Love At Last

by Claudia Connor

  Tired of thinking, she grabbed her paperback and headed out. She wanted a drink, some decadent, fattening food, and an escape into someone else’s fictional life.

  SHE WALKED ALONE ALONG the winding manicured paths toward the restaurants and found herself trailing a couple dressed for dinner. They walked shoulder to shoulder, holding hands, their heads dipped close together. She felt an ache in her chest when she heard the man’s deep voice followed by the woman’s soft laugh just before she slipped her arm through his and leaned into him.

  Not just lovers but friends.

  She and Adam had been friends for years, spending time together in groups, then sliding into more without much of a blip. A ride home. A walk to her car. There hadn’t really been a first date that she could point to. No ground-shaking moment of love realized.

  A kiss on the cheek eventually turned into a kiss on the lips. A year later, Adam had turned to her at a stoplight on the way to dinner. “We should get married,” he’d said, and she’d said, “Okay.” Just like that.

  She was almost thirty. She wanted a home and a partner. She wanted to be a wife and a mother. She didn’t want to spend her life alone.

  So what if there weren’t rockets and sparkle? It was staid and steady. But just because she wanted it didn’t mean it was real. If it had been, she wouldn’t be walking over this uneven cobblestone in heels with no one’s arm to hold on to, no one to whisper to and laugh with over some secret something.

  She followed the signs leading to the Asian-fusion restaurant and slowed when she reached a wooden walkway bisecting a water garden. Lights strung from the cover above reflected off the water. She paused to lengthen the distance between herself and the happy couple then waited as two more laughing pairs left the restaurant and walked past her.

  She had no problem going to dinner or a movie alone, but it hit her now that she was very much out of place—and very much alone.

  I shouldn’t have come, she thought on a surge of panic. Should be back in the States getting my life in order. Unpacking boxes that had already been shipped to the Chicago apartment—but no. That wouldn’t work because Adam was there now. Moving his things out. Moving to Seattle for another promotion. And maybe for the someone else he’d met and loved more than he loved her.

  While the couple checked in with the hostess a few yards away, Clare waited, feigning interest in the shallow pond at her feet. Slow-moving koi swam in circles just inches below the surface, searching for something…or maybe someone. Like she’d been searching. She wondered if they ever felt as hopeless as she did.

  She glanced at the now-vacant hostess stand, considered turning back and ordering room service. She sighed. She hadn’t used a blow-dryer for nothing.

  Turning from the water, she took two steps toward the restaurant before the pointy heel of her right shoe caught between the boards. Off balance, she stepped back with her left foot. Her heel came loose, but not before she was flailing, hands reaching back for a railing that wasn’t there. She tensed for the fall and imminent splashdown. Hoped she didn’t kill an innocent fish.

  “Whoa,” a deep, male voice said just as a thick arm caught her around her lower back, bringing her chest hard up against his.

  “Sorry,” she breathed out against his wide chest.

  “No problem. Wouldn’t want you joining the fish.”

  “No. Me neither.” A second passed, maybe two, as her heart pounded against a stranger’s and her hands held to his hard upper arms. She looked up, way up, at the man who’d just yanked her back from the brink. He smiled, making small crinkles at the corners of chocolate-brown eyes, and she lost what breath she had left.

  “I’m afraid your book didn’t make it,” he said.

  “My book?” She turned her head to look and…yep. Her paperback was drowning.

  The stranger’s arm loosened, and they shifted to part and—Shit! The beading at the neck of her top held fast to the man’s button-down as if they were one piece of cloth.

  “Wait!” Her hands flew to his shoulders, keeping them close. “I’m stuck.” And if she didn’t keep her chest pressed to his, she would be flashing her bare breasts.

  He started to untangle them himself but quickly realized the complexity of their problem and dropped his hand fast. “Yeah, um, maybe I’ll just let you do it,” he said, gazing studiously at the wooden covering overhead. “Just uh…do what you need to do.”

  “Okay, let me see.” She tried to get her fingers in between them. “Shoot. I’m stuck on your button. Sorry. I’m…” She breathed in the scent of him, clean laundry and faint cologne, and felt the heat of big hands holding her hips. “I’m trying.”

  She was literally stuck to a stranger, and she couldn’t get unstuck without being able to see the problem, and she couldn’t do that without said stranger seeing everything.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Walk with me.”

  Guiding her with his hands, he turned his back to the restaurant and took a step backward. Him moving away created a gap, which she immediately closed by pressing her chest to his.

  “Better hold on.” His soft laugh vibrated through her chest and down to her toes.

  She did hold on, and with her fingers digging into his biceps and his hands on her waist, he slowly walked them backward toward the hostess stand. It was awkward and slow going, and she stepped on his toes twice and mumbled an apology.

  When they reached the hostess, he turned them sideways. “Hi. We’re having a bit of a…situation,” he explained. “Could you get us a knife?”

  “Oh. Of course.” She spun away, leaving them alone.

  Stuck for the moment, Clare took her first real look at the ensnared stranger. His dark hair stopped just above the pale-blue collar of his shirt. He stared back at her from gorgeous brown eyes, and she felt a flush rise in her cheeks.

  “Do you often get tangled up with strangers?” he asked, his lips curved up just slightly.

  Clare couldn’t help but smile back. “No. You?”

  Before he could answer, the hostess returned with a small paring knife. “Here you are, sir.”

  “Maybe you should…” He handed Clare the knife. “Cut off the button if you want. No need to ruin your top.”

  “Oh. Are you sure?” She did love this top, and if she cut her end, the beads would go flying. The top would lose its gathering and—

  “Definitely.”

  “Okay.” She carefully slipped the edge of the knife under the trouble-causing button. “I’ll try not to cut your shirt.” With a quick slice, his button came away and dangled on the pulled thread from her top. “There. You’re free.”

  “Yep.” He ran a hand down the front of his shirt. “Can’t even tell.”

  She untangled his button from her top and held it out to him. “Sorry about your button.”

  “No problem.” He tucked it into his front pants pocket. “Sorry about your book. I think it’s a goner.”

  She followed his gaze to where it now floated well out of range into the reeds. “Looks like it,” she said. “Oh, well. I brought more.”

  He nodded but didn’t move. Neither did she.

  “I guess you’re meeting someone for dinner,” he finally said.

  “Nope. Just me. Flying solo.”

  He considered that a moment then inclined his head toward the restaurant. “Would you, um…want to get a drink?”

  Yes or no? Her heart beat with questions as seconds ticked by. A drink with a stranger or dinner alone? Am I coming or am I going?

  “Okay,” she finally said. “Yes.”

  For the moment, she was going.

  Chapter 3

  WITH A BROAD SMILE on his face, Deacon Montgomery followed the woman he’d just untangled himself from. She was cute, and the blush on her creamy cheeks over the whole debacle was charming.

  They reached the sleek, black bar with lantern-shaped lights hanging from the ceiling, and she slid onto a stool.

  “A margarita, please,” she sai
d, smiling at the bartender.

  He stood beside her and caught the bartender’s questioning look. Probably because he’d been standing in this very place five minutes ago, had a drink, and said goodbye. “Gin and tonic. Thanks, man.”

  When the bartender moved away, he faced his mystery woman with an outstretched hand. “I’m Deacon.”

  “Clare.”

  She slipped her hand into his. Warm was his first thought. Unbelievably soft was his second, and he held it a second longer than necessary before reluctantly letting go. She was more than cute, she was beautiful, with big dark eyes and kissable pink lips. The free flow of ocean air through the restaurant tickled the ends of dark hair lying over her breast.

  “What brings you to the island?” What brings you? He inwardly cringed at the stiff and awkward question. He had no game. Zero. He picked up his drink, and she picked up hers.

  “I’m actually on my honeymoon…kind of.” She took a long drink.

  Confused, Deacon paused with his glass halfway to his lips. She’d said she was flying solo. Like him. With more disappointment than he should’ve felt, he glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see a possessive man blazing a path to his woman. Lucky guy. Well, no harm. I’ll just finish this drink, go about my business—

  “But since he’s not,” she said, “on his honeymoon, that is, I won’t be getting a drink, or anything else, with him.”

  “Not here?”

  “Nope.”

  He waited, giving her a chance to say more, watching her drain the contents of her delicate glass.

  “I sure as hell hope he has a good reason.”

  “I guess that’d be a matter of opinion.”

  “Shit.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say, but to his great relief, she laughed at his totally inept response.

  “Yep. Pretty much.” She stared at the fresh drink the bartender had set on a small napkin next to her. “The church was full. I was in my dress, and…” She shrugged. “He changed his mind.”

  He had nothing, absolutely no idea what to say to that. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. So I decided to come on the honeymoon anyway, only we’re not calling it a ‘honeymoon’ anymore.”

  “We’re not?”

  “Nope.” She shifted on her seat, her gaze meeting his. “Except I hope my brother’s not in jail. He can be severely overprotective.”

  With two sisters of his own, he could understand that and started to say so, but she wasn’t finished.

  “And now that I think about it, he better pay my parents back every cent they spent on that wedding. Or I should. One of us has to.” She covered her face with her hand. “Crap. Let’s not talk about it.” She swept her hands in front of her like she was brushing away cobwebs. “Absolutely no talking about it. Nothing but the here and now. I’m Clare; you’re Deacon. Period.”

  He smiled, nodded, enjoying her company.

  “Nothing will be spoken of outside of this bar.”

  “Okay.”

  “Or maybe it should be this restaurant.” She looked around, a cute little crinkle between her brows as she considered it. “No, this resort. Nothing outside this resort. Nothing that has anything to do with anything that’s not right now. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said again and lifted his drink.

  They clinked glasses in a silent toast then drank to seal the deal.

  Then she laughed—a short explosive burst. “Wow. That was way more than you bargained for when you asked me for a simple drink.”

  “A little,” he said, teasing, glad when her smile grew.

  “Sorry. And I don’t usually drink, and there was champagne in my room for the whole…” She waved her hand, draining the rest of her drink.

  “The whole thing we’re not talking about,” he offered.

  “Exactly.” She closed her eyes and blew out a long breath. “I definitely should have gone with room service.” She opened her eyes and slid off the stool. “Thanks for saving me from the fish and everything.”

  “You’re not eating dinner?” He wasn’t ready for her to leave just yet.

  She paused and tilted her head, studying him. She seemed stumped by the question, like she didn’t quite know what to do with herself. A train off the track unsure how to get back on. He felt a bit off track himself at the moment.

  “Why don’t you have dinner with me?”

  “Trust me,” she said with a sad smile and a slow shake of her head. “You don’t want to have dinner with me.”

  “I think I do.” But he didn’t think. He knew.

  She looked at him, such expressive eyes full of questions. “You don’t have anyone else to eat with?”

  He shrugged. “Work people.” He could’ve met any one of them, but he’d actually planned to grab something alone, look over his conference notes, read the paperback he’d brought, then go to bed. All of which made him pathetically boring.

  “Okay. Why not?”

  Not the most enthusiastic response he’d ever gotten, but then he hadn’t asked a woman to dinner in a very long time.

  He followed her back to the hostess, and they were seated at a table on the opposite side of the restaurant. The waiter poured water and took their drink orders. Clare went with iced tea this time.

  “I’ll have the same,” Deacon said. They studied the menus, decided on dumplings and crab wontons to start.

  “So,” he said after the waiter had brought their drinks and taken the appetizer order. “Should we go through the standard first-date questions?”

  “Is that what this is? A date?”

  “Well, we are two people eating together,” he pointed out.

  “Okay, then, yes. But, no.” That cute little furrow appeared again between her brows.

  “No, we aren’t eating together?”

  “No, we shouldn’t do first-date questions.” She ripped open a packet of sweetener and dumped it into her tea.

  “Ahh.” He sat back, studying her. “The whole, right-here, right-now thing.”

  “Exactly.”

  He decided to play by her rules. Why not? It was just dinner. And there was a lot he could decipher without the questions. Late twenties, he’d guess, close to his thirty-one years. No distinguishable accent. No jewelry that he could see, not even a necklace hanging on the smooth, creamy skin of her chest. And eyes such a deep, dark, liquid brown he thought he might fall right into them if he stared too long.

  “So we’ll forgo the ‘where are you from,’ ‘what do you do,’” he said.

  “Good idea.” She paused again to think. “So we skip to third-date questions? Tenth?”

  “And what do people talk about on the tenth date?”

  “I have no idea. Other people?”

  “In the interest of full disclosure,” he said, lifting his glass. “I haven’t been on a date in a very long time.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Busy, I guess.” To say he had two-and-a-half-year-old twin girls at home would open an entirely too large can of worms. Not to mention it would definitely break the here-and-now rule.

  He was just about to ask what they could talk about when a female squeal erupted a few tables away. A man knelt beside the squealer’s chair, hand out, offering an open ring box. He and Clare both stared a moment, along with the rest of the restaurant.

  “What are the odds?” he asked when Clare studiously looked away and took a long drink of her tea.

  “With my luck,” she said, “pretty good.”

  He watched her. She wasn’t weepy, but a little bit sad. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

  “No.”

  “You sure? I don’t mind.”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  She took another drink. Too calm, he thought. He had sisters. He knew that unusual calm in the face of dark clouds meant trouble. Maybe he should have taken her word for it about the dinner. But then she surprised him.

  “So we know why I’m here in paradise. Why are you? You said you
could eat with work people?”

  “Yes. Veterinarian conference.”

  “So you’re a vet? The dog-and-cat kind?”

  He grinned. “Yes. The dog-and-cat kind. With the stray rabbit and pet pig thrown in.”

  “Were you the kind of kid always bringing home stray animals? Doctoring the wounded?”

  “There might have been a few. Birds. Frogs. Rabbits caught by the neighbor’s cat. Unfortunately, I lost most of my patients back then.”

  “So you always wanted to be a vet?”

  “No. I wanted to be a pilot. That was after superhero. Then I wanted to build roads and bridges like my dad. He’s a civil engineer, retired. I wanted to be a doctor for a while, but my sisters repeatedly told me I wasn’t fit for people.”

  She smiled. “Aren’t siblings great?”

  He smiled back. “I kind of agreed with them, so veterinarian seemed like a good idea. The more I got into it, the more I loved it.” He was just about to ask about her work, even if it would break the rules, but their waiter appeared, introducing himself then presenting the specials.

  “The halibut is served over forbidden rice and—”

  “Wait,” Clare said. “What’s forbidden rice?”

  “It is called forbidden because many years ago, it was only allowed for royalty.”

  “Interesting,” she said then carefully studied the menu.

  Deacon ordered pad prik, a Thai steak dish. Clare continued her deliberation, her teeth pressed into her bottom lip. The celebration nearby continued. It seemed they were sharing their good news via FaceTime.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go somewhere else?”

  “No, no. Just having a mental debate. I do that sometimes. Overthink things.” She scanned the choices in front of her. “Oh, to hell with it.” She handed her menu to the waiter. “I’ll have the special.”

  “Very good.” The waiter nodded.