“Something like that.” He gave her an understanding smile.
“Oh my God, I can’t believe I let that slip. Don’t say anything.”
He frowned and shook his head. “So why don’t you tell me more about why you want to see Paris so badly?”
“I—” She shook her head. She didn’t even know where to start. It had been so long since anyone had asked about her dreams and goals.
“First, why don’t you tell me your last five reasons for not wanting to be here?” she skirted. “Although—”
A figure caught her eye over Evan’s shoulder. Her stomach fell. “You might have to tell me later. Kyle’s coming our way.”
“Ah, then here comes reason five right now.”
CHAPTER
Seventeen
Evan watched the color drain from Lia’s face as Stevens came into his peripheral vision. The jazz guitar slid into a slow chorus.
“Kyle!” Lia said with a smile that looked gorgeous and fake at the same time. Or maybe gorgeous because of the fakeness. When it came to Stevens, Evan supported fakery. Maybe she was finally starting to be wary of that guy.
“How are my two favorite boaters?” Kyle schmoozed in an already-one-too-many-vodkas voice. His black eye had faded to a light purple and he sported a small bandage over his nose.
“Stevens.” Evan nodded.
“Listen, I’m actually glad to see you both here. I hope our fun the other night wasn’t taken in the wrong way. Lia, how are you feeling, darling?”
Darling? Evan ground his teeth together.
“I’m doing much better,” she gushed. “Thanks for sending the roses, and the medic, and everything.”
Evan raised an eyebrow at her easy agreeableness. His first instinct was to jump in and help her, maybe give Kyle a dressing down, or at the very least save her from seeming too easygoing around a leech of a man, but he remembered how much she hated that. He took a few gulps of water to keep his mouth shut.
“I’m feeling great now, but I’ve had to do some fancy footwork with Elle,” she said, the smile never leaving her face.
As Evan watched her over the rim of his glass, he almost saw the exact moment her affability turned into some sort of shrewd marketing skill.
“Really?” asked Kyle. “About what?”
“She’s under the impression I caused you to pull the charter, and I think she’s seconds away from firing me.”
“No, no,” Kyle said, looking away.
Evan leaned back and smiled. Now he was ready to watch this with interest.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind talking to her again, Kyle?” Cinderella said, with the sweetest expression. “Setting her straight?”
Stevens’s gaze darted around the crowd. “Well, the truth is, Lia—”
“I know you didn’t mean to get me fired.” She laughed a little.
Stevens paused. Stared into his glass. Swirled his drink.
Good job, Lia. Let’s see him get out of this one.
“Fact is,” Stevens said, “I was thinking of pulling the charter. I wasn’t sure Captain Betancourt here would have me.”
Evan had sort of guessed he’d be Stevens’s scapegoat for this one. But he sure as hell didn’t have to let it play out.
“I’m good with it,” Evan choked out in Kyle’s general direction. “Sorry about the . . .” He lifted his bandaged hand.
“Really?” Stevens looked at him.
Evan nodded. He wasn’t truly sorry for interrupting Kyle’s behavior that night, but he definitely didn’t want to get Lia fired. He’d do the charter. He’d just make sure Stevens didn’t pull any more funny stuff. And maybe he’d hide the liquor just to be sure.
“Well!” Stevens looked boyishly grateful. “Let’s do this, then.” He looked between the two of them. “Monday at nine.”
“Your father is coming, too, right?” Lia asked.
“Right.”
“We’ll see you then, Kyle.” Lia dismissed him with the sweetest, most courteous smile Evan had ever seen.
“So, reason five averted,” she said over her champagne glass as her smile broadened. “What’s reason four?”
“That was brilliant.”
“Thank you.”
“You are good at your job.”
She bobbed her head. She knew. “So what’s reason four?”
“Reason four is no longer valid. It was that I’m lousy at apologizing.”
“Is that why you’re having trouble with Drew?”
The next jazz guitar number started and gave him an excuse to look away.
“Evan?”
He looked back into Cinderella’s perceptive eyes.
“Are you having trouble apologizing to Drew?” Her voice was understanding, accepting, probably perceiving much more than he wanted to give her credit for. She certainly had his number on the pulling-into-Sandy-Cove thing. He hadn’t even thought of it himself—he honestly thought he was here just to fix his engine. But she was right. He could have stopped in San Diego.
“Maybe I can help,” she added softly. “He listens to me, and we have a good connection.”
Evan turned his glass between his palms. He did have some questions regarding her and Drew. . . .
“What exactly is your relationship?” he asked.
“We’re friends; I told you.”
“But . . . was there ever anything more?”
She frowned. “No. Why do you ask?”
Relief swept through him. “Just curious.”
“We might have kissed once.”
As quickly as the relief had come, jealousy set in. Evan pictured his brother kissing this beautiful woman and let the heat fire up around his ears without looking up. He cleared his throat and stared at his glass. “You kissed?”
“Once. But it was silly. We both cracked up. It wasn’t right.”
His lungs managed to fill again.
“But anyway, I can get you two to talk,” she said. “Maybe I can arrange something for this weekend. We can meet on the boat, or you and I can go to Drew’s house.”
Evan nodded. It was a possibility.
“You did all right with Kyle just now,” she nudged.
He couldn’t help but smile at that. “Thanks to you. Nice job, again, Cinderella. I didn’t even have to grovel.”
“I can’t see you groveling anyway.”
“I would’ve, for you.” He hadn’t meant to let the admission slip, but now that it had, he reluctantly met her eyes. Her face softened into an unspoken thank you, her eyes never leaving his, her lips parting.
Evan shifted. Every body part on him that had been dead for much too long began perking up again and pulsating its protest: his groin, his heart, his veins, the arteries of his neck. He could even feel the blood pounding through his arms, and had to resist stepping forward and wrapping them all the way around this woman, who was soothing him and turning him on in a strange sort of out-of-control way. He wanted to move closer, but knew it wasn’t a good idea. He settled for a half step, even as a mayday distress signal sounded through his head.
“What’s reason three?” she asked, her voice cracking. She twisted her champagne glass.
“Reason three is I didn’t want to see you in this dress.”
A pucker creased her brows. She glanced down. “This dress?”
“Or whatever dress you were going to wear.”
Her frown deepened. “Why did you not want—?”
“Because of reason two.”
Her yellow hair shimmered as she shook her head. “Which is . . . ?”
“That you make me forget about my wife. You’ve made me forget for entire days. And you’re the first woman who’s ever done so.”
The heat around his collar moved toward his face, making him feel raw and vulnerable. This
was why he kept things to himself—spurting out how you really felt always brought a rawness that was unbearable.
But she stepped closer.
Dangerous.
She put her hand on his arm, which was more dangerous still.
By the time her lips parted and her eyes softened, she had put herself in complete peril. Of him.
He didn’t know what possessed him next, but within seconds he had his bandaged hand in her hair and was pulling her toward him, enveloping her into his body, bending down toward her, covering her mouth with his. Her lips were soft and giving, kind and hopeful, understanding and open, just as he’d imagined they’d be. Her fingertips came to his chin, soothing and gentle, and he let them play along his jawline, up to his ear, relishing in the warmth that overcame him for the first time in two years, as his body relaxed and became taut at the same time. She tasted so sweet—like vanilla and home. And when he closed his mouth deeper over hers, he caught the tease of her tongue—flickering and promising, just the tip—and a heat shot through his groin. He pressed into her, wanting more, wanting to take her right there. He wanted her naked, wanted to feel her soft skin, wanted to feel that softness beneath her breasts and between her thighs that he knew would be silken—the highest vulnerability. A long-dormant need for that vulnerability felt like it was splitting inside his chest—that need to be open, exposed, trusting, and ultimately one with another human being who would be careful with it. He desperately stepped farther into her, pressed his tongue deeper, but as soon as he felt the table behind her back—realized he’d pushed them both into it—some kind of miraculous sense came into his brain and he shoved himself away, panting.
He stepped back and sent about twenty swear words through his head.
“And that would be reason one,” he managed to get out. “I didn’t want to do that.”
* * *
Lia resisted the urge to press her fingertips to her lips, to preserve that kiss somehow, and instead tucked her hair behind her ear, smoothed her dress, and glanced at the table beside them. Luckily the next patrons over hadn’t seemed to notice their inability to keep their hands off each other here in the corner of the patio.
The jazz guitar fell into relaxed notes as Lia caught her breath and touched the stem of her empty champagne glass.
“More?” A waiter swept in beside her.
Yes, please was her first thought. More of those kisses, more of Evan’s fist in her hair, more of his body draped over hers, more of that promise of how much more intensity he had wound inside that body of his. . . .
The waiter motioned to her glass.
“No thank you,” she squeaked.
She had a boyfriend. Didn’t she? Not that she and Forrest were exactly committed to each other. . . . And not that he called once in eight days to find out how she was. . . . And not that he had ever kissed her like that. Not ever.
She glanced up at Evan, who was staring at the table. He ran his hand down his face.
“I’m really sorry,” he said gruffly. “Won’t happen again.”
Well, that’s too bad.
She straightened the neckline of her dress and nodded politely.
She had Forrest. And smart, nearing-thirty women were supposed to date to marry, weren’t they? They were supposed to look for stable men who would be good fathers, who had good jobs that matched theirs, and made at least as much money as they did. Who were reasonable and polite, and wanted to be equals in a relationship. Who were urbane and had good manners, and who ate the continental way and knew what to wear to an expensive club.
She moved her empty glass around the table, glanced at Evan again, and wondered why, then, her breath was coming in short rasps every time she looked at this guy.
“Tell me you forgive me,” Evan said, low.
“For a guy who isn’t good at apologies, you sure have a lot of them in you.”
Several clumps of hair had fallen over his eyes. He shoved them back and gave her an embarrassed glance. “I should be an expert by now, eh?” He looked back over his shoulder. “Can I get you some water? Or something stronger, maybe?”
“Water would be good.”
He bolted toward the bar.
Lia took a deep breath and rummaged in her clutch for her lipstick and compact. When she saw her swollen lips in the mirror, her lipstick smudged and feathered from that amazing kiss, another tingle shot through her, straight between her legs.
Dang.
She was in trouble.
And that was with clothes on. As her mind began to drift to what Evan could do to her without clothes on—
Another deep breath followed the first.
She needed to push away these thoughts, push away this tingling, push away this guilt. . . .
To distract herself, or perhaps to get her thoughts reassembled, she checked her messages again. Another twenty had come through, several from work, including four from the Vampiress. But still nothing from Forrest. He had posted another social media message, though: The unexamined life is not worth living.—Socrates.
What the hell was up with Forrest?
Feeling guilty, she dashed off a quick text to him: “Hi, Forrest. Hope you’re having fun. Haven’t heard from you at all and just wondering how things are going.”
She reread it and realized it sounded like she was talking to a cubicle-mate, but it would have to do.
She glanced up for Evan. He was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was trying to slip out the back door. While she waited, she pretended she was looking at her messages, but in reality her mind was drifting back to the conversation that had led to the kiss. Did he say she made him forget about his dead wife? And that she was the first woman to do so?
At the memory, a warmth curled in her chest, warring with the tingling that was moving out to all of her extremities and causing a near-spontaneous combustion of some sort.
She wiped her brow.
“Telling on me to your boyfriend?” Evan’s voice rumbled over her shoulders.
“Of course not.” She shivered and threw her phone back in her purse.
“I wouldn’t blame you.” He set her water down on the table and stepped all the way around to the other side.
She watched his tanned hands, pictured them in her hair again, pictured them touching her jaw as he kissed her again, pictured them running alongside her naked breast . . .
“I’m really sorry, Cinderella.”
Her head bobbed several times to make up for her vanished voice.
“I don’t know what came over me,” he said. “That was a lousy thing to do, to both you and him. Tell him I’m sorry. What’s his name, anyway?”
“Forrest.”
He nodded. “It’s good I know his name. So am I forgiven, or would you like me to leave, or what?”
“You’re forgiven.” She refused to look into his eyes again, for fear of the spontaneous combustion. She couldn’t even look at his hands now. Instead, she focused on the orchid floating in the glass block in the center of the table and noticed that Evan brought a scotch back this time.
She wanted to ask so many questions, like was it true what he said about her making him forget about his dead wife, and what was her name, and why did he say “funerals”—plural? But something told her she was walking a fine line here. She had a long history of blurting out whatever was on her mind. And if she did that here—and admitted that that was the most passionate and memorable kiss she’d ever received in her twenty-nine years—she would be betraying the only boyfriend she’d ever had that seemed like marriage material.
And since that was the only sure thing in her life these days, as sad as that seemed, she thought she’d hang on.
He turned to watch the jazz guitarist he pretended to like, and she did the same.
* * *
Dinner went on forever, although it was as good as Lia
had promised.
It was held in the next room over, inside the newly funded Ocean Museum, and there were plenty of things to look at and focus on, thankfully, to keep his mind off his boorish behavior and the way the light hit the sparkles of Lia’s dress and accentuated every one of her curves.
There were speeches, a short documentary, plenty of applause, four courses, too many utensils, tanks of starfish and seahorses lining the back wall that caught his attention, a whale skeleton that hung from the ceiling and demanded his scrutiny when he was being good, and—of course—Lia’s curves when he wasn’t.
As dinner ended, she pulled out a checkbook and scrawled out a hefty donation from her company.
“Ready to go?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He should’ve left two hours ago. Sometime before that kiss.
They said good-bye to Stevens, verified the time of the charter, then stood awkwardly as Stevens introduced them as “the captains” of the upcoming charter to four or five silver-haired patrons who were, apparently, going to be aboard. The patrons all acted impressed and asked good questions about the whales, begging Evan to tell them what he knew about Valentine and walk them through an explanation of the ceiling skeleton. Evan gave them longer answers than he probably needed to. Their silver-headed nods and serious expressions were strangely comforting. He sometimes forgot that other people really loved the ocean as much as he did.
By the time he and Lia headed up the sidewalk along the marina shops in the cool night air, he had to admit to himself that he’d had a good time.
Except the kiss.
That had made him feel guilty.
“You don’t have to walk me to my car,” she said. “I know where it is.”
“Chalk it up to military training.”
She stiffened as they marched toward the parking lot.
“I promise I won’t try another kiss when we get there,” he said, glancing once to make sure she took that as a joke. “Sorry again. It was a stupid impulse.”
She gave a perfunctory nod.
The wind whipped off the water and blew the banners into a bit of chaos—all shouting “Whale Festival!” from every light post along the marina.
Ten Good Reasons Page 20