“He does,” she said.
“Lucky you. And he’ll probably stay with you for the long haul.”
“That’s what I want.” No, it was more than wanting. “What I need,” she corrected herself.
“But you want both of you to be happy, right?”
“Of course. And we will be. We have fun together, Henry.”
“You can have fun with anyone.”
“I want to have fun with him. And I want more than that. I want a soul connection.”
“Pastors are all about souls. I guess you’re good to go there.”
Yes, she was. Time to change the subject. “How’s the book coming?”
“Getting close to the end. Just finished a scene. Want to read it?”
“Is it gory?”
“No.” He held out his laptop.
She took it and sat down on the bed, and he moved next to her, looking over her shoulder as she read about the detective hero’s strategy to protect the serial killer’s latest target. The last time she’d snooped, er, checked, the killer had nearly succeeded in murdering the poor woman and now, like Henry’s fictional cop, Celeste feared for the woman’s life.
“I don’t think I can take much more of this,” she said as they went up the walk to his beach place.
He never brought women here, hardly came here himself anymore. But it was still a good place to stash someone. She’d be safe here. That was why he was bringing her. That was what he’d told himself. But he knew it was more than that. She’d become like air to him. The air he breathed. The air that kept him alive...
Celeste couldn’t help sighing. “That is really romantic.”
“That’s how a man should feel about a woman,” Henry said.
Celeste knew that was how Paul felt about her.
“And that’s how a woman should feel about a man,” he added.
Celeste kept reading.
“This won’t last much longer,” he promised. “We’re closing in on the sick bastard.”
“It can’t be too soon.”
He led her to the bedroom where she’d be sleeping, set down her overnight bag. The moonlight was flooding the room, washing over her pale skin and lovely golden hair.
“You’re beautiful in the moonlight,” he said.
Celeste was suddenly very aware of Henry sitting next to her. She could feel the heat of his body, feel his breath on her neck.
She cleared her throat, which was suddenly dry. “This is good.”
“It was inspired by...”
Don’t say it. Celeste held her breath. What if he said it was her? She was tingling all over and felt like she had a beehive in her panties.
“Someone,” Henry finished.
She didn’t ask who. She didn’t have to. Feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable, she read on.
Maybe, once this was all over, he’d never see her again. But he had to have her, had to make her his.
The hero got busy doing just that and the bees got busy again. Oh, the things that cop was doing to that woman. It was getting very hot in Henry’s room.
“You don’t have to finish it,” he taunted, breaking the spell.
Celeste frowned and shoved his laptop back at him. “That cop is just using her. I hope the killer gets him.”
That made Henry grin. “Every writer wants the reader to have a visceral reaction to his work,” he said lightly. “But I have to let my cop live.”
“Yeah?” she retorted. “Well, I think he must die.”
He laughed. “That’s not the title of the book.”
“Change the title.”
“Besides, how do you know he doesn’t really love her?”
“I can tell. He only wants in her pants.”
“Crude. What would your preacher say?” Then, before she could reply, his smile was replaced by a more serious expression. “Maybe my hero is afraid to tell her how he really feels,” he said softly. “Maybe he doesn’t think he has a chance.”
It was definitely too hot in this room. “I have work to do,” Celeste mumbled and beat it before they could take the conversation any further. The last thing she needed was Henry Gilbert saying what they both knew. They were drawn to each other—metal to magnet, moth to flame.
But attraction wasn’t true love. Attraction was what had gotten her in trouble over and over again. She had so much more than that with Paul. No way was she going to do anything to lose it. And darn it all, wasn’t it time for Henry Gilbert to check out?
* * *
Celeste was glad to see her mother when she arrived, not simply because she loved her dearly and was looking forward to spending time with her, but also because she wanted Mel to meet Paul.
He escorted all the Jones women and Aunt Edie to the festivities on Friday night, and they enjoyed the rides, the corn dogs and a concert by the Moonlight Harbor High a cappella singing group. After the concert he returned to the house to visit.
“What do you think of Paul?” Celeste asked her mom once he’d left.
“He’s a really nice man,” Mel replied.
“And perfect for her,” put in Jenna.
“What do you think, sweetie?” their mother asked Celeste. “Is he the man for you?”
“He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.” So how could he not be?
“I must say, he’s head and shoulders above the other men you’ve brought home,” her mom said with a smile. “But there’s more to finding the right partner than a checklist. You know that.”
Yes, she did. Of course she did. “How did you know Dad was the right one?” she asked.
“I couldn’t picture the rest of my life without him,” her mother said simply.
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t picture my life without Damien,” Jenna muttered, “and look where that got me.”
Her mother acknowledged Jenna’s point with a nod, then said to Celeste, “I didn’t say you shouldn’t have a checklist. But the connection needs to be there, too.”
“We have that,” Celeste told her.
“If you do, then you’re all set.”
But what if you had a connection with another man, as well? Celeste decided not to ask. She wasn’t even sure why. Because she didn’t want to look like a flake? Or was it something else? Maybe she didn’t want her mom advising her to wait and be absolutely certain. She’d waited long enough; she’d been waiting all her life. She was tired of waiting. Paul was the man for her.
Strolling through the crowd hand in hand with him on Saturday only confirmed it. She was so happy she couldn’t stop smiling.
Until he suggested they go to the church food booth for some strawberry shortcake. There was Hyacinth, dishing up the treats and dishing up smiles for everyone who came by.
Everyone except Celeste. The smile faltered at the sight of her. She did manage to be polite, though, and asked Celeste how she was enjoying the festival.
“I’m loving it,” Celeste said.
“I wish you could have volunteered to help us out,” Hyacinth said. “We could’ve used an extra hand.”
They seemed to have plenty of hands on deck. What a cheap shot. She suspected Paul was now wondering why she hadn’t been willing to do her part for a good cause. Maybe he was even wondering if she was unselfish enough for him. She felt a flush of shame creep up her neck.
Darn it all, she had nothing to be ashamed of. “My mom’s in town. I wanted to spend time with her.”
“Oh? Where is she?” Hyacinth asked and glanced around.
“Right now she’s with my sister at the dunking booth, trying to dunk the mayor.” Too bad we couldn’t put you in the dunking booth. I’d spend a fortune trying to drown you.
Okay, that was not a nice thought. Celeste sent it packing.
Hyacinth, the relationship saboteur, nodded. “I�
�m sure she’s having a good time.” She might as well have added, “My job here is done.”
“We all are.” Celeste pulled out her wallet. “We’ll take two strawberry shortcakes.”
“I’m paying for that,” said Paul, who already had the money out of his wallet.
“No, this one’s on me. I want to do my part.” So there.
He handed Hyacinth a ten anyway. Of course he would because it was for a good cause. And because it was a Paul sort of thing to do.
“I did work the booth on the Fourth,” she reminded him as they walked away.
“Why are you telling me that? Are you worried I’ll think you’re a slacker?” he teased.
He was so insightful, it was scary. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am. Paul, I’m not sure we’re a fit.” Would she ever receive the approval of his congregation? His whole congregation? That had to be important to him.
He slipped an arm around her and smiled. “You fit fine.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do, and we’ve had this conversation before. You have got to stop worrying about what other people think.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Yeah, you can. Every time you’re tempted to go there, remind yourself that I think you’re fabulous.”
“Do you? Really? There’s still so much you don’t know about me.”
“What don’t I know?”
“I love margaritas.”
“Olé.”
“I love to party.”
“I’ll bring the balloons.”
“Sometimes I have a potty mouth. Except you already know that.” That alone should have been enough to disqualify her from being a pastor’s girlfriend.
“I’ll bring the soap.”
“I’m being serious,” she said, exasperated.
“You’ve got a dab of strawberry on your chin,” he said. He removed his hand from around her waist and wiped off the offending dribble with his finger.
His touch should have sent a tingle down her neck. It didn’t. It only irritated her. Another man would have licked off that bit of strawberry. Or not pointed it out in the first place. She pulled away.
“I’ve got faults, too,” he said. “We all have faults, but we’re all in this together. Come on, now, don’t let your insecurities spoil our day.”
Her insecurities. He said it so condescendingly. “I think my insecurities matter.”
“Of course they do,” he said, backpedaling. “But they’re not based on anything real.”
She didn’t know if she liked that, either.
“What’s real is what’s happening between the two of us.”
He said it so softly, so sweetly. Of course he was right. She was being insecure for no reason.
“We all change. We all keep working on becoming better people.”
That was what she wanted.
“I know you’ll do that.”
She realized it was said to encourage her, but somehow his words left her feeling even more insecure. She felt an underlying message. Keep working at it. You’ll measure up eventually.
She’d picked the right man for her. But now, suddenly, she was wondering whether he’d picked the right woman for himself.
Chapter Eighteen
The rest of Paul and Celeste’s day together went so smoothly that it effectively smothered her moment of doubt. He even stayed long enough into the evening to dance one dance with her.
He was right; he couldn’t dance. That was okay. She was happy to shuffle about with his arms around her. Very romantic.
But the romance ended too soon when the musicians paused between songs and he said, “I need to get home and get ready for tomorrow. Pastors only have Friday nights to be the life of the party,” he added jokingly.
That would be the case with pastors’ wives, too. But she didn’t need to party every night. She wasn’t a college kid anymore. She was ready to settle down, start a new life and a family. Down the road—hopefully, not too far—she’d be giving their kids a bath on a Saturday while Paul went over his sermon for Sunday.
“No problem,” she told him. “I understand.”
“I’m glad you do. Come on, I’ll run you home.”
Just because he had to leave didn’t mean she had to. She wasn’t a pastor’s wife yet. The band had started a new song and some of the gang from The Drunken Sailor were lining up to dance.
“You go ahead,” she told him. “I’m going to hang around. I’ll get a ride home later with Jenna and Brody and Mom.”
He nodded, his expression reluctant. “Sorry I have to leave you.”
“That’s good,” she joked. “That way I’ll know you miss me.”
“I’ll miss you every minute,” he said and gave her a quick kiss. “See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she repeated.
She sent him off with a finger wave, then joined the dancers.
Everyone was doing a dance she knew and she had no trouble jumping in. Too soon the music was over and she found herself wishing Paul could have stayed a little longer. Later on she’d try to talk him into taking some dance lessons with her. Oh, yeah. A tango, like those sexy ones they did on Dancing with the Stars.
The band started a fast number and she sighed. She sure loved to dance.
Emerson had been great on the dance floor. He’d had the moves.
He’d had the moves, all right, and he’d enjoyed doing them with more than one woman. So did she want a man who could dance or a man who would treat her with respect? The answer to that was a no-brainer. Still, her feet were itching to move and there was no stopping them. She found herself having her own little party at the edge of the crowd.
“Want to dance?” asked a voice at her elbow.
She wasn’t given a chance to reply. The guy—oh, no, Henry!—already had a hold of her hand and was leading her into the throng. Next thing she knew, he’d put an arm around her waist and was putting her through some pretty sexy moves. He flung her out, brought her back in, dipped her, nearly made her dizzy. Definitely made her laugh from the simple thrill of it all. Who knew Henry Gilbert could dance?
“That was seriously impressive,” she said when they were done.
“Yes, it was,” he agreed, and the look he gave her...oh, no, here came the bees.
Time to go home, after all, especially since the band was launching into “Send My Love,” a sexy Adele song. “Thanks,” she said, and started to walk away.
“Oh, no,” he said, catching her arm. “You don’t want to miss this song. Know how to do a nightclub two-step?”
It was her favorite dance, one she hadn’t done since she broke up with Emerson.
Henry moved like a pro, and it was a treat to dance with someone who was so good. The music got inside her, bubbling away. What a high.
Then the band went for something slower, and he slid his hand along Celeste’s middle and settled it on her lower back. Buzz.
“You’re a good dancer,” she told him, trying desperately to distract herself from the sensations he was causing.
“You’re an ideal partner,” he said.
She could feel the heat coming off his chest. He had stubble on his chin. He was wearing some kind of citrusy aftershave. Did it have pheromones in it? Had to. She was being seduced by pheromones.
“Don’t say stuff like that,” she said.
“Why not? You are.” Then he made a face. “Oh, yeah. You should only be an ideal partner with your preacher. Where is he?”
“He had to go home.”
“He just left you here?”
“Of course not! He had to go and I wasn’t ready to leave yet.”
“You shouldn’t, not when there’s still music to dance to.” Henry’s hand splayed across her back and he pulled her close.
The heat between them was nearly killing her. She was going to melt right there on the street, under the moonlight. There’s more to life than sex, she reminded herself. And crazy, wild attraction is...crazy.
“Forget this guy,” he whispered, his breath ruffling her hair. “He’s not the one for you and you know it.”
“Henry, don’t,” she said. It was a pitifully halfhearted protest.
“Give me a chance. I could make you happy.”
He probably could. Oh, what was she doing?
She was suddenly aware of him bending just enough to brush his lips against her neck. Oooh, what was he doing?
She swallowed. “There’s more to life than sex.” There, she’d said it.
“Of course there is,” he agreed. His hand slipped down to her bottom.
She was going mushy in all the right places.
“We have a connection. You know we do,” he continued.
The song ended but they were still practically glued together. All Henry had to do was say the word, and she and her tingly mushy parts would go back to his room with him and let him do all those things to her that he’d inspired his hero to do. Her eyes drifted shut, imagining...
“Celeste!”
Her eyes flew open, and she saw Jenna, Brody and their mom. She stepped away from Henry, feeling like a sugar addict caught stealing from the candy bowl.
“Mom’s ready to go home,” Jenna said and glared at Henry.
“I can bring you back,” he said to Celeste.
If she stayed, she knew what would happen. She’d be signing the death certificate on her relationship with Paul. Henry was there for the summer; he’d abandon her in the end. He’d become famous and have affairs with literary groupies or other writers. He’d be like Jenna’s husband, finding a “soul mate” who matched his creative talents and leaving Celeste broken and bleeding.
“Thanks,” she said to him, “but I’d better go.”
Frustration and anger chased across his face. “Fine. Do what you gotta do.”
Picking the right man was what she had to do. She said a quick good-night and hurried off.
The Summer Retreat Page 20