though his mouth was closed as he chewed a bite of the eggplant dish. He swallowed, wiped his lips with his napkin, then gave her an encouraging smile. “You mean...?”
“I don’t know what I mean,” she mumbled, once again feeling out of her depth. It was infuriating, really, this nervous, edgy feeling. Meg never felt nervous in that way. Men didn’t put her on edge.
“It’s okay,” Caleb said, his gaze shifting to his plate. “I’m a little unsteady myself.”
She didn’t press for clarification of that, though she didn’t believe for a second that he was anything less than rock-solid. He appeared cucumber-cool as he continued calmly with his meal, eliciting more information from her—that she belonged to a book group that read nonfiction only; her favorite recent film was an award-winning documentary about the Great Depression—and offering up some additional details about himself—he had two nieces that he took to Disneyland by himself every year; his favorite movie was the latest blockbuster adaptation of a best-selling fantasy series.
Even as he laughed when she admitted she’d once sabotaged the book group’s secret ballot process so they didn’t pick as their next read the best-selling, but looked-long-and-boring biography of an obscure former president, and she laughed at the recounting of his determined quest to hunt down the Magic Kingdom’s Cinderella to obtain for his nieces a coveted photo—“I began to think the princess was like the fabled but elusive unicorn”—that edgy, breathless feeling did not abate.
It was sexual awareness, of course. Sexual tension.
An exhausting state of being, truth be told. By the time she stretched foil across the cooled, leftover casserole so he could return with it to his cottage, she felt as if she’d spent the past couple of hours on the narrow ledge of a high building. During heavy winds.
Yes, he was a charming companion in many respects, but she was glad the evening was coming to an end as she walked him to the door. Bitzer pressed against Meg’s knees as she stood in the entryway with his master. She patted his warm head in goodbye, then gave in to impulse and knelt down beside him to place a kiss on his soft doggy cheek.
Rising, she met Caleb’s smiling eyes. He held the casserole dish in one hand and gestured toward Bitzer with the other. “Do I get one of those, too?” he asked.
“Uh...” Oh, why not? that voice inside her asked. It was impulse again, or perhaps curiosity that brought Meg up on her toes. What woman wouldn’t want to get a little closer to such a perfect specimen of male-in-his-prime?
She leaned in, prepared to buss his lean cheek.
His large hand speared through the mass of hair at the back of her head, bringing her mouth to his. He didn’t go for a simple peck, or a gentle lips-to-lips brush, either. This was a full-on, fiery kiss, his mouth firm on hers, his tongue sliding inside without hesitation.
A sound came from low in her throat—surprise, appreciation, wonder—and she clutched at his shoulders. Her body flushed hot and she moved closer to his as if pressure could assuage the sudden ache between her legs and the tender heaviness of her breasts.
Caleb’s kiss continued until her head dropped back. Murmuring something, he slid his mouth along her cheek and down her neck. Goose bumps broke out on that thin skin and then shivered down her spine. The sensation jolted her back to reality and she took a hasty step away, staring at him as she inhaled great gulps of air.
Caleb stared back, then he shook his head, a rueful smile curving his lips. “Wow. I didn’t expect it to be quite all that.”
Meg, part embarrassed, part pleased, felt her face heat. Now there was a distinct throbbing between her thighs and her nipples were so tight they almost stung. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say we can try that again,” Caleb answered, then wrapped his free hand around her upper arm to pull her close again.
She went willingly, her mouth already parted, eager for his tongue, his taste. Why not this? she thought, her mind going woozy as he licked her bottom lip. Maybe one of those quick, physical releases she’d claimed were her thing was in order. A reward for doing her sister a goo
d turn.
Caleb’s tongue slid against hers and she moaned. Yes, yes. A casual fling. Nothing worrisome, because didn’t he look just like a casual kind of man?
Moving nearer, she accidentally jostled the hand that held the casserole and felt him stiffen. “Oh, no,” she cried, shifting back. “Did it burn you?” She could see the splash of tomato sauce on his shirt, where he’d held the dish against his side.
“No, it just surprised me,” he said, looking down at himself, his expression sheepish. “I completely forgot about the eggplant parmesan.”
She took it out of his hand and hurried toward the kitchen. “Take off the shirt and I’ll run it under cold water. Maybe it won’t stain.”
“It’s an old shirt,” he protested, trailing her.
“Take it off, anyway,” she said, letting her smile bloom, because she knew he couldn’t see it. Her blood was still thrumming in her veins and with his chest bare, she’d be one step closer to the possibility of a doesn’t-have-to-mean-anything hookup with a beautiful, casual man.
Lucky Meg, she told herself. Though she wasn’t usually so impetuous, being with Caleb just felt right. And, after all, didn’t she deserve some good fortune?
Setting the dish on the counter, she whirled around. Oh, yes. Caleb had his T-shirt in hand, leaving for her appreciation a wealth of tanned skin and muscled chest.
In the middle of which was a clearly new, very serious-looking, four-inch scar.
CHAPTER TWO
CALEB MCCALL DIDN’T waste time anymore. Actually, he’d never been much of a time-waster, but now he was a definite time-appreciater. As he walked southward along the beach of Crescent Cove, that’s what he did—appreciate. The fresh, fog-laden air was almost intoxicating. Not that he needed a buzz; he’d had one since kissing Starr—Meg—the night before.
Yeah, a buzz and a hard-on, he thought, grimacing. It wasn’t his most comfortable night, but he’d had worse, and he held hope that last night’s frustration was a temporary circumstance. Though he figured she’d need some persuading to explore this...this situation between them.
He couldn’t blame her for being gun-shy. Losing Peter had affected them all in ways big and small. His cousin had been open-minded and bighearted, the kind of person who had friends of all kinds, from tech geeks to varsity jocks. It was Peter who had given confidence to his scrawny younger cousin, encouraging Caleb’s interests in both sports and computers that had come together in the successful business he’d now built. But upon hearing the news of Peter’s death, for a long time Caleb had felt as if nothing could go right with the world again.
Meg must have experienced something similar. After all, she’d actually left this beautiful place. No wonder seeing his scar—that four-inch symbol of man’s mortality—had shut her down. Oh, she’d gone through the motions of rinsing out his shirt, but she’d used the activity to avoid looking him in the eye. Short minutes later, he, Bitzer and the casserole dish had found themselves on the other side of her front door.
But Caleb wasn’t acceding defeat, not yet.
Because even before that explosive kiss, he’d been drawn to Crescent Cove—drawn to her—and he was a very determined man. To that end he’d developed a plan in the long, sleepless hours of the night. He was going to get past her newly erected guard, get her into bed and then figure out if what seemed more certain all the time was really destined to be.
Yeah. Destiny.
Looking death in the face had a way of making a man believe in such a thing.
The property management office was a one-room clapboard building with a white picket fence surrounding it and a small plot of grass. The gate was cocked open, as was the front door, and Caleb assumed the occupant couldn’t hear him approach over the crash-and-sizzle sound of the waves hitting the sand.
He halted in the doorway and, just like yesterday when he’d seen her in Beach House No. 9, was struck dumb by her beauty. Ten years ago, Caleb had liked the view, too. Despite the fact that she’d been his cousin’s girlfriend, despite the fact that he could tell his skinny teen self didn’t make a blip on her consciousness, he’d looked. A blonde girl, a skimpy bikini—what guy wouldn’t?
But now...now the sight of her struck him in the solar plexus, a fateful blow over newly healed skin. She looked just as he remembered from that odd dream he’d had while in the hospital. Not like the girl she’d been a decade before, but like this woman, with a Rapunzel-ish fall of wavy golden-brown hair and eyes that were an otherworldly green. Dressed in knee-length shorts and a T-shirt that read Tax Season Rocks, she scrutinized a piece of paper on the desk. Then she half turned, revealing the slenderness of her back and the sweet curve of her ass.
He studied her profile then, too, noting her high brow, the curl of dark brown lashes, a straight nose and the full pink curves of her lips. He’d kissed them—God!—and the lush softness had nearly blown off the top of his head. His heart had pounded so hard against his ribs that if he hadn’t already known he was completely well, the fact that he’d survived his tongue in her mouth would have convinced him.
He wanted to taste her again.
Crossing the threshold, his determined footstep sounded loud on the hardwood. Meg startled, her hand catching a box on the desk, toppling it. Keys spilled like doubloons from a treasure chest, clattering against the floor.
“Sorry,” he said, hurrying over to kneel beside her. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She scooped up some of the metal pieces and tossed them back into the box. “I’m not afraid,” she scoffed. “I just didn’t expect to see you again.”
Sending her a quizzical glance, Caleb let a stream of keys trickle out of his palm and into the container. “Meg.” He waited until she glanced his way. “You thought I’d just go away and leave you alone after that?”
Pink color suffused her cheeks, a contrast to her deep green eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“After last night.” He knew she didn’t need further illumination, because her gaze slid away from his. Still... “After those incredible, incendiary kisses.” Let her try and deny just how incendiary.
“You...you asked for one,” she said, clambering to her feet and plunking the key-laden box back onto the desk. Then she stomped around to the chair behind it, putting distance and a solid piece of furniture between herself and Caleb. “It was just a friendly ‘thanks for dinner.’”
He crossed his arms over his chest, watching as she fiddled with a pad of paper, centering it with precise movements. Denial, not just a river in Africa.
She darted a quick glance at him, then returned her focus to the desktop. “Can I help you with something?”
My aching hard-on, he almost said, just to provoke her. Her discomfort in the aftermath of their passionate embrace didn’t bode well for his plans. Seeking inspiration, he took a moment to glance around the room. There was a large, impressionistic painting on one wall that was quite well-done, in his very uninformed opinion, and clearly depicted the cove. On a set of shelves sat photographs—the Alexander family, he presumed—as well as jars of beach glass and seashells. None of them gave a clue as to how he could pierce Meg’s armor.
He swallowed a sigh. “I thought you’d like to know the repairman came and went. Oven works fine now.”
Her shoulders relaxed and she lifted her gaze to his, this time letting it linger. “Yes, he stopped by afterward to deliver his invoice. I hope it wasn’t an inconvenience.”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Well.” Her gaze dropped when he continued to stand there. “If there isn’t anything else...” She swept her hands over the desk as if to point out the multitude of tasks facing her. Too bad it was nearly empty.
He ignored the hint and took the chair on the other side of the desk. All his instincts told him now was not the time to back off. She peeped at him again, he
r mouth pursing in a way that made him think more of kissing than of disapproval.
“You didn’t ask about my scar,” he said in a conversational tone.
A moment of charged silence passed. “Well...you know, it’s none of my business.”
“I’m not sure about that. It’s what brought me here, after all.” It’s what brought me to you.
Her eyebrows rose and she gave him her full attention for the first time. “How is that?”
So cautious was Meg, so different than the Starr of ten years before, who had seemed to welcome life and love as if they were her due. He remembered her racing into the surf, dolphin-diving into the face of an oncoming wave. Would she even let the water wet her feet now? No, Caleb thought, and it took everything he had not to reach out for her, to grab her hand and tug her into his lap where he could whisper in her ear, assuring her he would always be her safe harbor.
But he knew she wasn’t ready for that. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he was ready, though it didn’t seem he had much choice in the matter. Those kisses last night had proved that ready didn’t mean squat. When something so bright, so sure, came your way, you just grabbed for it with all you had and held on.
Looking death in the face made that Lesson Number One.
“Caleb?”
Right. He was supposed to be explaining his impetus for renting a beach cottage, though he’d better keep the exact details to himself for the moment. “I was in the hospital when Crescent Cove...uh, the idea of it just popped into my head. I knew I had to visit as soon as I was well.”
When he didn’t continue, she threw him a disgruntled look. “Fine, I’ll ask. Why were you in the hospital?”
“How much do you know about hearts?”
“Are we talking physical or metaphorical?”
Both were important when it came to the two of them, but Caleb would address that later. “Physical.”
