by Ava Miles
He walked toward her, pointing to her back. “You have a…” His finger dropped. His gaze slid to Jill, who was eagerly—and unabashedly—listening. “I’ll tell you some other time.”
He studied Meredith with enough intensity that she feared she’d snap the stem of her wine glass. She dimly heard her grandpa ask Jill something over the buzzing in her ears. Sista Pimp faded away with a smirk.
“You have red hair.” He sounded incredulous.
She frowned. “What? You don’t like redheads?” Oops, that came out wrong.
“On the contrary.” He continued staring. “I…couldn’t tell the color under your swim cap.” When he leaned closer, her whole body tingled like someone had plugged her into an electric outlet.
“What are you doing?” She clutched her wine glass to her bustier. Come on, Divorcée Woman, help me out.
“I wondered about your eyes behind the goggles. They’re green.”
“Yes.” She noted the golden ring around his pupils—caramel coating chocolate. Desperate to break eye contact, she walked around him to kiss her grandpa, who was sitting on the couch. Her legs shook like a newborn calf.
Chicken, Divorcée Woman chimed in.
“It’s about time you got to me. I know I’m an old man, but I’m still blood.”
She pinched his ruddy cheek. “Old, my…eye. You tore my editorial to pieces, old man.”
He waggled his bushy brows. “No, I simply restructured it. It reads better now. Don’t you think?”
It did, but it galled her to admit it.
“Makes an old man happy to know he still has things to teach you after being in the Big Apple.” He patted her arm. “Better watch out for this one, Tanner. She could run circles around you.”
Tanner lifted his wine glass in a mock toast. “We’ll see.”
Jill was perched on the leather footstool in front of their grandfather, her yellow dress dotted with red dragons.
“I’m Tanner McBride by the way. I didn’t give you my last name when we met.”
If she’d been drinking her wine, she would have choked again. Tanner McBride, the journalist. And he was going to be teaching at Emmits Merriam. She hadn’t put two and two together before.
“So, you two have met before?” Jill asked.
“We…sorta swam at the pool at the same time,” Meredith said, glaring at Jill. Don’t you dare say anything, Sista Pimp, she tried to say with the look, or he’ll know I practically had a sensual seizure over him at Hairy’s the other night.
“I’ve read your work,” she continued smoothly when it was clear Jill intended to keep her trap shut. “It’s good.”
That was modest praise. He was fabulous at capturing political undercurrents and the human dimension of violence. He’d reported from Jerusalem, Beirut, Baghdad, and Kabul. Under other circumstances, she’d have been delighted to meet him. There was plenty of substance to go along with that incredible body.
But there was still one problem.
He was a journalist.
She hadn’t told Jill about her vow, thinking she wouldn’t run into any problems in Dare. She was related to most of the people who worked on the paper, after all.
Her vow was like not dating a man with your ex’s name. It just wasn’t done.
“He’s damn good,” Grandpa Hale commented. “Have to talk you into writing some articles for The Independent while you’re here.”
“It would be an honor, sir. I’d be happy to start now. My fingers have been itching to write up a good story.”
“It’s a deal then,” her grandpa announced, reaching out to shake Tanner’s hand.
“Dinner’s ready,” Jill announced. “I don’t have mom’s talents, but we won’t starve. Plus, Meredith helped. She’s much better in the kitchen than I am.”
“You should have cooked at my house,” Grandpa scolded.
“I ruled that out. You barely have coffee.”
“I’m a lonely bachelor now, Tanner. My wife of nearly fifty years passed a few years ago. If you find one like her, snatch her up quick. They’re damn rare.”
Grandpa put his arm around Meredith, as if implying she was one of the rare ones. She was tempted to dig her elbow into his side.
“Let’s head to the dining room,” she said quickly.
Gramps positioned Tanner directly across from her. When he winked, she gave him the stink eye. He was probably imagining happy little reporter children running around with black ink in their veins, asking teachers and classmates if the school milk was contaminated. He’d love to have this guy in the family.
She glanced at Jill, who blew her a kiss. Everyone but her seemed happy with the situation.
Okay, that wasn’t fair. Rick-the-Dick had been a journalist, and they hadn’t liked him. Not one bit. Well, they knew bupkis about their dinner guest, so for all they knew, he could be just as bad.
When she glanced over at Tanner, she noticed he was fighting a smile. Oh yeah, he knew exactly what was going on. Amused, was he? Well, haha.
After eating their way through sautéed chicken breasts, garlic mashed potatoes, and asparagus with nacho cheese sauce—so Jill—Meredith rose to help her sister make coffee and serve dessert.
Tanner put a hand on Jill’s shoulder. “I’m sure you make better coffee than I do, but please, let me do something. Meredith, would you mind showing me around your mother’s kitchen?”
She rose since it would look impolite to decline. When the kitchen door swung shut behind her and Tanner, Meredith turned and put her hands on her hips. “You’re awfully helpful.”
He shrugged—all tall, muscular man. “It’s the least I could do.” He filled the coffee pot with water. “Plus, I wanted to be alone with you for a minute, so it seemed like a good plan. Where’s the coffee?”
Meredith pulled the container out of the cherry cupboard. “Why?” she asked, but she already knew. Her heart beat in strong smacks against her ribcage.
He didn’t measure the coffee. “You’re a smart girl, so I’m sure you can figure it out. I’ll tell you anyway, though…I was intrigued by the woman I met at the pool.”
She crossed her arms over her bustier, appalled she was so turned on by something as pedestrian as a man making coffee. “How did you know it was me when we met in the family room? I’ve been swimming for most of my life, and even I have trouble recognizing people when they have their clothes on.”
His lips twitched. “Interesting way of putting it.” He hit the on button.
The sound of percolating water punctuated the silence. When he walked toward her, she stepped back and hit the counter. His smile spread as he moved closer. Pa Rum Pa Pum Pum filled her head again. Her gaze slid to his full lips. He had a small scar near his mouth, but it only made him manlier. Her body tightened as she inhaled the scent of his musky cologne mixed with the smell of coffee.
“You have a mole under your right shoulder blade, and that shirt makes it easy to see it.” His hushed tone raised the hairs on her arms. “You also have another mole I found incredibly sexy, but I couldn’t see it in the family room…” His gaze slid down her body. “Since you have pants on.”
Oh. My.
“Of course, the next time we race, I plan to look for it again.”
When he met her eyes, she licked her dry lips.
Jump him, Divorcée Woman drawled. You know you want to.
Oh, shut up. “So we’re racing again?” She sounded like a breathy harlot.
He leaned closer and ran his hand down her arm, setting off nuclear nerve endings. “Be a shame not to when we match each other so well stroke for stroke.”
Her thigh muscles spasmed. “Are you always this forward?”
“We’re only talking about swimming, Meredith,” he said, his dress shoes nudging her black ballet flats.
She cocked her head, fighting the urge to flick her hair over her shoulder. “Oh yeah?”
His mouth tipped up. “Well, yes, and your mole. So what’s your favorite stroke?”
Her heart thundered so fast in her chest it felt like someone had pressed the pedal to the metal. Were they really flirting over swimming strokes?
Who cares? Divorcée Woman interjected. It’s hot.
“Freestyle,” she responded in that same raspy voice, a la Marilyn Monroe.
Tanner hummed. It reverberated through her body.
“Long, even strokes characterized by power and endurance.”
She flushed with heat.
He gazed at her mouth as he continued. “I like to warm up with freestyle, but finishing with the butterfly is the only way to go. It’s all about build-up. Once you’re limber, you need to take your stroke to the next level. Surging and thrusting out of the water with power and coordination, your lungs burning as you race to the finish line.”
Was she going to faint? She felt light-headed.
Faint into him, you idiot! Divorcée Woman yelled in her head.
“Perhaps we can compare notes the next time we swim.”
Meredith dropped her gaze from his face and studied the strong arms filling out his gray dress shirt. She remembered what those muscles looked like dripping wet. Whimpering would be totally inappropriate, but she wanted to. God, the man was as intoxicating as Valrhona bittersweet chocolate.
He put his hands on either side of her, brushing their bodies together in a wildly tempting caress. “Maybe we could go out for breakfast after our next swim.”
The idea of going out for breakfast with this man fired up her imagination about other things…like wild sex and a sleep over. She leaned back for breathing room, but there was nowhere to go. He surrounded her. She couldn’t smell anything but him, and the counter was biting into her back.
He had her body purring, but that damn wounded part of her was sounding the alarms. Her lack of confidence—courtesy of Rick-the-Dick’s hurtful parting words—clanged like a train trolley.
And Tanner was a journalist. Just. Like. Rick.
She pushed him back with a hand to his hard, muscular chest, needing space. She searched for the caramel apple pie Jill had brought home from the coffee shop and raced over to it. Her hands shook as she took out the plates and dessert forks. Deep breaths seemed like a good idea to clear out Tanner’s musky smell, but she couldn’t seem to take in a full one. Her lungs had deflated like balloons after a disappointing party.
“I can’t…have breakfast with you,” she rasped, frantically touching her bustier. Even that wasn’t doing much to restore her confidence. Damn it.
Tanner’s boots scraped across the tile floor. She could feel the heat of his body behind her, and she imagined him gazing at that mole he’d mentioned. She wanted to lean back against him, but was suddenly afraid of how much she wanted him and where it could lead—especially with her family in the next room.
“Why can’t you?”
“I don’t date journalists. Ever.”
He turned her around. She stood stiffly in his hold.
“Neither do I…usually. But I don’t want to talk about journalism with you, Meredith.”
Her eyelids fluttered. The buzzing in her head grew louder, and she felt overpowered by the force of her attraction to him. She lurched from his hold and knocked a plate to the floor. It shattered over the final roar of the coffee maker. Shards of her mother’s silver-edged Lenox china covered the tile and their shoes.
Her nerves snapped right along with the china, and her breath wheezed out like she’d swum a sprint.
He gentled his hold. “Easy there. Don’t move. I don’t want you to get cut.”
“I have shoes on.” Anxiety squeezed her rib cage, and she pressed her hands to her chest, trying to suck in air.
He led them away from the mess. “Meredith?”
“Everything okay in there?” Jill called from the other room.
“Yes,” Tanner hollered back. “I didn’t see Meredith handing me a pie plate, and it shattered. We’ll clean it up and be right out with dessert.”
His quick lie made her wheeze. It had been so effortless.
Like Richard.
He opened the back door and led her out onto the porch, putting her hands on the rough boards. “Deep breaths, Meredith. In and out.” He caressed her back with gentle hands. “Come on. You can do it.”
Panting in shallow breaths, she lowered her head. Black dots spread behind her eyes like she was inside a planetarium. A panic attack. She hadn’t had one for months. She concentrated on the thought of Rick-the-Dick bald and crying in front of a mirror. The picture always helped turn the tide.
“Shit, don’t pass out on me.”
Visualization wasn’t helping this time. She clawed at her shirt. Her bustier was strangling her. She was too embarrassed to care. The wheezing made her sound like an asthmatic. She fumbled with her bustier’s hooks, needing to…get…it…off.
Tanner swatted her hands away gently. He tugged the bustier off and set it aside before hoisting her to a standing position and smoothing her shirt back in place. She almost cried at his attempts to protect her modesty.
“No wonder you can’t breathe.” He whistled. “That’s one serious contraption.” Framing her rib cage with his hands, he said, “Inhale from here. Fill your lungs. Come on.”
She rested against his strong body, lightheaded. After a few coughs, she managed a shallow inhale.
“Again,” he commanded, his hands softly stroking her.
Her next few breaths spread lower, filling her belly. He smoothed her hair back behind her ears with one hand, pushing away her light-headedness. “Good. Keep going.”
Full, deep breaths drew in the pine-scented air and the seductive smell of his aftershave. She finally managed to keep breathing constantly and steadily in his soothing arms, and the buzzing in her head lowered to background noise. When she pulled away, she stumbled into a lounge chair. Her head fell back. Her eyes closed. The burn of tears was strong, but she managed to hold them at bay. She was not going to cry, but she wanted to. God, she had thought she was past this crap. And to do it in front of him…
“You going to be all right?” Tanner asked in a gentle voice.
She cracked her eyes open. He knelt near her feet on the cold porch, his brow furrowed in the white light from the half moon.
“You made me have a panic attack,” she blurted out.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. “Has this happened before?”
She nodded and then looked away, watching the tree branches shiver in the breeze. Her mouth was dry, her throat swollen, her confidence leveled.
“I’m too attracted to you,” she whispered. “And you’re a journalist. I swore I’d never…date another one.” She looked back and gestured with her hands, desperate not to hurt his feelings and yet equally desperate make him understand. “It scares me.” Her honesty almost did her in. “It’s not you.”
His deep sigh mixed with the night sounds of crickets and rustling leaves. “I’m sorry I came on so strong, Meredith. I couldn’t seem to help myself.”
His apology helped her regain her footing. “I meant what I said. I won’t ever go out with a journalist again.” Her voice was flat. “I made a vow.”
He stood and held out his hand. “We’ll save that topic for another day. Let’s go inside. I’m sure everyone is wondering where we went.”
Knowing what his touch did to her, she didn’t take his hand. Pushing out of the chair took effort. The cool air brushed her hot cheeks, making her realize she needed to find her bustier. Oh, God, he’d helped her take it off.
He picked it up, studying it in the dim light before holding it out. “What’s the DW for?”
She took it from him with shaking hands. “Turn around.” She fitted it back on. Of all the luck… Of course she was wearing one of the ones Jill had embroidered. It was black with red stitching. She had almost made it to the back door before his hand grazed hers.
“Are you going to tell me?”
She turned. The kitchen light skittered over his face. S
he was relieved not to see any pity there. She wouldn’t have been able to take that.
“No, it’s none of your business.” She rushed inside.
The broom was in the closet, just like she remembered. He took it from her before she could swish it across the floor.
Her hands trembled as she moved over to the counter to pour out the coffees. She’d hit bottom again. She’d thought divorce was the hardest thing she’d ever done, but now she wondered if trying to rebuild a life wasn’t harder. The carafe shook in her hand.
“Put the coffee down before you burn yourself,” he said gently from over her shoulder. He walked over to the pie, and sliced it like a pizza, dishing the pieces onto plates like a pro. “Take these. I’ll clean up, and Jill can do the coffee.”
She turned away from his intent gaze. As she headed for the door, she could hear the sound of broken china scraping against the floor. It might as well have been the broken pieces of her heart.
Who was she kidding? Flirting with a handsome man had given her a panic attack. Was it simply because he was a journalist? She hoped to God it was, because otherwise she was never going to find Mr. Right and write her article.
Going bald or being hit by a falling piano wasn’t good enough for Rick-the-Dick. Maybe toothpicks under his perfectly manicured fingernails would do the trick.
She pressed the plates to her chest, hoping for some words of wisdom from her now vociferous alter ego.
But even Divorcée Woman had gone silent.
***
Tanner slid the broken china from the dust pan into the garbage. Christ, when had he become the King of Heel-dom? Crowding a woman to the point of a panic attack? He’d been attracted to her, and he’d stopped thinking.
He kept forgetting she’d gone through a traumatic divorce.
And that she’d been married to Sommerville. If the prick could screw with Tanner—someone who’d interviewed terrorists—what kind of shit had he done to his own wife? Even divorced, he was taking it to her with a sledgehammer.
Her pale, clenched face filled his mind. He hadn’t felt that helpless in a long time, listening to her short, choked breaths, and holding that strong, trembling body.