On the Rocks (A Turtle Island Novel)

by Kim Law

  “Tell your mom thanks for the beer. And the offer of a casserole.”

  “Will do.” She yawned. “See you in the morning.”

  He nodded, taking her in one last time, and silently thanking his mother for sending him home. Just possibly he would heal a little before these few weeks were up.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was already past six o’clock, and she was late.

  Ginger hurried into the mudroom Monday afternoon, pulling her shirt over her head before she even made it to the washing machine. She had a date arriving to pick her up in less than an hour, and she was filthy. She’d taken a boatload of tourists deep-sea fishing that morning, had spent the next hour out at the house doing nothing more than watching her home come to life—she had electricity and plumbing installed, and a huge crew of men had shown up to hang drywall today—then she’d finished her day on the ferry.

  After departing the ship for the last time, she’d hurried, attempting to edge around a group to get to her car and save a few minutes, only to slip and end up in a mudhole. Not stepped in it, but fell. It had rained last night, and she was well aware that the hole was always there.

  And now she was even later.

  She shimmied out of her jeans, eyeballed Mz. Lizzie as she pranced into the laundry room with her tail swishing in the air and a yellow bow hanging lopsided around her neck, then dumped her underthings in the machine along with her jeans and shirt.

  Meow.

  She looked down at the cat. “What?”

  Meow.

  “Really? You’re going to pay attention to me today? What happened, did your mama forget to feed you before she left?” Her mother had gotten off work early, and she and Clint had gone over to the mainland for a business party. They planned to stay overnight, returning on the ferry tomorrow. Which would be convenient if tonight’s date happened to turn out spectacularly.

  She couldn’t see it going that well, but just in case, she did plan on bringing out the lace. She was getting a little desperate.

  Meow.

  “What, silly cat?” Ginger stooped, reaching out a hand to scratch Mz. Lizzie behind the ears, but the cat sidestepped her. Of course she did.

  Grabbing the dirty clothes from the weekend, Ginger ignored the animal and tossed the armload in with everything else, added a healthy dose of laundry detergent, and closed the lid. Then she moved to put out food for Mz. Lizzie, but the bowl wasn’t empty.

  Meow.

  “I don’t know what you want,” Ginger grumbled. She was running too late to play games with a cat.

  She grabbed her cell off the dryer, and as if the cat had simply been waiting for her to be done, Mz. Lizzie pranced out of the room, leading Ginger into the kitchen. Where Ginger picked up the scent of something good.

  “Did she cook before leaving?” Ginger spoke to herself.

  But why? Her mother knew she planned to go out tonight.

  Nevertheless, Ginger headed to the source of the smell, which was the oven, and peered in. The heat was still on. Still cooking. And a yummy-looking cheesy casserole bubbled inside.

  “What the . . .”

  She dug two pot holders out of a drawer, intending to pull the dish from the heat. Only to freeze at the sound of the powder-room door opening and closing. Then footsteps heading her way.

  “Mz. Lizzie.” She hissed the cat’s name in a panic, as if the feline could save the day. Who was in the house? And why?

  And where was that darned can of Mace Kayla was always preaching about?

  Her questions were answered the instant Carter reached the kitchen door. Ginger’s shoulders slumped, and a burst of air expelled from her lungs. “It’s you.”

  Carter stopped in the doorway, and the expression on his face looked as if she’d thrown cold water at him. Or as if he’d seen her naked.

  “Ah, crap.” Ginger jumped into action, scanning for a dish towel, but there was none. Only the pot holders that were already in her hands. So she slid behind the center island, and covered each breast with a hand-stitched, white-robed angel. Her mother had gotten the pot holders as a Christmas gift last year. Apparently she’d never put them away after the holidays.

  Meow.

  Ginger gritted her teeth. “I see now, Mz. Lizzie. We have company. Thanks for that warning.”

  “Uh . . .” Carter looked shell-shocked.

  “What are you doing here, Carter?” she asked calmly. Someone had to say something.

  “Your mother let me in.” He pointed to the oven, his arm stiff. “So I could cook.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Cooking.” Why in God’s name hadn’t her mother warned her? Her mind whirled, trying to figure the best way out of the situation. She could send Carter to her room for clothes.

  But then he’d have to rummage through her stuff, and she didn’t want that.

  She could just walk out of there as she was. She wasn’t overly concerned about nudity as a general rule. And it was only Carter. If it were Andie or Roni she wouldn’t give it a second thought.

  “Here.” Carter thrust an apron at her, his eyes now cast in another direction. His cheeks had turned pink. A feat she wouldn’t have expected was possible. It made her even more tempted to sashay right past him in the buff.

  But he was trying to be such a gentleman . . .

  “Thanks.” She took the apron, having to step away from the island to reach it, and slipped the strap over her head. The material was black with white polka dots, there were two large pockets below the belted waist, and the whole thing was edged with a white ruffle. It was cute.

  But it made her look a little like a French maid.

  Also, the sides of her boobs poked out.

  After tying the apron behind her back, she tugged her hair from under the neck strap and picked up the pot holders. She used them to cover the outer boob area.

  “I’m decent,” she announced. Of course, her rear was bare, but he couldn’t see that.

  Carter carefully turned back.

  “For the love . . .” he muttered.

  “French maidish, right?” Ginger teased. She figured playing it off would be the only way to keep from turning bright red. She looked down at herself. She hadn’t seen this particular apron before, but it totally looked like something her mother would pick out. Very feminine. And kind of naughty.

  Carter, clearly attempting to avoid looking at her, went to the built-in oven. He walked stiff-legged and flipped the interior light, actually turning it off, before flipping it back on and stooping to peer through the glass as if his life, as well as that of the casserole, depended on it.

  “What are you cooking?” she asked.

  “Chicken.”

  She smiled at his clipped tone. “It smells good.”

  Time was ticking down on getting ready for her date, but this was actually kind of fun. Carter’s embarrassment made any she’d had disappear. And the whole thing struck her as funny.

  “Could you please put some clothes on, Ginger?” He still didn’t look at her.

  “I have clothes on.”

  He literally growled, which only made her laugh out loud.

  “Why are you so embarrassed? I’m covered.”

  “You’re naked.”

  She moved to his side—being sure to keep her exposed backside away from view—and leaned in, peering into the oven with him. “It looks good,” she whispered loudly.

  “I swear to God, Ginger. Put on some clothes.”

  She straightened, but looked down at herself to ensure she truly was covered. There was a bit of cleavage going on, but with the addition of the pot holders at the sides, she was hidden.

  “What’s the matter, Carter? Never seen anyone in an apron before?” She gave him a toothy grin, and finally, he looked at her. His gaze burned steady, and his jaw was clenched. And then she saw it. Her eyes went wide. “You’re turned on?” She glanced down at herself. “By me?”

  “You’re naked.”

  “I’m—” She snapped her
mouth shut, growing embarrassed herself. “It didn’t occur to me this would bother you. You never even noticed me back in high school.”

  “Sweetheart, we are no longer in high school.”

  A thrill rushed through her. For two totally different reasons. She went with the safer one. “So you’re saying my problem with men isn’t my looks?”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “It is not your looks.”

  “Well, that’s”—she cleared her throat—“good to know. Because I have a date tonight,” she tacked on, nerves making her voice too perky when he didn’t take his eyes off her. “A firefighter I met at the bar Friday night,” she rattled. “I’m keeping my fingers crossed with this one.” She crossed the fingers of her right hand to show him, but the pot holder slipped and she exposed a curve.

  “Damn it, Ginger.” He unbuttoned his shirt. “Put this on.”

  And then she got turned on.

  The soft cotton of his button-down settled around her shoulders, and she eyed the set of ripped muscles with a fine sprinkling of hair that just happened to be right in front of her. “Wow.” She lifted her eyes to his. “You’re definitely not as scrawny as you first looked.”

  “You’re not helping matters any.”

  He looked somewhere above her head as she released the hold on the pot holders and slid one arm at a time into the sleeves. The material was warm against her back, and suddenly the only thing she could smell was him. Hot male flesh mixed with sawdust, a bit of sweat, and whatever cologne he’d started the morning with. It was intoxicating, but she fought the urge to bury her nose in the collar and inhale.

  When he finally looked back down at her, she realized how close they were standing, and she struggled not to be sucked under by the pulse beating rapidly in his throat. He pulled in a deep breath, expanding his chest toward hers, then blew it out. The puff of air ruffled the hair over her left ear, and her eyelids fluttered. And she was pretty sure that if she were wearing panties, they’d be instantly damp.

  “You need to get your ass out of the kitchen, and put on some clothes.” His words were too calm, almost cold.

  “I have to shower first.” Two inches forward and she could put her lips to his neck.

  “Get out of the kitchen,” Carter ground out. “Now.”

  She gulped, but she didn’t waste any more time. She whirled and ran. At the top of the stairs, she smiled. Then she slipped inside her room, closed the door behind her, and pulled Carter’s shirt to her nose.

  Carter was attracted to her. She had not seen that coming.

  In the bathroom, she slipped out of the shirt and apron and took the world’s quickest shower. After she dried off, she stood in front of the mirror and considered, for one brief moment, walking back downstairs just as she was, and proclaiming that she wanted Carter. At least for tonight.

  She got hot all over again.

  But that would be silly. She had a hot date on his way to pick her up at that very moment. A guy who, at the very least, stood a chance of being long-term. Carter wasn’t even in the same ballpark. He had too many issues. Too many hurts. And way too much anger. And she wasn’t ready to give up the hunt just yet.

  Ten minutes later, she was as polished as time would allow. She wore a cute blue sundress, and slipped into heeled sandals, then gave one last fluff to her hair before grabbing Carter’s shirt and heading to the kitchen. With any luck, he’d be gone and she could return the clothing later.

  But he stood right where she’d left him, the casserole cooling on top of the stove, his chest still wondrously bare, and his hip propped against the counter. He’d waited for her.

  Nerves had her pausing at the kitchen door. She took a fortifying breath and walked in as if she hadn’t recently been there wearing little more than the man’s shirt and a couple of pot holders.

  “Thanks,” she murmured as she held the shirt out to him.

  This time it was she who didn’t look at him. But she heard his every move as he slid his arms into the material.

  Her gaze landed on her fingernails, and she bit down on her frustration. Why did she always forget that? Without another word, she yanked open a drawer and dug through the contents. Carter watched her. She came up with a fingernail file as the doorbell rang, but remembered at the same time that she’d forgotten her purse upstairs. And jewelry.

  She faced Carter. “Will you get the door for me?”

  “You had him pick you up here?” He sounded annoyed. “Do you even know this man?”

  “We met the other night, I told you. At Gin’s.”

  The scowl she knew so well was firmly back in place as he finished up the buttons on his shirt. “He could be a serial killer.”

  “I have Mace,” she scoffed. “Plus, the island isn’t big. He could find me if he wanted to.” She picked at one of her nails. “Will you let him in or not?”

  He moved reluctantly in the direction of the foyer, and Ginger hurried back up the stairs. After doing all she could for her nails, she dug out a necklace and pair of earrings, and stepped in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of her room. With three deep breaths, her nerves began to settle.

  “You can do this,” she urged her reflection. She smoothed her hands down over her hips.

  “I don’t get it.”

  She jumped at the words. Carter stood at her open door.

  “What are you doing up here?” Her voice climbed an octave. “Did you let him in?”

  “He’s waiting for you in the foyer.” He skimmed his gaze over her body. “Why all the pretense?” he asked. “The dresses, the jewelry . . . You hate that.”

  “It’s called making a good impression.” Turning away, she checked her backside and tugged at the material over her hips. “And anyway, I like this dress.”

  “It’s called being fake. Any anyway, you make a hell of an impression without even trying.”

  She stopped long enough to smirk at him. “I am not walking down there naked.”

  Embarrassment colored his features, and his cheeks once again turned pink. “I didn’t mean that.” He clenched and released his hands, then glared at her. “Just be you. That’s what I’m saying. Don’t try so hard. You are pretty terrific.”

  He made it sound so easy.

  She turned back to her reflection, and tried not to think about how much she wished Carter’s words could be true, but her past indicated otherwise. Better to stick with the plan.

  Grabbing her purse off the small love seat, she moved across the room. When she reached his side, she looked up at him expectantly, and he took a step back to let her pass. Before she’d gone more than a couple of feet, she turned back. She didn’t want to go.

  But her date was waiting.

  “I don’t have a charter in the morning,” she told him. Her eyes watched his carefully. “See you at sunrise?”

  “Definitely. Let’s go out to your house, though. I want to see the view from your deck.”

  She smiled. “Sitting on the pier out there is even better.”

  Leaning in to him, she quickly lifted to tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. It wasn’t a move she’d planned, but it felt right. And she liked the feel of his scruffy days’ growth of whiskers under her lips.

  “Don’t forget to lock up when you leave.” She winked, then walked away.

  As her foot reached the bottom stair, Carter leaned over the railing above. “By the way . . .”

  She looked up, waiting to see what he had to say.

  He smiled widely, the move so disarming, so sultry, that she lost her breath. “Nice tattoo.”

  Dang. That fast, and she was turned on again. He must have seen more than she’d realized as she’d dashed from the kitchen.

  Because her tattoo rode high up on her hip.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  How’d the date go?”

  Carter stood on the front porch of Ginger’s house at dawn the next morning, his hands tucked into his back jean pockets, wishing he didn’t enjoy the frown on he
r face so much.

  She eyed him from the bottom of the steps. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He winced. “Sorry.” It was all he had.

  He couldn’t very well admit he’d secretly been hoping it didn’t go well—he hadn’t liked the firefighter who’d come to her door last night. And he certainly wouldn’t tell her that he’d spent the previous evening—again—watching for her to return home. There had been no drinking for him—or smoking . . . that had grown old—just in case she didn’t show up and he had to go looking for her.

  And why? All because he’d seen her naked? Because he’d gotten all hot and bothered when he’d written a sex scene about her?

  Or because he’d gotten his nagging question answered when he’d seen her naked?

  Pink. Her nipples were pink, just like he’d imagined. A very soft, almost-too-faint-to-see touch of color that proudly centered her breasts. A hue that he would have gladly handed over the keys to his custom-built home for just the opportunity to touch.

  Fuck. He had to get a grip. Ginger was his friend, and a friend only. Even if he wanted it to be more, what would be the point? She was looking for a husband. A man to give her babies. And that wasn’t him. He’d blown the husband and father opportunity with Lisa, and he had zero desire to put himself back out there.

  Ginger climbed the steps to him. “Why didn’t you wait and come over with me?”

  He’d left a note for her that morning. He’d woken up with the desire to actually write his book. And he’d wanted to do it here. More than one scene had been in his head when he’d opened his eyes, and once he’d set up a makeshift desk on the top-floor deck, his fingers had flown over the keyboard. He was writing again.

  “Couldn’t sleep” was all he said.

  He knew he should tell her he was an author. That he was, incidentally, one of her favorite authors. But he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. Mostly because until this morning, he’d been wondering if he could still call himself that.

  But the two hours he’d spent lost in his head had given him an adrenaline rush he hadn’t felt in months. Another morning or two like that, and he’d spill his guts. He wanted to see the look on her face when she found out.