by Leanne Banks
She lifted an eyebrow. “We’ll have to see.”
He won the first two games and she was not at all happy. The way she fumed reminded him of a buzzing honey bee.
“I demand a rematch. Those first two games were flukes.”
“Flukes?” he echoed, enjoying taunting her just a little. “You’re just peeved because I’m beating the pants off of you.”
“My pants are staying exactly where they are,” she retorted. “You’re the one who’s still not dressed. That’s your secret weapon.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your chest. It’s distracting. That’s why you’re winning. You play dirty.”
He brushed her backhanded compliment aside, although he felt flattered as hell. “I wouldn’t call it dirty,” he said. “I just always play to win. You want to go again?”
She met his gaze and he saw her bite her lip as she glanced at his chest then back to his face. Her expression was shockingly hungry and sexual. He immediately turned hard. He wanted to bring her small artist’s hand to his chest and feel her touch. He wanted to take that plump lip she was biting with his mouth and tongue. He wanted to slide his hands over the wonderland of her body and feel every inch of her skin against every inch of his. Then he wanted to sink himself so deep inside her—
“Go again,” she said in a husky voice. “I’ll win this time.”
The game began and he heard her breath and inhaled her scent. With every flip of the cards, he felt himself grow hotter. The image of her hair hanging around his face like a curtain, skimming over his bare skin, down his belly. He told himself to stop, but his body spurred his mind on. He wanted her small breasts in his mouth. He wanted to be inside her where it was warm and good.
“James Bond Junior,” she said triumphantly. “I told you I would win.”
“So you did,” he said.
“What do you want to do now?”
“Nothing, I ought to—” he muttered under his breath.
“Pardon? I didn’t hear you.”
“Nothing,” he said, moving his tight shoulders. It felt like his entire body was stretched tight. He suddenly felt her hand over his and his heart stopped.
“Brock?”
“Yeah?”
“If I ask you a question, would you answer it with the truth?”
His heart started beating again, way too fast. Her hand felt like a branding iron and he grit his teeth to keep from turning his palm over and pulling her to him. “What is this? Truth or dare now?”
“Just truth. Why did you come to see me?”
He sighed, conflicted. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to know.”
“He was afraid you would turn into a hermit if something happened to him.”
She made a sound of disgust and jerked her hand away. “I haven’t become a hermit. I’ve been independent. I even moved to the beach. I always told him I’d wanted to live at the beach.”
He raked his hand through his hair. If they were going down this road, then he was going to make her face the truth. “How many people have you met since you moved here?”
“My landlord and a boy who was looking for his dog,” she said defensively.
“Callie, you haven’t even spent more than thirty minutes in a grocery store. You’re white as a ghost because you sleep all day and work at night.”
“Maybe I’m part vampire,” she joked.
She was sucking the restraint out of him. “You’ve done what Rob was afraid you would do. You’ve become a hermit. You haven’t made any friends. You haven’t gotten involved with anything or anyone. You’ve cut yourself off from the rest of the world.”
“I have not. It’s just taking me a while to find my—” She broke off as if she couldn’t find the word.
“What? Your mojo?”
She snorted. “I never had a mojo.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
She stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve obviously got some kind of mojo going with your art,” he said with a shrug. “And I’m sure there are plenty of men, given the opportunity,” he added meaningfully, “who would like to help you explore your mojo.”
“I don’t want anyone but Rob,” she whispered, and the pain in her eyes chipped at his heart.
“I know, but he wants you to go on. He wouldn’t want you to live this way.”
She closed her eyes. “I can’t love anyone.”
Unable to keep himself from touching her, he took her hand in his. “If ever someone was made to love, it was you, Callie. I could have told you that just by looking at the photo Rob kept of you.”
“But how do you love when you don’t feel like living?” she asked him, opening her eyes to search his.
“You wake up every morning and you put one foot in front of the other. You go through the motions until you start to feel again, and you will.”
She took a careful breath. “So your coming here was a pity call, after all.”
He shook his head. “You’ve got your pain. I’ve got my demons. I can’t help thinking I should have been the one to die.”
She turned her head away from him and he had the odd sensation of the sun turning its back on him. He couldn’t blame her if she thought he should have been the one to die instead of Rob.
She turned back to him, lifting her chin. “Rob wouldn’t want you to be thinking that way, would he?”
He let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “No, Rob was a great guy,” he said. And I want his wife so bad I can taste it.
Four
Marine Lingo Translation
RON: Remain Overnight
“I’m an introvert. I was born an introvert. What if I don’t want to be friendly and meet new people?” Callie argued as they took a fast walk on the beach the next morning.
After her electricity finally came on near midnight, Brock returned to his cottage, downed a beer, willed his brain not to think and fell asleep. His Marine conditioning was unforgiving, however, and he’d awakened early. After a run on the beach, he read the newspaper and visited Callie to coax her out for a walk.
The sun shone like diamonds on the water while the tide washed over the beat-up beach. “You have to make yourself. You need to meet new people whether you want to or not.”
Her jaw tightened and she frowned. “I shouldn’t have to if I don’t want to.”
“That’s a selfish attitude,” Brock said bluntly.
Her eyes rounded and she stopped dead in her tracks. “I’m not selfish. I’m just not outgoing. I’m more comfortable by myself.”
He stopped, squaring off with her. She was probably going to think he was a nut, but he could speak from experience. He didn’t totally understand it, but looking at her photograph when he’d been overseas had given him a little lift even though he’d never really met her. “Did you ever think that there are some people who could benefit from knowing you? Did it ever occur to you that there could be people on this planet who need you in some way? People you haven’t ever met?”
She blinked and stared at him for a long moment. “No. Why would anyone need me?”
Brock swallowed an oath. He could give her a thousand reasons. “For starters, there’s your art. Those pictures you draw impact a lot of kids and parents. Those people are counting on you.”
She squinted her eyes against the sun. “I guess I can see that. But I still don’t see why I have to go out and meet people. I can just stay in my cottage and draw.”
“Yeah, that’s worked out real well the last several months, hasn’t it?”
She shot him a dirty look and began to walk again. “That wasn’t nice.”
He shrugged. “May not be nice, but it’s true. You’ve said you’re not happy with what you’ve created.”
“I’m recovering from my husband’s death,” she said, nearly spitting the words at him.
“You could spend your whole life recovering.”
“I may just do th
at,” she retorted.
He caught her by the arm. “You can’t cut yourself off like this. Rob didn’t want it.”
“Well, Rob didn’t get what he wanted and I didn’t get what I wanted, either.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t want to feel anymore. I don’t want to feel sad. I don’t deserve to feel hap—” She broke off and opened her eyes.
Brock’s heart clenched in his chest at the lost expression in her eyes. “You have to,” he said. “You’re gonna laugh. You’re gonna cry. You’re still alive, Callie. You may even love again.”
She shook her head vigorously. “Even if I found someone, I wouldn’t want to. It just hurts too much to lose.”
He nodded. “Well, you’re one up on me there. I haven’t lost anyone except my father. I never had anything special with a woman.”
“Was that because of you or the women?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe I scare all the good girls with hearts and attract the bad girls like mosquitoes.”
A chuckle bubbled from her throat. A reluctant one, he thought, looking into her eyes. “Mosquitoes?” she echoed. “Bloodsuckers. Not the most flattering description of your past girlfriends.”
“Girlfriend may be elevating the position.” He nodded and snagged her wrist. “C’mon, let’s keep walking.”
“I’m starting to get the impression that I’m a how-to project for you.”
“That’s not all bad,” he said lightly. “I’ve been commended for developing strategies that achieve goals.”
“But what if your goal and mine are different?”
“Then we’ll negotiate,” he lied.
She looked at him skeptically. “You don’t strike me as a particularly flexible kind of guy.”
“Maybe I’ll surprise you,” he said, determined to keep the exchange light. If she knew what he really had planned, his life just might be in danger.
“You already have surprised me,” she said darkly.
An impulse he couldn’t ignore bit at him and he whisked her up into his arms.
She gasped, squirming in his arms. Her body felt soft and warm. “What are you doing?”
He carried her swiftly to the ocean as she started to kick and scream so loudly the seagulls squawked and flew away. Despite her struggle, he couldn’t remember holding a woman who felt so sweet.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He kept walking and lowered both of them up to their shoulders into the cool water. She shrieked again and shook her head at him. With all her huffing and puffing, her breath played over him like a little breeze. “Why did you do that? The water’s cold from the storm. I’m all wet.”
“I am, too.”
“So?” she said frowning.
“Think of it as a demonstration,” he told her. “If my strategy gets you wet, I’ll get wet, too.”
She opened her mouth and her jaw worked, but no sound came out. Her eyebrows knit together. “I think you may be insane,” she said.
He knew he was insane. He wanted to run his hands over all her curves and secret places. He was burning with need. Just having her in his arms was incredible temptation. Yep, he was definitely insane.
“I have no idea what your point is.”
Sighing, he stood up and carried her from the ocean. “You’ll understand soon enough,” he said as he reluctantly set her down on the sand. He didn’t want her to know he was hard. She would think he was a pervert.
Her teeth chattered and her nipples puckered against her tank top. “I don’t like being told what’s best for me.”
It took all the self-discipline Brock possessed to lift his gaze from her small breasts. “As soon as you realize what’s best for you, then nobody will need to tell you.”
She scowled and turned away from him. “I’m a grown woman. I don’t need you telling me what to do.”
“Start acting like it then,” he dared her.
She did a double take. “What do you mean?”
“I mean start acting like a grown woman.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a long, considering glance. “I don’t agree with your methods, but you may be kinda right.”
“Kinda?” he asked.
“Okay, mostly. I probably should start acting like a grown woman, a live grown woman.”
He nodded. “Yep.”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “Yep. Even if it kills me.”
Or kills me, he thought, as he watched her turn and treat him to the inviting sight of her backside encased in nearly transparent white shorts. Her underwear looked like it was a light lilac color. Brock felt himself harden again and groaned. If this was supposed to be the cure for his ravaged conscience, he wondered if boiling himself in water would be easier.
“I think you should start by going to a bar,” Brock said that evening. He’d always been told the best way to get over a woman was to go to a bar, drink too many beers and meet a new woman. He figured the reverse would be true for Callie.
Looking at him as if he’d lost his mind, she shook her head. “No. That’s like stealing home before you go to first, second or third base. I thought a nice quiet trip to the library—”
He shook his head. “Nope. Too solitary. The objective is to get you back and involved with humans, not books.”
She made a face and sighed. “I agree that I need to get out more, to try to have more of a life, if for no other reason than my art. You’re right. I’ve isolated myself. But I want to take it slowly at first. There’s this cute little restaurant that serves all these different kinds of teas—”
Brock rolled his eyes. For Pete’s sake, punitive night drills during boot camp had been easier than this. They negotiated for another five minutes and finally decided on a trip to the grocery store.
“Pitiful,” he muttered under his breath as she pushed the cart through the produce section. “Pitiful.”
“Hey, don’t knock it. This is the first time I’ve been to a real grocery store in ages. You have to crawl before you can walk. Oh, look. Fresh peaches. I love fresh peaches.”
“I know,” Brock said and chuckled when she stuck out her tongue at him.
“Okay, smarty-pants, what’s your favorite fruit?”
“Cherries,” he said.
“No surprise there,” she said dryly. “Given your way with the ladies.”
He dropped his jaw in mock surprise. “I’m shocked that your mind would sink so low. My mother baked a great cherry pie. I usually had cherry pie for my birthday instead of cake. And my grandmother had a cherry tree in her backyard.”
“Oops. Sorry. It was a natural connection to make—cherries, ladies.” Her cheeks bloomed. “Or not. Tell me about this pie your mother used to make. Did she make the crust from scratch? I never could figure out how to make a good crust.”
He nodded, swallowing his humor over her chatty effort to cover her gaffe. “She made the whole thing from scratch. I have the recipe and I can make it.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re kidding. You can bake a cherry pie from scratch?”
“Yeah. What’s so unbelievable about that?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “You just don’t seem the domestic type.”
“I’m not, but I don’t like to starve. And I don’t get home much anymore, so if I want hot cherry pie, I make it myself.”
She studied him. “You really don’t get along with your stepfather, do you?”
“Tough relationship. I’ve accepted it.”
“I bet your mom misses you, though.”
He nodded, thinking how frequently she’d written him when he’d been in the hospital.
“Maybe you should go see her,” she said.
He wasn’t accustomed to women giving him advice about his mother. “Maybe I will after I get settled in Atlanta.”
They turned the cart onto the dairy aisle and she picked up a couple of cartons of yogurt and a small jug of milk. “I could never live in Atlanta.
Too busy. Too crowded. Too much traffic.”
“Depends on your point of view. There’s a lot of stimulation in Atlanta, lots of things to do.”
“As an artist, I prefer the quiet of a smaller town.”
“One of the things I learned as a Marine was to create the quiet inside me. That way, I take it with me wherever I go. I’m not dependent on my environment.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. “I never thought of it that way.”
They continued through the store and completed her shopping. One more aisle to go and it was the cookie aisle. “Are you going to be a good girl and avoid the sweets?”
“Absolutely not,” she said, grabbing a box of cookies. He grinned. “For such a little thing, you sure like your sweets.”
“High metabolism,” she said and grabbed one more box. “That’s all,” she said, but stopped suddenly near the end of the aisle.
“What is it?” he asked, seeing her features tighten with pain.
She held her breath. “It’s silly, really silly. But he loved animal crackers. Even when he grew up, Rob loved animal crackers. I sent them to him when he was overseas.”
Brock felt a sharp twist in his chest at the lost expression on Callie’s face. She and Rob had known each other for so long that there would be many memories that would ambush her at odd times. It occurred to him that she might feel barraged with those memories when she ventured outside her cottage.
“Breathe,” he said. “It’s worse when you freeze up.”
She glanced at him in surprise and took a shallow breath.
“Take another one, deeper,” he coached, and watched her make the effort. He reached across her and took the small box of animal crackers from the shelf.
“Why did you—”
“We’re going to eat these in Rob’s memory,” he said.
He drove her back to the cottage and they unloaded her groceries. She pulled out the box of animal crackers, opened it and solemnly ate a lion. She offered Brock a giraffe. She munched on a monkey then swallowed.
“This is probably very disrespectful to mention at this particular moment, but—” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I don’t like animal crackers.”
Brock chuckled. “Neither do I. They taste like cardboard.”
