Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

Harper’s eyes widened. “In Malibu?”

  “I guess,” Sloane said, glancing around the nurses’ station. She lowered her voice. “He said it’s on the beach.”

  “Malibu,” Harper said with a decisive nod. “Oh, my goodness. He’s taking you to Geoffrey’s for a first date?”

  Sloane started to say it wasn’t the first, but admitting to a tailgate picnic at the Hollywood sign would send her over the edge. And reality was setting in regarding something else entirely. “I have nothing to wear.”

  “What time tonight?”

  “Six thirty.”

  “Hmm.” Harper’s brows puckered. “We’re out of here in an hour, but traffic would kill us if we tried to go shopping.”

  Shopping? Sloane stared at her, the tack of this conversation impossible to take in. Only a short while back she’d balked at sharing a happy hour cookie with Harper. She couldn’t remember a single time in her life she’d gone clothes shopping with a girlfriend.

  “We can handle this,” Harper said, her tone as certain as if she were reaching for defibrillator paddles. “You’ll follow me home. I’ll loan you some things.”

  “Wha-at?” Sloane choked on a laugh. “Are you serious? Look at us. Do I look like I could wear your clothes?”

  “No worries.” Harper gave her hand a warm squeeze. “I’ve got this covered. Trust me.”

  And then the sirens came.

  According to the radio, two victims from a family reunion gone wrong. One assault victim with a fractured jaw, another with a knife wound to the thigh, and a great-grandmother who’d witnessed the brawl now complaining of crushing chest pain. Three patients with differing treatment modalities requiring a variety of equipment and unique skills. No problem. Sloane could handle it; the last hour of her shift would fly by. She was relieved to be on familiar ground again.

  It was how she’d handle the rest of the evening that had her guessing.

  26

  “YOU LOOK AMAZING,” Micah told her as tiny white lights from the deck’s trees danced over the shoulders of the sports jacket he’d paired with nice jeans. “Or did I already mention that?”

  “Once or twice.” Sloane’s skin warmed under his gaze.

  Micah couldn’t know that the “amazing” part had come much earlier when Harper, like a fairy godmother, pulled a half-dozen dress options from her guest room closet. Most with designer labels, some with dangling price tags, and all so much nicer than anything Sloane had ever worn. Apparently Harper’s former roommate, a physical therapist about Sloane’s size, had been a maniac when it came to Fashion Center clearance sales. A passion gone wild to the point of stowing shoes in the apartment’s under-oven drawer. Last spring the roommate backpacked around Ireland, fractured her ankle on the steps of Blarney Castle . . . and fell in love with her widowed orthopedic surgeon. She was currently auditioning harpists for a traditional Celtic wedding. Her new lifestyle, she’d told Harper in a Skype call, would require far more corduroy, sweaters, caps, wellies, and rain gear—and virtually nothing that was crammed into her Southern California closet. She blissfully flashed her engagement ring and asked her former roommate to mail a few key items, then “do whatever you want with the rest.” Which tonight allowed Sloane Ferrell to look amazing at Geoffrey’s in Malibu.

  “I can’t get over this place,” she said, giving the floral jersey sheath a discreet tug as she shifted in her basket chair. Her gaze swept across stone-tiled decking dotted with wicker tables and tubs of ficus trees. Towering palms, leafy trees, and lush hedges glittered with tiny white lights and offered privacy for diners. There were gas fire pits, deck heaters, and each glass-topped table sported a candle and small pot of flowers. It was a perfect blend of cozy and elegant, and a mix of contemporary Southern California architecture: rough-hewn stone pillars interspersed with tall rectangles of sparkling glass and long stretches of creamy white metal railings overlooking more dining niches below. It created a sense that they were shipboard, made even more believable by the fact that Malibu beach and the Pacific Ocean stretched beyond them as far as the eye could see. The sun had dropped low, frosting the sand with pink, and . . . Sloane turned back to Micah, swallowing against a swell of emotion. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so nice.”

  “It’s always been a family favorite,” he said with a fleeting bittersweet look. “I’m glad I could share it with you. Special place . . . special lady.”

  Sloane told herself to believe that, to put away the memories of dates with Paul where special meant free drinks, comped rooms at off-strip Vegas casinos, and constant coaching to “flirt with the high rollers and see where that takes us, babe.” It had never taken Sloane anyplace she wanted to go. Not one single time.

  She hated gambling. Not so much out of a sense that it was sinful; it was more that she didn’t believe you could get something for nothing. Everything had a price and life was risky enough without betting on it. Still, she’d go with Paul, bring a stash of hand wipes and a bottle of Visine to combat the damage from cigarette smoke, then start drinking early . . .

  Sloane drew in a breath of ocean air, cleansing her mind of the memories. Tonight, here—in this dress and with this man—she really could feel special. There was no reason to worry that the past would be served up like tainted leftovers.

  “Ah, here we go,” Micah said as the waiter settled their plates in front of them. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “I am.” She wasn’t sure she’d ever been so hungry. For exactly this, even if there wasn’t a scrap of food. Her nervous doubts and jitters about her old life were giving way to the most delicious sense of safety.

  “You’re a seafood fan.” Micah let his fork hover over his Kobe steak as he glanced at her choices: golden beet salad with tangerine vinaigrette and grilled Pacific swordfish. “There are some great fish places in San Diego. You must have enjoyed your time there.”

  Enjoyed?

  Sloane tensed, the irony hitting as hard as a just-hooked marlin. Enjoyed running, hiding? Being the hospital pariah, a despised “other woman,” and finally the trauma victim no one wanted to care for? Great seafood had never factored into those sorry months. If she were to be honest, she’d have to say that the city pound, Marty’s sweet face peering from a dirty cage, had been her only joy in San Diego. But she couldn’t say any of that.

  “Sure.” Sloane dredged up a smile, reached for her iced mango tea. “Great city. Incredible food.”

  “Well . . .” Something in Micah’s eyes said he’d seen right through her. Mercifully, he didn’t question it. He pointed his fork toward her plate. “Let’s see how Malibu compares.”

  Clearly he’d said something wrong, Micah told himself as they exited the restaurant later. Their dinner conversation had been casual, sprinkled with light laughter, and ran toward hospital stories, current events, and football—Niners vs. Chargers. Safe subjects, he supposed; she’d seemed to direct it that way. His comment about San Diego should have been safe too. But the way Sloane stiffened, that look in her beautiful eyes, hinted there was something she wasn’t saying.

  “They had Sloane listed under two names: Wilder first, then Ferrell.”

  At first he’d told himself it was none of his business and it didn’t matter. But after Coop left his office, curiosity got the best of Micah. He’d pulled up the staff files and—

  “Which one?” Sloane asked.

  “Which?”

  “There.” She pointed toward the sleek, highly polished cars lined up by the valets. “Lamborghini, Maserati, Aston Martin?” The playful light was back in her eyes, the same violet-blue color, Micah noticed, as the dress she was wearing. Great dress. Sleeveless, V-neck, the length revealing a modest but very attractive stretch of leg. It fit like it had been made for her.

  “It’s not every day you see something like that,” Sloane added.

  “No . . . it isn’t.” He let his gaze linger a little longer before glancing at the cars. “I can’t decide. I’ll have to trust your judgment
.”

  “Mine?” Sloane laughed. “You saw my ride. Classic Volvo. Six pounds of stickers on the bumper.”

  “Which one is yours?”

  “The stickers?”

  “Yeah,” Micah said, suddenly needing one more insight. One clue to who this woman really was. “NRA? Greenpeace? ‘Beam me up, Scotty’?”

  Wilder, Ferrell?

  Her lips quirked. “I’m not sure what to think about a man who stares at a woman’s bumper.”

  He laughed and fought an impulse to draw her close, his concerns for the moment put on hold. He liked this feisty side of her. “Not a member of the NRA?”

  “Nope.”

  He spoke with the valet, and when he turned back, there was a faraway look in Sloane’s eyes. “The Volvo’s a pre-owned car,” she said. “I was just glad to find one I could afford, social commentary or not. There wasn’t much choice. My other car was a VW. It was totaled in an accident. In San Diego.”

  “Whoa,” Micah murmured, noting her small flinch; she hadn’t meant to let that last geographical detail slip. It could explain her earlier reaction when he mentioned the coastal city. “Were you hurt or—?”

  “There’s your car,” Sloane said, cutting him off. “The valet’s driving up.”

  “Great.” Micah stepped to the curb, thinking he’d discovered yet another touchy subject. The nagging sense of concern returned. He’d bet money her Volkswagen never saw a bumper sticker. For some reason, Sloane Ferrell kept a pretty tight lid on her personal life . . . and her secrets?

  “I’m sorry,” Micah told Sloane as he slid into the driver’s seat a few minutes later. He’d stood outside the car to respond to a text message. “A friend’s heading out of town for a few days and wants me to take care of some things.”

  “Plant sitting?”

  “I wish.” Micah grimaced. “Let’s just say cat litter is involved.”

  Sloane laughed, grateful for the tension release. Why had she mentioned the accident? Stupid, stupid.

  “I get that,” she said, covertly enjoying the contrast of crisp white shirt cuff against suntanned wrist as he put the car into gear. “Must be a good friend.”

  “That might be up for debate. But it’s for his grandmother. And his last-minute trip is for work. I’ve learned the hard way that trying to talk sense into a journalist hot on a story trail is like stepping in front of a train. Plus, I can work this to my ultimate advantage.” Micah’s lips twitched toward a smile. “Now Coop owes me.”

  Coop. Cooper Vance. Sloane rode the wave of discomfort the reporter always managed to stir. It disappeared in a rush of warmth as Micah reached over the console and took hold of her hand.

  “Hey,” he said, his thumb brushing her skin. “Are you still interested in taking that walk on the beach?”

  “Definitely.” Sloane had asked Micah if getting down to the beach was a possibility and came prepared. “I brought sandals. But are any of the beaches open after sundown?”

  “Zuma. It’s a great spot—clean, safe. Probably the best family beach in the area. But it’s sort of a hike down to the sand.”

  “Not a problem. I’m good with that.”

  “I’d say it’s a go, then.”

  They found a place to park along Pacific Coast Highway and, with the help of street lighting, a large slice of moon, and handrails, made it down the relatively steep steps to the sand. White sand. Crazy beautiful in the moonlight. Sloane’s breath caught as they reached the bottom of the cliff and the full vista spread before them. Pristine sand, moon reflected on the dark water, distant dots of light on the cliffs . . .

  “It’s wonderful,” she said after drawing in a breath of briny air. She looked at Micah, saw how the silvery moonlight played across the angles of his face and breeze-ruffled hair. Only Barbie claimed this stuff.

  “C’mon,” he said, taking her hand. “I promised you a walk.”

  They did that for a while, holding hands and feet sinking in sand as they covered a stretch of beach dotted with lifeguard towers. They walked without talking. The sounds of the waves, distant traffic up on the highway, and the occasional cry of gulls filled the space of their silence. It felt almost magical. A simple bliss Sloane had never quite imagined. Her hand warm inside Micah’s, the contrasting cool speckles of sea air on her bare shoulders, night breeze flirting with her hair . . .

  Micah gave a soft chuckle.

  “What?”

  “The lifeguard stations.” He stopped and looked out toward the sea, still holding her hand. “They filmed that old TV show Baywatch here. Stephen had a hundred jokes about it. Couldn’t let it go. He’d do this dumb imitation of the lifeguards’ slow-motion run down to the beach. Remember that? They’d get a rescue call and the camera would go all dramatic slo-mo. Really lame. They filmed right where we’re standing.”

  “Wow.” Sloane had never been a fan, but if Hasselhoff had a star on the Walk of Fame way back when, she’d probably tap-danced on it.

  “You and your cousin came here together?” she asked, easily imagining the two blond boys she’d seen in her Google search.

  “Nearly every weekend—and summers. To surf,” Micah confirmed. “Mostly when we were in middle and high school. Up until things got so busy with the music business and I started college. Stephen kept at it longer than I did . . . until his first seizure.”

  Sloane winced. “Seizures?”

  “Epilepsy. Idiopathic, I think they called it. He got good control with meds. But no more surfing.” Micah gave her hand a squeeze. “He’d be the first one to give me a hard time for having this conversation on the beach with a beautiful woman.”

  “Okay then.” Sloane’s heart turned over as Micah slipped an arm around her shoulders.

  They walked a few minutes longer and then headed back to the steps, good timing since the damp breeze had picked up. She hugged her arms around herself.

  “Cold?” Micah asked as they reached the foot of the stairs shadowed by the cliff.

  “A little.” She rubbed her bare arms. “No problem. The car will be warm.”

  “Here,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket.

  “That’s okay. I’m—”

  “Taking my jacket. No arguments,” he insisted, holding it out. “Slip your arms in.”

  She did, feeling a shiver that had nothing to do with the sea breeze. The jacket was huge on her, a rough twill with silky lining, a warm nest that smelled of him.

  “There.” Micah turned up the jacket collar, then reached out to gently free a length of her hair. His fingers brushed her cheek. “Better?”

  “Much,” Sloane said in a breathless whisper. He was so close. . . .

  “Good.” Micah’s hands cradled her face. He leaned closer.

  Sloane drew in a breath and met him halfway, heartbeat scurrying.

  His lips touched hers softly at first and then more eagerly as she responded. His hands slid back, fingers burying in her hair. She slipped her arms around him, rising on tiptoe as best she could with sandals in sand.

  His mouth moved over hers, warm and seeking, and—

  “Pardon me, folks.”

  Sloane dropped back with a small gasp, confused as a man in uniform appeared out of nowhere.

  “Officer,” Micah said, his deep voice both respectful and sheepish. He took Sloane’s hand. “A problem, sir?”

  “No.” The older man smiled. “Making my rounds. Keeping the beach safe. Rousting kids from the coves. The usual.”

  Heat crept up Sloane’s neck.

  “That’s your SUV up there?” The officer glanced toward the top of the stairs. “The gray Durango?”

  “Yes, sir,” Micah confirmed. “We were just heading back up.”

  “I see that.” The officer’s amused smile faded as he scrutinized Micah’s face. “Wait. You’re Prescott, right? With the crisis team?”

  “Yes. It’s Micah.” He smiled. “I thought you looked familiar too.”

  “Glen Abbot,” the officer said, offering
his hand. “We’ve called your responders more times than I can count. Can’t say how much we appreciate your help.”

  “Glad to do it,” Micah assured, gripping his hand.

  “Well . . . sorry to interrupt,” Abbot said, giving a respectful nod to Sloane before meeting Micah’s gaze again. He patted his service belt. “You want a flashlight for those steps?”

  “Thanks, we’re good.” Micah slid an arm around Sloane’s waist. “Plenty of moonlight.”

  “Right.” Abbot smiled. “Best kind of night for a walk.”

  They said good night, leaving the officer to his patrol. The climb up was a little more challenging than the walk down. Micah still found breath enough for a laugh as they reached the top.

  “I feel fifteen years old,” he said, choking on a second laugh.

  Sloane shook her head. “He had to recognize you, of course. ‘Prescott, with the crisis team.’”

  “I missed my chance. Should have said I was there on an official callout.”

  “Oh, sure. That’s believable.”

  “No, really. I could have pulled it off,” Micah insisted. He took a few exaggerated steps, knees and arms moving very slowly up and down. “See?”

  “What the . . . ?”

  “Slow motion.” His grin widened. “Baywatch.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  Sloane’s laughter stopped as Micah pulled her close again. A hug, his lips against her hair. She threaded her arms around him and breathed in the clean starchy scent of his dress shirt. Warmth spread, weakening her knees. Her breath escaped in a long sigh.

  “I suppose I need to take you back,” he murmured against her ear.

  “Probably,” Sloane whispered, regret tugging. She’d have given anything if her own memories of fifteen had felt this wonderful. But with Micah, it all felt so beautifully new. Almost like a second chance. Like something, somebody, she’d been waiting for, for far too long.

  Maybe it’s you . . .

  “I don’t want to take you home,” Micah said, leaning her away enough to gaze into her eyes. The look on his face made Sloane’s heart ache. In such a good way. He crooked a finger under her chin. Then bent low, pressed a brief kiss on her parted lips. “I don’t want to end this evening.”