“You went swimming?”
She cocked a brow. “You sound surprised.”
“I guess I am a little.” Actually, more than a little. His experiences had convinced him that women favored pools. Beach trips usually involved a lot of complaining about the sand and the lack of bar service.
“I don’t see why you’d be surprised,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s the beach. You know, the place where you swim, splash in the waves, body surf—that sort of stuff. I also built a sand castle and picked up some shells, but didn’t find a sand dollar. I sure as heck didn’t get this sand all over me and my finger-in-the-light-socket hairdo by lounging elegantly on a chaise.”
Just another thing that surprised him. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been to the beach with a woman when she actually got her bathing suit, let alone her hair, wet.
“I’m definitely going to shop around for a Boogie board,” she said.
“I have an extra you’re welcome to borrow.”
She blinked. “Oh. Well, thanks. That’s very, um, nice of you. Very neighborly.”
“I’m guessing you meant that as a compliment, but since you sounded so shocked that I’d do something nice or neighborly, it kinda lost some of its charm.”
“I wasn’t shocked.”
Nick couldn’t help but grin. God, not only could she not sing, but she was a horrible liar, too. “Yes, you were.”
Her lips twitched. “Okay, maybe I was a little shocked.” She hesitated, then said, “I’m dying of thirst. In keeping with this neighborly thing, may I offer you a cold drink?”
He had his own cold drinks at home—the place he couldn’t wait to return to. To take a shower. To get away from her. Yet when he opened his mouth, the words, “Sure, that’d be great, thanks,” came out.
He watched her dig her key from her beach bag, then followed her to the stairs so he could again check out the two new bottom treads. Yup, he’d done a really good job. He looked up from admiring his handiwork and stilled.
As far as he knew, he’d never been the guy who ogled a woman wearing a short dress as she climbed stairs—until right now, when a freakin’ nuclear blast couldn’t have unglued his eyeballs from her shapely butt as it swung from side to side with each step.
Damn. He needed more than a cold drink. He needed a damn cold shower.
After she disappeared into the house, he released a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. Her voice wafted down from behind the screen door, and he found himself cocking his head to better hear her.
“Hey, Cupcake, how are you, sweet girl. Did you miss me?”
Apparently Cupcake performed some sort of cat maneuver that indicated she had indeed missed her, because Jamie laughed and said, “I missed you, too. Are you hungry?”
Cupcake let out a meow Nick bet was heard in the next county.
“Let’s see what we have … Okay, would you prefer the tender turkey Tuscany with long-grain rice and garden greens, or the wild salmon primavera with garden veggies?”
Nick rolled his eyes. Sheesh. No wonder cats were so prissy.
“Here you go, baby,” Jamie crooned. “I’m going to bring a drink to that pest Nick, then I’ll be back. And you can tell me all about your day.” The screen door opened and she stepped outside, carrying two bottles of water. And halted when she saw him standing at the bottom of the stairs. Nick liked that she wasn’t wearing sunglasses and he was—definitely put him at an advantage as she couldn’t see his eyes, which he knew held a combination of irritation, amusement, and worst of all, an avid interest in watching her descend the steps.
He settled one booted foot on the bottom tread, then braced his palms on the banisters. “ ‘That pest Nick’ ?” he repeated, looking up at her. “And here I thought we were being all nice and neighborly.”
Her cheeks turned bright red. By God, that absolutely fascinated him. Made him want to tease and embarrass her for three days straight just so he could see that wash of brilliant color stain her skin.
She hoisted her chin up a notch. “Eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves.”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was standing.”
“Listening to me talk to Cupcake.”
“How was I supposed to know you were going to chat with your cat?”
She started down the stairs and his attention was riveted on the way the hem of that short orange dress flirted with her thighs. The next thing he knew she was standing on the next to the last step, there was less than two feet separating them, and his eyes were on the same level as her chest.
And speaking of chests, she slapped an ice cold plastic water bottle against his. “Here’s your drink.”
He lifted one hand from the wooden banister and took the bottle, purposely resting his hand over hers. “Thanks.”
She snatched her hand away as if he’d scorched her and he had to fight the urge to grin. He could almost hear her debating the advantages of telling him to move out of her way versus remaining where she was on the second tread, which allowed her to look down at him. Clearly she opted for the latter because she merely unscrewed the cap of her bottle and took a sip.
He mimicked her actions, never taking his gaze from her, although given his dark lenses, she wouldn’t necessarily know that.
She took another sip, then asked, “What’s wrong with talking to my cat? Don’t you ever talk to Godiva?”
“Sure. But all she hears is blah, blah, blah, Godiva, blah, blah, blah.”
“Cupcake would tell you that that’s because cats rule and dogs drool.”
“Shows what Cupcake knows. Godiva hardly ever drools.” Okay, that was a stretch—she drooled. A lot. But he wasn’t about to let some soufflé-eating cat insult his dog. That’s just what dogs did—drool. “So which meal did Cupcake choose? Personally I would have gone with the wild salmon primavera.”
“She picked the chicken and cheddar cheese soufflé.”
Figures. “They sure make fancy stuff for cats to eat. Bet that crap costs a fortune. Lucky for me, Godiva isn’t picky.” Damn right she wasn’t. She’d eat gym socks if he put them in her bowl. Hell, she drank from the toilet every chance she got. “She’d scarf down that prissy cat food in a single gulp and not even know she was tasting tender turkey Tuscany. And by the way—you calling anyone a pest is like Cupcake accusing someone of having tuna breath.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Is that your poetic way of telling me I’m a pest?”
“It was rather poetic, wasn’t it? And yes, it is. And at least I’ll tell you to your face, rather than saying it behind your back.”
“First of all, Cupcake is sporting chicken breath, not tuna. And secondly, if you want me to tell you you’re a pest to your face, fine. You’re a pest. Happy?”
“Not really. I liked it much better when you told me I was hot.”
Another shade of red stained her cheeks. Oh, yeah, life was good. Whatever she was about to say—and based on the look she skewered him with, it promised to be pretty scathing—was cut off when she suddenly looked over his shoulder and her eyes widened. Oh, yeah, like he was going to fall for the old “there’s something/someone right behind you” trick. The second he turned around, she’d probably shove him aside and move off the steps, taking away his great eye-level view of what appeared to be a first-class rack.
“Um, what is Godiva doing?” she asked.
“Last I checked, sleeping in her dog bed on my carport. Why?”
“It appears she woke up. And is rolling around on the patch of weeds that’s supposed to be my lawn. Is she okay?”
Nick turned, and sure enough, there was Godiva, right next to the decapitated flamingo, her tongue lolling, making orgasmic sounds as she writhed around like a happy pig in a mud puddle.
“Crap. The only time she does that is when she finds something really foul smelling.” He whistled sharply. Godiva stilled, then rolled to her feet. She caught sight of Nick and ran toward him like she was shot from a cannon. She g
reeted him in a frenzy of tail-wagging canine joy that would lead anyone to believe she hadn’t seen him in a decade.
“Holy Jesus, Godiva,” Nick said, turning his head away from the horrific stench that rose from her fur in a noxious cloud of foulness. “What in God’s name did you get into?”
“Ugh, I know that stink,” Jamie said, covering her mouth and nose with her hand. “It’s your dead clams.”
“I thought you threw them away,” Nick said, doing his best to avoid Godiva’s rapturous attempts to rub her sides against his legs.
“I did. But according to the schedule I found in the kitchen drawer, the garbage isn’t collected until tomorrow.” Giving prancing Godiva a large berth, she disappeared around the corner of the house, no doubt to check her garbage bin.
Nick looked down at Godiva. “Sit,” he commanded, pointing his index finger at the ground.
Godiva’s butt hit the cement, and she looked up at him with worshipful, excited eyes that clearly said, Don’t I smell great? Don’t you love it? Isn’t it the best smell in the whole wide world? I did it just for you! ’Cause I love you!
Jamie returned, her entire face scrunched into an expression that indicated the stench on the other side of the carport wasn’t any better.
“Trash can’s been … well, trashed,” she reported. “It looks like a clam crime scene over there—dead bodies all over the place.” She looked down at Godiva and shook her head. “You think you smell absolutely fabulous, don’t you, baby?”
Godiva gave a single bark and pelted Nick’s jeans with her wagging tail.
Jamie raised her gaze back to Nick. “That is one stinky dog you have there.”
He made an exaggerated gagging sound. “Yeah? I hadn’t noticed.”
She laughed, then planted her hands on her hips and shot Godiva a stern look. “You realize the only thing saving you is that you are massively adorable.”
Godiva licked her chops and Nick nodded. “People say that to me all the time.”
She raised her gaze and treated Nick to a look that was clearly meant to incinerate him where he stood. “I was talking to Godiva.”
“I know. Doesn’t change the fact that people say that to me, too.”
“I’ll bet. Just so you know, Cupcake would never do something like that.” She indicated the clam crime scene area with a wrinkling of her nose and a vague wave of her hand.
“Right. Listen, we had a cat when I was growing up. He brought dead crap home all the time—birds, frogs, snails. He even left a dead goldfish on the porch once. God only knows where he got it. And then there were the hairballs—yuck. So don’t be casting aspersions on my smelly dog like your cat wears a halo around her head.”
To prove there was no way Miss Cat Owner was going to think that a little stink (okay, a gargantuan, steal-your-breath stink) would come between him and his dog, he reached down and gave Godiva’s scruff a good rub. His eyes damn near crossed in his head from the stench, but hey, he’d proved his point—whatever the hell it was.
By the way her lips twitched, it was clear she knew the stench had about knocked him off his feet. “Now you both need a bath.”
What they needed was a decontamination tank. “You realize this is your fault,” he said, straightening and folding his arms over his chest.
Her brows shot upward. “How do you figure that?”
“You obviously didn’t close the lid to your garbage can correctly.”
“And you obviously didn’t tie up your dog properly.”
“I didn’t tie her up at all—which has never been a problem until now—when certain people didn’t close their trash cans properly.”
“Well, the dead clams wouldn’t have been in there in the first place if you hadn’t left them in my sink.”
Damn. She had a point.
“Which means you’re the one who’s going to have to destink your dog.” She sniffed twice, then shuddered. “Good luck with that.”
“We can do it—it shouldn’t take more than an hour to give her a good bath.”
The look she gave him indicated he was a few slices short of a loaf. “We? Who is this we you speak of?”
He smiled. “You and me.”
“What on earth makes you think I’m going to help you bathe your dog?”
“That whole ‘nice and neighborly’ thing. It’s the way things are done here in the South—so I’ve been told. Giving a seventy-pound dog a bath is a two-man job.”
“I don’t doubt it. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a man.”
Oh, he’d noticed all right. In fact, he couldn’t stop noticing. Or stop thinking about what she’d look like all wet, which she’d get if she helped him. He didn’t really expect her to say yes, but since he couldn’t resist trying to get a rise out of her, he continued, “Hey, if you had a dog that smelled like dead clams, I’d help you. Really.”
“Yeah, right. More like you’d laugh your ass off while you hightailed it out of here.”
“See, now ‘hightailed’ is a Southern expression—so you’re catching on to island life. You know, island life—where neighbors help neighbors.”
“Here’s another Southern expression for you—I ain’t doin’ that no-how.” She gave him a big, false smile and batted her eyelashes. “Bless your heart.”
Nick pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and narrowed his eyes. “I’ve lived here for three months—I know what ‘bless your heart’ means.”
“Congratulations. I knew what it meant after living here three minutes—ya big dumbass.”
“That’s exactly what it means.”
“No shit.”
He heaved a huge sigh. “Fine. Be that way.” He looked down at Godiva. “Sorry, girl. Princess here thinks you’re foul and doesn’t want any part of you.”
The woebegone look Godiva gave Jamie made it clear that this was the worst news she’d ever heard in her entire doggie life. Ever.
“No fair,” Jamie protested. She glared at Nick. “You play dirty.”
“I play to win,” he corrected. “Always.”
“How can you stand living with him?” she asked Godiva.
Godiva barked twice.
“That means, ‘He’s the best guy on the planet.’ ” Nick translated.
“Clearly she hasn’t met every guy on the planet,” Jamie said in a dust-dry tone. Her gaze wandered back to Godiva, who looked like she’d just lost her best pal, then she sighed and pointed at Nick. “If I help you bathe her, you have to clean up the clams.”
“Deal.”
Distrust was written all over her face. “All the clams. Every one of them.”
“I’ll bag them all up and correctly latch your trash bin—and I’ll even put it out by the curb for you for tomorrow’s pickup.” He extended his hand. “Deal?”
Her gaze bounced between him and Godiva—who, gotta love her, was treating Jamie to her most angelic expression. After several seconds she caved and held out her hand. “Deal.”
Their palms met and his hand engulfed hers. Her skin felt warm and smooth against his. The heat that sizzled through him from such an innocent touch surprised him. Confused him. And didn’t particularly please him. The fact that her eyes widened slightly made him wonder if she felt the same spark. And if she did—what did he intend to do about it?
She withdrew her hand and his fingers involuntarily curled inward to retain the tingle her touch had left behind.
“There is one catch,” he said.
She pursed her lips. Damn, she really did have nice lips. “I should have known,” she said.
“Don’t give me the evil eye. It’s a good catch—something that will make the bath much easier.”
“Easier for whom? Because I could make it a lot easier on myself by abandoning this entire project.”
“Easier on all of us. I’ll take Godiva to the beach first. Let her burn off some energy with a game of catch. The water will wash off some of the stink and all the running will tire her out so she’ll b
e easier to handle—a win-win. Plus, you’ve never seen a dog in your entire life who loves to chase tennis balls more than she does. It’s pretty entertaining. You’re welcome to join us, or I’ll just knock on your door when we get back.”
She looked down at Godiva, who was quivering with excitement. “He had you at the words ‘chase tennis balls,’ didn’t he?”
When Godiva barked, Jamie laughed. “Okay, I’ve seen what you can do with dead clams, so I guess I should see what you can do with a ball.”
“I’ll clean up the clams, then get her leash and be right back,” Nick said.
“Okay. Do you have a special shampoo or soap you use to bathe her?”
“Just whatever’s in my shower.”
“I’ll look in my toiletries bag and see if I can round up something a little more sweet smelling,” she said.
“Are you insinuating I stink?”
“At the moment, yes, you do.”
Since he couldn’t argue with that, he whistled for Godiva and together they trotted back to Southern Comfort. Commanding Godiva to stay in the carport, Nick grabbed a couple of plastic bags from his storage closet and quickly gathered up the foul-smelling mollusks. After tossing them back into Jamie’s trash can, he secured the lid, then wheeled the container to the curb. He took a couple minutes to dash into the house, wash his hands, and exchange his dirty, smelly, sweaty clothes for a pair of board shorts. He didn’t bother to lock the door—anyone who wanted to steal his dirty laundry was welcome to it—and hurried down the stairs, confused as to why he was in such a rush. The prospect of hitting the beach with his clam-killing neighbor shouldn’t have his heart thumping in anticipation, but there was no escaping that that’s exactly what was happening.
But why? Yeah, she was cute, but so were a lot of other women. In fact, a lot of them were downright gorgeous. But it had been a long time since anyone had inspired such heat in him. And curiosity. He wanted to know more about her, but damned if he understood why. Probably it was just simply that she wasn’t his usual type and she wasn’t throwing herself at him. The old she’s-different/hard-to-get scenario. Yeah, that had to be it. Because bottom line, she was a pest. A prissy princess—although he had to grudgingly admit that she wasn’t proving to be quite as princessy as he’d originally believed. And bossy. She was definitely bossy.
Summer at Seaside Cove Page 8