“All the bare necessities.” Clint’s voice rang out and she turned to find him standing behind her, watching her, as if he was searching for some clue as to what she was thinking.
“All the comforts of home.”
“You have to look at it from a guy’s point of view.” Unfortunately, she hadn’t had the prerequisite six-pack to do that yet, and without a mini-bar, she stood little chance unless she intended to walk up the road to Barnacle Bob’s, a nightclub that was little more than an awning over a bunch of lawn chairs.
Getting drunk wasn’t the answer.
Another whiff of the room and her nose wrinkled again. Okay, maybe getting drunk was an answer, but it wasn’t a solution. Once the effects of the alcohol faded, she would be back in motel hell.
She had to look at the situation through fresh eyes, through a man’s eyes. “Men really find all this relaxing?”
“It is relaxing.”
“A hot bubble bath is relaxing. This is more like survival training.”
“When a man is fishing, he’s thinking about fishing. It’s the focus that’s relaxing. That and the challenge. Men love challenges, and there’s nothing more challenging than catching a thirty-five-inch trout.”
“The state record is thirty-three inches.” She’d also purchased Fishing for Dummies when she’d bought her new clothes. During the eight-hour drive, she’d crammed as much knowledge as she could, determined to get a head start on the topic.
“That’s why a thirty-five incher would be a definite challenge. It’s a dream fish.”
“I’ve dreamed about a lot of things, but a fish has never been one of them.”
“You’re not a man,” he pointed out, his gaze skimming her, pausing at several distinct parts that made her different. Her lips. Her breasts. And lower...
With him so close, so observant, she actually forgot her primitive surroundings.
Heat flooded between her legs and sent electricity pulsing to her nipples. They hardened, pressing against the lace of her bra. She took a deep breath and the ripe tips rubbed and throbbed.
“So all men dream about fish, huh?”
“Among other things.”
“And the other things?”
You. Me. Naked. Panting. The answers flared in the glittering blue depths of his eyes.
She licked her lips and he stepped closer, as if he wanted to show her rather than verbalize his answers.
Fine with Skye. After a sleepless, frustrated night thinking and re-thinking about their kisses and what could have happened, she was ready for more.
His arms came up on either side of her, his palms flat against the wall as he pinned her in place and leaned in, so close she could feel the warm rush of his breath against her lips.
Her mouth tingled.
“Men don’t just dream about fish in general. They dream about the fish. The Big One.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Women dream about the Big One, too.”
“I thought size wasn’t important.”
“It isn’t, but we’re talking dreams. Fantasies. You wouldn’t fantasize about an unattractive woman, would you? Of course you wouldn’t. You would give her breasts out to there and legs up to here.”
“And long blond hair,” he added, fingering a tendril that had come loose from her ponytail. “Soft blond hair.”
“Exactly,” she managed, despite her pounding heart. He was so close and he smelled so good and she wanted a kiss.
So kiss him.
She wanted to, but something held her back. Crazy because Skye Farrel had never let anything keep her from acting when it came to sex. She’d never been intimidated or hesitant or scared. Sex was her game and she could play better than anyone.
Clint wanted to play with her. She saw the desire burning in his eyes, heard the deep, rasping breaths sawing past his lips, felt the need in the hot heat of his body.
She sensed his lust, but she didn’t know. She wanted proof that he wanted her. That he was just as hot and bothered as she was. As eager. She wanted him to kiss her of his own free will, which meant she wasn’t going to bait him.
The next move would be his.
“It’s a fantasy,” she went on, eager to keep her cool despite the hot body in front of her, surrounding her. “And, um, fantasies tend to be unrealistic. Hence, the Big One.”
“Do you dream about the Big One?”
“All night last night.” The words were out before she could stop them. So much for not baiting him. “But mine was a thirty-six incher,” she rushed on.
“Thirty-six inches?”
“Maybe thirty-seven. If you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big.”
“The fish,” he said as reality seemed to hit him. “You’re talking about the fish.”
“Specifically a trout. A thirty-seven-inch redfish wouldn’t be all that unheard of. We are going after trout, too, aren’t we?”
He eyed her for a long moment, as if he was trying to decide what to do. Or what not to do.
He stiffened and pulled back. “I need to check on our charter for tomorrow morning. You’d better get settled and get to bed. We’ve got an early day.” He turned and left her plastered to the wall in the bathroom.
“How early?” she called after him.
He paused in the doorway and glanced back at her, his eyes glittering with an emotion she couldn’t quite read. “Let’s just say a man’s idea of relaxing isn’t sleeping until nine. It’s—”
“—getting up at five A.M. to catch a thirty-five-inch trout,” she cut in, a smile curving her lips. The more she smiled, the easier it came, specifically if she focused on him and not all the lime surrounding her.
He frowned. “Three-thirty. We have to get our bait and be on the water by five.”
Her smile died a quick death. “Three-thirty? Three-thirty in the morning? Three-thirty as in four hours from now?”
“That would be the one.” He grinned. “Unless you’re too tired and want to call it quits on the fishing. You’ve been a good sport so far with the football and the wrestling, but I know you’re not really into all of this.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re giving it a good try. I admire you. But you’re not cut out for it all.”
There it was. What every man in her past had ever thought about her. The killer for all her relationships.
But it wasn’t true. Not completely. Not anymore, thanks to Clint and his lessons.
“I liked the football and the wrestling. I really did. And I’m going to like this just as much. I just know it.”
His grin disappeared. “This is a lot different. This isn’t a spectator sport. You can’t just watch a man fish. You have to get in there.”
“I know that. I didn’t buy these clothes because of the way they looked.” Obviously.
“You don’t have to pretend. If you want to go home, I’ll understand.”
“I don’t want to go home.” What was she saying? She wanted to run home. She also wanted to jump his bones, but she wasn’t about to do that either. She’d made up her mind to stick this out, and to stick him out.
She was fishing and she was leaving the first move to him.
“Don’t worry about losing face. You don’t have to do this. Just say the word and it’s over.”
“I’ll see you at three-thirty.”
He eyed her, his lips thinning into a frown, almost as if he wanted her to chicken out.
Crazy. What did he care if she fished or not?
He didn’t care, because there was no caring involved. No personal emotions at stake. No actual like.
“Sleep tight,” he finally said. The click of the door punctuated his sentence and Skye found herself alone.
Sort of.
She walked into the bedroom and peered up at the small silvery spiderweb that dangled from the corner near the bed. No sign of its owner, but she had no doubt he was around somewhere.
The urge to snatch up her suitcase and bolt hit her ha
rd and fast. She’d seen a Holiday Inn back off the highway. Sure, it wasn’t across the street from the coast, but it was undoubtedly spider free. There would be no lime green shag carpet. No drip stains from an ancient faucet. No blinding lime green and red polka-dot bedspread. No freezer wrap or masking tape. No fish smell. No...
No.
Okay, so it wasn’t exactly what she would have picked for a weekend getaway. That was the point. She knew what she liked. She needed to see how the other sex lived. To learn their likes and dislikes. To learn to like those likes. To really develop some common interests, rather than just paying lip service to the whole thing.
Besides, the room wasn’t that bad. There was a bathroom, however small and primitive. And the sheets looked clean. Worn, but clean. And the air conditioner worked even if it chugged louder than a passing freight train. And she could use the masking tape to remove the white fuzzies from the black Capri pants she’d packed— part of her just-in-case outfit—along with a red blouse and black open-toed slingbacks.
Not that she would be going anywhere except out on one of the huge boats she’d seen on any number of the fishing shows she’d tuned in to. But one never really knew and Skye was always prepared.
Her nipples tingled and her stomach hollowed and she retrieved her overnight case from the floor. She rummaged inside and pulled out several rolls of SweetTarts. They hadn’t worked last night to relieve her stress, but she wasn’t one to give up without really trying.
Besides, since he hadn’t kissed her, her mouth needed something to do and the candy was the only relief inside.
Skye popped a few candies into her mouth and sucked for all she was worth.
She could do this.
There was no way she could do this.
Gravel crunched beneath Clint’s feet as he stepped down off the porch and crossed the parking lot, the sound mixing with the chirp of crickets, the distant crash of water hitting the pier across the street and the whine of an old country song drifting from a nearby radio.
He headed for the small building near the road. The word OFFICE blinked in pink neon from the window. June bugs buzzed and bumped into the bare bulb that glowed from the front porch. The smell of fish hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of boat oil and salt water.
His nose twitched, but he didn’t grimace. These were familiar scents to him. He loved to fish. He’d been down to this neck of the woods every year for the past ten for a week-long trip with Jeep and a few other guys from his race team. They drank beer, caught fish and talked cars. It was always great. Relaxing. Invigorating.
Certainly not stressful.
But then he’d never had a woman in tow before.
He forced aside the thought and concentrated on his steps to the office. He’d stayed at this exact motel a time or two, and a dozen others just like it scattered up and down Ocean Front Road. Sure, there were a few newer versions up the road that accommodated families. They were nicer, cleaner, more modernized to appeal to not only the serious fisherman but also to his better half. A few had cable TV and one even offered room service.
Skye’s shocked expression flashed in his mind and guilt niggled at him. He could have taken her someplace more her speed. But that would have defeated the purpose.
She was here to beef up her guy knowledge. There was more to fishing, real fishing, than deciding what sun-screen factor to wear. Fishing was an art. A way of life. Skye Farrel didn’t have a clue, even if she had impressed him with her knowledge of trout. And redfish.
So what if she’d read up on the subject. That didn’t mean she could actually go out there and catch a fish. Knowing and doing were two different things. And liking what she was doing? There was no possible way. She was way out of her element and this weekend would finally prove it. By the time Friday morning rolled around, Skye would be begging to go home and Clint would see firsthand that they had nothing in common other than some really great chemistry.
And chemistry wasn’t enough.
Clint wanted a woman for more than sex. He wanted companionship, encouragement. He wanted a woman who really and truly understood him, and liked him anyway.
He and Skye had nothing in common. They lived in two different worlds. While he admired her tenacity when it came to the guy lessons, he knew she wasn’t learning nearly enough to really share a common interest. She was learning enough to get by, to give her an arsenal of knowledge that would help her catch some poor macho schmuck and keep him a little longer than usual. But enough to really make a connection and form a common, lasting bond? Maybe with a guy who was more refined than macho. An uppity-up type who wore boat shoes when he fished and hired an assistant to bait his hooks so he wouldn’t have to get his hands dirty.
That was more Skye’s speed. Slow. Safe. Definitely within the speed limits. Meanwhile, Clint put the accelerator to the floor and hauled ass wide open through life. He always had. Except when it came to lust. He’d made the necessary pit stops to refuel, but then he always pulled back onto the track and gunned it again.
He and Skye raced at two different speeds in life. He knew that, he just wasn’t seeing it right now. Her excited gazes and her gung-ho attitude when it came to the football and the wrestling had colored his opinion of her and made him think that maybe, just maybe she really related to him.
That’s what stirred his lust. What had always stirred him up in the past. Her enthusiasm for the guy activities in their lessons portrayed a certain image—a sports-loving, down-to-earth image—that was far removed from the real woman. That’s what had him so hot and bothered. Not Skye herself, but his image of her.
While he’d known many women like her—pretty, successful and smart—he’d never really liked them. Early on, he’d come to realize that what he really liked was the idea that a pretty, successful and smart woman could like him.
Skye was putting on an act, all right. A really good one judging by the size of the erection throbbing in his pants, but an act nonetheless.
And like every time in his past with every woman like her, Clint had no doubt that his attraction and said erection would take a nose dive the moment Skye Farrel showed her true colors.
“I’m turning into a lobster.” Skye stared at her arms the next day and damned herself for not buying the SPF 45 instead of the 15 before she’d come on this godforsaken trip. But she’d just figured that if she started to get too pink, she would take a breather inside the boat’s cabin.
Her gaze swept from one end of the small fishing boat to the other, a total of fifteen feet, and its contents—an ice chest topped with a cushion for her to sit on, a rod holder, a center console with a steering wheel and gauges, and a small fifty-horsepower Mercury motor on the back. It was ancient and barely big enough to accommodate two people.
She hadn’t batted an eye that morning when they’d crossed the street to the docking area and found the decrepit bay boat waiting for them. Then again, she’d barely been able to open her eyes, batting had definitely been out of the question.
With only the stars overhead and a bare lightbulb hanging from the corner of the shack that served as a marina, the boat hadn’t looked all that bad. But when the sun came up and she was sitting on the small seat with little to protect her from the blistering heat, she’d realized that this wasn’t football or wrestling and there would be no surprise excitement in it.
Misery. Pure, sweltering misery.
She plucked at her shirt. She could barely draw air herself, so it didn’t surprise her that the sixty-dollar breathable material had morphed into a sweat-soaked second skin.
“I definitely want my money back,” she grumbled. “What did you say?” Clint cut her a gaze from his position at the front of the boat.
“I definitely think we’re getting our money’s worth.” She forced a smile.
He studied her a long moment before turning back to his fishing and giving her his profile. He stared out at the
water, polarized sunglasses covering his blue eyes, a
Big Tex Motor Oil cap turned backwards on his head, a fishing rod in his hands. He still wore the FISH TEXAS shirt he’d worn last night, along with the same shorts and flipflops, testimony to the fact that he hadn’t changed, much less showered.
Not that he smelled bad. She’d caught a whiff of him when he’d stepped past her to retrieve a shrimp from the portable five-gallon bucket-sized live well humming near the ice chest. Her nostrils had flared at the familiar scent of warm male and testosterone and her nipples had ripened.
He’d noticed her response, too, judging by his double take, those dark lenses directed at her for a long, drawn-out moment. Not that he’d thought anything about it.
They were fishing, after all. Which meant the fish and nothing but the fish, so help him God.
She knew based on her extensive research that men didn’t multi-task very well and so it shouldn’t hurt her feelings that he didn’t take the initiative when she was burning for him.
It didn’t hurt her feelings, because feelings were not involved. It was strictly sex.
She stared at the red cork that had been bobbing on top of the water in the same spot for the last forty-five minutes. Without so much as a dunk beneath the glass-like green surface.
Okay, so not only was she not sexually stimulating enough to take his mind off a thirty-five-inch trout, she sucked at catching her own.
You can do this. It’s all in the mind. If you want to like it, if you tell yourself you do like it, you will like it. You’re strong. You’re invincible. You’re a fearless Farrel.
“If you’re ready to call it quits for today, just say the word.” His deep voice drew her from her thoughts.
“Are you kidding?” She glanced at her watch and squinted against the glare. “It’s only two o’clock. We’ve only been at it for . . .” Her mind did a quick calculation. “...a little over ten hours.” Ten hours? No wonder her arms ached and her back hurt and her skin burned and her stomach grumbled for sustenance. “I can go a full twelve easy.” Of course, she might pass out from hunger and exposure. “Maybe thirteen.”
“If you’re sure?”
Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice Page 15