by Tamara Lush
Damien’s the largest. The most muscular. And in my humble and totally unbiased opinion, the hottest of the three.
“Jesus, Kate, don’t stare too long or your face is going to freeze like that,” Jane grins and grabs her tray of beers. “But yeah, they’re hot. I’ll give you that. Lucky bitch.”
I flutter a little wave with my fingers, catching Damien’s gaze. His face lights up and so does the inside of my body, flaring and sparking at the memory of yesterday’s tongue tango in the back of the wagon. All disappointment vanishes. He’s here for me.
“Hey, girlie,” he says.
“Hey, you.”
Tate and Remy stand next to him. The three of them take up a lot of space at the bar with their broad shoulders. Remy immediately spots someone he knows and darts off, pulling Tate with him. The two of them have never left the island, and I suspect they know practically every full-time resident.
“Jesus, is that Biloxi Bob?” Damien glances to the small, makeshift stage where Bob, an elderly Black guy, is tuning his guitar.
“Sure is.”
“He seemed old when we were kids. Man.” Damien shakes his head as he watches Bob move around the stage, tweaking a sound board and plugging in an amp. “He’s got more energy than I do.”
Bob strums a chord, adjusts his harmonica neck holder, and looks over at the bar. He grins and gives me a thumbs up. It’s his cue that he’s about to begin. I return the gesture and tap on the remote for the stereo system, shutting the satellite radio off.
“No kidding. He was here when Mom bought the place. You want the same beer as last night?”
“And Bob still packs ‘em in. Love it. And yeah, I’d love a Maduro. Thanks.”
Our gazes lock, and in the three-beat silence before Bob’s first song, I detect a low growl slipping from Damien’s mouth. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Kate. You know that? Thought about you all day.”
My face heats up, and I’m saved from responding with something silly when Bob taps the microphone three times, sending a low thunk-thunk-thunk sound through his amp. All conversation in the place lowers in volume. November is low season for tourists, so most of the people here are regulars and hardcore Bob fans.
“It’s Friday night, and that means you get me, Biloxi Bob, here at Lime and Salt Tiki Hut. Let’s jam, tourists and locals.” Bob has the richest, most baritone voice, and a thick Mississippi accent. People clap and cheer raucously when he strums his first chord — Bob’s got a serious cult following.
He launches into a funky rendition of “Come Monday”, a Jimmy Buffett song, and everyone in the crowded bar sings along when he begins to croon the familiar lyrics. Damien angles his body so he’s able to watch the show and keep an eye on me.
I grow busy at the bar—when Bob plays, people drink and dance like crazy, weaving in between the high-top tables—and after a couple of hours, Damien leans over the bar. “I’m going to take my brothers home, but I’ll be back at closing, ‘kay?”
“Perfect.” Grinning, I kiss my fingertips then press them to the top of his hand.
He returns when he said he would, toting a paper bag.
“I’m about finished,” I call out in the empty bar as I wipe down the last of the high-top tables. “What’s in the bag?”
“Our midnight picnic.”
“No way.” I pause, straightening my spine. Is he for real?
“Way. Thought you’d be hungry. It looked like you barely had time to drink water, much less eat. And last night you said you usually eat when you get home. Can’t have my girl starving.”
I can’t stop grinning as we close up and walk to the sand. We pick a deserted spot near a rock jetty. It’s a quiet little nook, almost an inlet. The moon’s full and reflects in a perfect silver line on the water.
I let out a satisfied sigh when he opens the bag and takes out a giant beach towel emblazoned with his family’s resort logo on the front. It’s so romantic, I can barely stand it.
“You came prepared.”
“Thought about this all day.”
I help him arrange the towel, and he motions for me to sit. I watch as he takes out a box of expensive crackers, a wheel of brie, grapes, and an oversized Belgian chocolate bar, the kind I can no longer afford. Because of my condition—my out of control, wonky genetically high cholesterol—I should probably only eat the grapes. But I’m not about to ruin this night by telling him my health woes.
And because I haven’t had cheese in weeks. Mmm, cheese. Almost as good as an orgasm.
He’s taken such care to pack and unpack everything. When he looks up with a soft smile, I melt. Just fucking melt everywhere.
He plucks a grape off the stem. “Open up,” he says.
The butterflies in my stomach take flight, ecstatic over how he’s feeding me grapes and how we’re laughing about nothing special as the waves gently lap the sand, only feet from where we’re sitting. He leans in to kiss me, soft and slow, and makes a little growly sound against my mouth.
I giggle and kiss him deeper, eager to hear that sound again.
“What is this, anyway?” I murmur.
“A kiss in the moonlight.” He brushes his lips against mine. “Oh, you mean this? Us?”
“Mmm-hmm. Is this an official fling? A holiday fling, since we’re coming up on Thanksgiving and Christmas?”
“Something like that. It’s whatever you want it to be, Kate.” He cups my jaw with his hand and pulls me closer, devouring my mouth.
There’s a part of me, an evil one in a deep and private place, that’s whispering words of caution. The words flash in my brain as we stretch out and caress each other’s faces as if we don’t have a care in the world. As if this isn’t a temporary thing.
I roll on top of him, and he hugs me tight. In his arms, I feel like I’m unfolding, as if I’m one of those ghostly white cereus flowers here on the island that only bloom and open at night.
“How long are you back for?” I run my hand down his chest, feeling the muscles underneath. Then I internally berate myself for killing the mood (again) and for not finding out this information before now.
He pulls away from me, rolling onto his back, his brows drawing together. “I’m home on Paradise Beach for three months.”
I scoot close to him, nestling in the crook of his arm. “That’s about how long I was planning on staying…if all goes well with Mom.”
“Three months,” he mutters, stroking my bare arm with his fingertips. “That’s a long time in my world. An eternity, even.”
“Tell me about your world. You were in, what? Afghanistan?”
“Yeah. And Iraq. My last military contractor gig was in Iraq. Which wasn’t too bad, actually.” He shrugs like it was no big deal.
“You seem pretty casual for a guy who’s been to the world’s hot spots.”
“Not everyone gets PTSD, you know. Not all of us are damaged.” His voice has an edge, one that I don’t like.
I press my palm flat on his chest. It’s hard to tell what he’s really saying, but I suspect he’s seen and done some harsh things as a Marine. “Of course not.”
There’s an awkward silence between us, filled by the sound of the soft surf. “Right now, it’s a job. That’s all it is. It pays well. Amazing benefits. If I could figure out what to do next, I’d do it. Until I do, this is my life: travel to some dangerous country, come home to relax with the fam, then repeat.”
“And what is next? Where are you going for your next assignment?”
“Syria,” he murmurs, rolling over and spanning his hand on my cheek. “Can we stop talking about this? I’d rather kiss you some more.”
Syria? Images of a recent, horrific story on the news fly through my brain. A cold chill goes through my body, but I lean into him, pressing my lips to his. His scruff brushes against my face, creating an exquisite, rough sensation.
See, it’s too good to be true, the evil part of me whispers. This man’s surely going to rip your heart out. He’ll leave and y
ou’ll never see him again. Or worse.
And it’s going to feel worse than anything you’ve ever felt in your life, so you’d better get ready. Enjoy the kisses now, revel in that gentle touch while you can.
Because girls like you don’t get happy-ever-afters with men like him.
Six
Kate
“This might be out of my comfort zone.”
I eye the placid blue water, then the paddles and the boards. We’re standing on a small beach on the side of the island that faces the mainland. It’s my day off, and I’d had the bright idea—in part, thanks to my neighbor Carmen, who owns a surf shop—to go paddleboarding with Damien. I thought it would be a fun date, something other than lying around and making out after sundown.
I have never been on a paddleboard.
“You’ve done yoga, right?” Damien asks.
“Yeah,” I say, stooping to touch the board. Carmen delivered it and the gear to us here on this beach, and we’re supposed to call her when finished. I rap on it with my knuckles as if it’s a door. It’s surprisingly solid. “I’m not doing yoga on this.”
“No, but people do. My point is, if you have the balance for yoga, you’ll do fine on a board.”
I stand up, squinting with disbelief. “You’re naturally an athletic person. I’m not. And you’ve done this before.”
He gently pulls the brim of my ball cap down. “This was your idea, and you’re going to do great. Look how calm the water is. C’mon. I’ll be with you at all times. And what’s the worst that happens? You fall in the water. You know how to swim.”
He pauses. “You do know how to swim, right?”
Laughing, I reach to pinch his stomach. Of course, there’s nothing to pinch because of his muscles, so I settle for a tickle instead. He grabs me and wraps his arms around my body. We smooch, slow and sensual, for a few minutes. We’re the only ones on this little beach, and I start to get ideas.
Sexy ideas.
Then he breaks away with a giant inhale. “Okay. Paddleboarding.”
“Right.” I clap my hands. “So much for sexytimes. And yes, I can swim.”
Chuckling, he walks to his board, shaking his head. “You are too much, Kate Cooper.”
He proceeds to explain each part of the board and the paddle and talks in detail about how I’m going to start by lying flat on the board, on my stomach.
“You’ll get a feel for the board by floating,” he says.
“Can I get a demonstration?” I ask.
“Sure,” he shrugs.
Then he takes off his shirt. Although we’ve been doing a lot of making out over the past week, I haven’t actually seen him shirtless. I’ve touched his bare chest under his shirt, but never have I seen his naked torso until today.
It is a work of art.
My mouth hangs open a little as I take in his rippling abs.
“I’m going to put the board in the water and show you each step of how to stand.” He easily lifts the board, and my eyes go to his biceps.
Guns out, sun’s out. I wonder if I should stealthily snap a photo for Lauren and edge over to my beach tote.
“You put the board in the water like this. Kate? You watching?”
“Yep, sure am!” I abandon my plan to take a photo, figuring I should pay attention. Plus, his back is to me, and his butt looks tight and cute in those light blue swim trunks.
This man wants me? My mind churns with disbelief as I watch him move. Damn. What did I do to get this lucky?
He sets the board atop the water and walks it out until he’s hip deep. I step closer to the water’s edge, marveling at his bronze skin in the sunlight.
Now, I know I’m supposed to be studying his paddleboard technique. But when he slides his body, stomach down, on the board, it’s difficult to not stare at his leg muscles. Or his shoulder muscles. Or his butt. He paddles around with his hands.
“Stop staring at my ass,” he calls out.
I dissolve in giggles.
“So check this,” he hollers. “You’re going to hoist yourself to your knees.”
With the precision and grace of a dancer, he goes from lying flat to kneeling. The board barely shifts.
“Yeah, sure I am,” I mutter.
He bobs in the water while on his knees, then slowly climbs to his feet, smiling. “See? It’s easy.”
I rake my bottom lip through my teeth and watch him balance for a minute. Then he kneels, sprawls flat and paddles into shallow water. He slides off the board and walks it into shore.
“You ready to give it a try?”
“Sure. I think so.” Realistically, even if I manage to paddle in any direction, there’s a beach. Paradise Beach is a barrier island, which means it’s separated from the mainland by a bridge and a narrow, shallow channel of water. I’m not taking the stand up paddleboard across the Gulf of Mexico, for God’s sakes.
First, he makes me put on a life vest. “I wanted to show off my cute red bikini,” I say.
“Your bikini is indeed cute. But this is less of a distraction. And safer.” He does up my buckles.
Probably he doubts my swimming ability. Still, I feel more secure in the vest and at least I won’t drown. Thwacking myself on the head with the paddle is still a possibility, though.
For the next several minutes he holds the board while I slide on, belly down.
“I feel a little like a sea lion on a rock,” I said.
“You’re doing great. Now try paddling with your hands.”
Surprisingly, I’m able to do that. I float and paddle, the sun on my back. I turn my head to see Damien grinning. I paddle back to him, and he stops my board.
“Okay, now try kneeling while I’m holding on.”
With a grunt, I carefully lift myself to hands and knees. Not too bad.
“Good,” he says. “Now all the way.”
Muscles trembling, I rest on my knees.
“See? Now practice that.”
I do, until I feel as confident as I’m going to in the water. As I kneel, he hands me a paddle, then hoists himself onto his board.
“Okay, hold the paddle in the middle and dip it in the water. We’ll move around like this for a while.”
Since I have been kayaking and canoeing before, this is a more familiar maneuver. Although it does make my arm muscles burn. Running has given me strength in my legs, but my arms are weak as hell.
We glide for a while, then put the oars in the water to slow and finally stop.
“Ready to try standing?”
I nod, raking my bottom lip through my teeth. Showtime.
First, he stands on his board and takes my paddle. Then he patiently walks me through every step.
“I’m standing! Oh my God. I’m upright!” I cry out, not daring to turn my head to look at Damien, who is about three feet away.
“You. Are. Standing. You’ve got this!”
I’m laughing and trying not to rock the paddleboard too much. He hands me the paddle. I slowly dip it into the water and move it about two inches. The board glides forward.
“I’m doing it, Damien,” I yell.
“You look great, girlie,” he responds.
Emboldened, I take a bigger swipe through the water with the paddle. I propel forward, and pass Damien. It’s easier than I thought.
“Should we race?” I ask with a giggle.
His chuckle reaches my ears. “Probably not quite yet.”
Somehow, I manage to paddle myself in a straight line. I don’t fall, I don’t manically steer myself into shore, I don’t hit myself in the face with the oar.
As I get the hang of the rhythm, Damien paddles about five feet behind me, on a diagonal. I speed up a bit, then lift my oar so I can glide through the water. I tilt my face upwards and the breeze hits my skin, drying my perspiration. There’s something freeing about skimming over the water like this.
“This is the best,” I say. “Why haven’t I done this before?”
Damien glides his board paral
lel to mine. “I knew you could do it.”
Seven
Kate
I’m dripping wet when I pull open the back door to Mom’s little beach house. Even though it’s November in Florida, it’s warmer than some summer days in Chicago. There was a time when I was used to heat and humidity, but I’m clearly out of practice because I’m sweating buckets.
“Hey,” I holler over the sound of the talk show host’s voice coming from the television.
“How was your run, dear?” Mom’s voice is creaky even though it’s nine in the morning. There was a time when she’d have been up for hours by now. Not this year.
I take a few steps and stand in the doorframe of her bedroom, panting.
“Excellent. Jeez, I’ve missed running on the beach. Feels really good.” I take a deep breath, trying to regulate my heart.
Mom’s propped up on pillows, wearing a silky, green kimono robe I bought her a couple of years ago. Even now, with her short, brassy blonde hair and cat-eye glasses, she looks glamorous. At least to me. She’s always looked that way, quirky, with old-Hollywood sparkle. There was a time when she was the most sought after woman on the island—a fact that embarrassed me when I was a teenager.
Now, my heart swells with pride over what she’s been able to accomplish and overcome in her life. Carolyn Cooper is a fighter, a fact I’m reminded of as she loses that beautiful blonde hair in clumps.
She raises the remote to turn the television volume down. “I’m surprised you got up so early, after working late and being out so late.” A little smile plays on her lips. “You’ve had several late nights over the last couple of weeks, haven’t you?”
I can’t help but laugh at the memory of last night with Damien. We’ve been seeing each other every night since our picnic. Sometimes we make out in his car, other times we walk hand-in-hand on the beach in the dark and talk. “Nothing slips by you, sharp lady.”