by Lori Foster
“Size of a fist,” she said, placing hers against her breastbone. “Four chambers. Blood pumps in, and it sends the de-oxygenated stuff through the lungs to pick up O² before being sent back out to the body.”
“Right. The blood returning from the lungs goes into the left atrium—one of the chambers of the heart. From there, a valve, the mitral valve, opens to let that blood flow into the main pumping chamber, the left ventricle. I had a wonky valve, causing mitral stenosis.”
Her fisted hand dropped to the desktop. “Sounds serious.”
“It made some of my blood flow backward to my lungs, meaning my heart had to pump harder to get the necessary volume through my veins. Provided the leak is slow and only gets worse progressively, your body can compensate for years.”
She covered her fist with her other hand, as if to comfort it. “And when it can no longer compensate?”
“Then you experience shortness of breath and extreme fatigue.”
“You knew this when you were a competing triathlete?” she asked, frowning at him.
You say that as if you cared. “Because I was a competing triathlete I caught on to something being not quite right. Turns out the bad case of strep throat I had as a kid likely developed into undiagnosed rheumatic fever that caused the damage. So I had surgery to fix me up, all right and tight.”
She tilted her head, that glorious hair falling over one shoulder. “What kind of surgery makes you ‘all right and tight’?”
“Open-heart,” he said. “I have a mechanical valve now, and take a blood thinner every day, but that’s it. My long-term prognosis is the same as for any other thirty-year-old.”
A moment passed, then she slapped her palms on the desktop. “Well. Congratulations.” She rose to her feet. “I’m glad to hear you’re in good shape.”
“Excellent shape,” Caleb said, standing, as well. She was in that hurry-him-out mode, just as she’d been last night. “Meg—”
“Sorry, but I don’t have any more time to chat right now.” She snatched up her purse and looked ready to push him out the door.
He rooted his feet to the ground. “Let me take you out to dinner tonight.”
“I don’t see why you’d want to.”
His eyebrows rose. Stubborn woman! “Let’s start with that we both need to eat.”
“We don’t need to eat together. We already did that.”
Caleb rocked back on his heels. “I really do scare you.”
She frowned. “Of course not. But you recall what happened last night.”
He damn sure would remember it for the rest of his life. “Didn’t you enjoy yourself?”
Her cheeks turned pink again and her green eyes narrowed. “Can’t you take no for an answer?”
“I haven’t actually heard you say that word,” Caleb pointed out, rubbing his knuckles along his jaw. “Not last night. Not now.”
Meg looked down at her feet, then inhaled a long breath. “All right. Here’s the deal. Last night...last night was nice. You’re fun. You’re funny. I’m sure I’m not the first woman to let you know you’re attractive. After those kisses, I even considered sleeping with you.”
Now, why didn’t that sound like a victory?
Her gaze lifted to his, and a hint of a smile curved her lips. “Now I’m scaring you.”
“Hardly. Setting the sheets on fire does not inspire fear in me.” He thought of his hands fisted in her hair, of his mouth on hers, his tongue stroking deep. “When can we make that happen?”
“We won’t. I considered it, but decided it’s not in my best interest.”
“Why don’t you give me a chance to change your mind?” he asked, taking a step toward her.
Meg held him off with a hand. “No. Really.”
Caleb could see the tension in her body. She was worried about him getting close, and he thought he could understand why. “I realize that after what happened to Peter you might not want to take a chance—”
“Don’t bring Peter into this.”
“But he’s here,” Caleb said. “Because he was your first love.” Though if destiny played out the way he hoped, the way he thought it should, he planned on being her last one.
“Love.” Meg shook her head. “It wasn’t that. What we had was a potent mix of young adult hormones and summer sun. I was more than ready to drink the pre-sweetened Kool-Aid after a childhood overstocked with Disney princess movies and long hours of pretend.”
Caleb stilled. “You don’t think you fell in love with him.”
“I don’t believe in falling in love,” Meg said. “I don’t ever want to.”
It was only later, after she’d once again put him on the other side of her door and he was taking a long walk on the beach, that Caleb absorbed her last words. Then grasped their inherent contradiction. If you truly didn’t believe in the phenomenon of falling in love, there was no reason not to want that to happen.
Looking toward the water, he grinned. “I’m not giving up on her, cousin,” he promised.
* * *
AT ABOUT 4:00 p.m., behind the closed and locked door of the property management office, Meg decided she needed a nap. Sure, it was classic avoidance of issues she’d prefer not to face, but it was also...a nap. Rarely did she allow herself one of those and she thought a prize was in order. She’d checked in everyone expected to arrive at the cove that day. More important, she’d held out against Caleb’s still-smokin’ sex appeal.
He’d strolled in, wearing that confidence of his like a second shirt. When she’d clearly been trying to get rid of him, he’d made himself at home in her visitor’s chair. What perversity inside of her thrilled to that obstinate quality of his? It was almost as if he was bone-certain she enjoyed being with him. That she was supposed to be with him.
Someone as sensible as Meg shouldn’t be swayed by such persistence. Didn’t she know there was nothing to be gained by a roll in the sack with him? Yes, scratching an itch could provide temporary pleasure, but good sense warned her that being with Caleb would come with a price.
And she’d already paid once, hadn’t she? Ten years ago she’d lost her head and then effectively lost her family home.
In the corner of the office was the shabby leather recliner that had been her father’s favorite. Approaching it, she had to smile, imagining her mother insisting to Dad as they prepared to move to Provence that the recliner belonged at the cove. Mom had detested that chair the moment her father had brought it home from an estate sale, but since he’d been so delighted with the find, she’d never said a word against it.
Her parents had been married for thirty-plus years. Any mature person knew it couldn’t have been a happy-fest 24/7 for all that time, but they were still together. He brought her flowers every Friday. She never grimaced when he practiced the saxophone each afternoon. Starr—the girl she’d been—had considered both proof of connubial bliss and lasting love.
Meg didn’t have an opinion of or an explanation for their continued devotion. Her brain couldn’t conjure one. There was an empty place in her chest where her heart—which might have weighed in—had once resided. If forced to guess why her parents’ togetherness worked, she’d say blind faith. But the scales had fallen from Meg’s eyes long ago.
Just something else to dodge mulling over. Settling into Dad’s old chair, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.
The cracked leather creaked as she wiggled against it. Breathing deep, she listened to the surf, hoping its ceaseless ebb and flow would sweep her consciousness away.
It didn’t work.
Long minutes passed.
Then she heard a strange scratching against the front door. Nothing human. Something...canine. She popped out of her chair, certainty making another smile break across her face. No surprise, it was Bitzer on the other sid
e of the entrance. That summer ten years ago he’d shown up at her door just like this, signaling his arrival in the very same way.
She went to her knees, her arms wrapping around his neck. “Bitz! Do you remember me, you adorable dog?” Burying her face in his ruff, she reveled in his furry warmth. He accepted her embrace, body writhing in delight.
His doggy grin was wide as he trotted into the office. Then he wandered about the room, nose peeking into the attached bathroom, then nudging the items on the bookshelf opposite the desk.
Meg watched him, a little buzz of joy rolling through her. Something had survived of that summer. Bitzer was his outgoing, all-accepting self. Sliding onto the leather seat, she rested her head against its back and closed her eyes again, hearing the clack-clack-clack of his nails against the floor. With the dog as company, sleep seemed possible now.
Then something sharp prodded her arm. Meg’s eyes popped open. “Bitzer?”
He had a plastic DVD case in his mouth, which he then dropped in her lap.
“Where did you find this, boy?”
While he didn’t answer, she figured he’d discovered it during his explorations. On the bookshelves, perhaps, or in the oversize reed basket beside it that held a collection of magazines and DVDs that guests were welcome to borrow.
Turning it over in her hands, she determined it wasn’t labeled. Her father was an avid amateur “filmmaker”—translation, he loved his video cam almost as much as his sax—so it could be a Crescent Cove sunset or perhaps several minutes of cavorting seals.
On a whim, she popped out of the chair and crossed to the computer on the desk. A moment later, an image bloomed on the screen. “Bitzer,” she breathed, casting a glance toward him. It was the dog, racing along the sand and then plunging into the surf after a Frisbee. Not a gray hair in sight.
Then the image changed. Meg tensed, her hand jerking away from the keyboard as if it burned. The monitor showed a girl and boy walking on the beach, coming toward the camera, but oblivious to it. Peter, lean and smiling, his long hair ruffled by the breeze. The girl that was once Meg—Starr—her arm hugging his waist, her face turned up to his. Smiling, too.
Bitzer raced toward them, and Peter took the Frisbee from his mouth, flung it again. The dog leaped into the water, splashing Starr with cool drops, and she squealed a little, following that up with a laugh.
Peter turned her to him for a kiss.
They looked so young, Meg thought. So young and carefree.
Without thinking, she reached toward the screen, tracing the teenager’s bright hair, following the young man’s grin with her fingertip. She was smiling, too, she realized, appreciating their happiness. Then the couple continued strolling. The camera followed them and Meg noted the golden stretch of sand, the waves rolling in, the bright-colored beach cottages that had been her childhood playground.
How beautiful it all was, she thought, from those delighted lovers to that cloudless sky.
For the first time in a decade, gratitude rose like a warm tide in her chest, displacing the cool bitterness of disillusionment and grief. She’d grown up in this wonderful place. Starr and Peter had enjoyed a spectacular summer. Nothing, not even his death, could take the reality of that away.
She still ached that Peter was gone, but the rush of good memories of her life here, and of that golden summer, was unstoppable. She saw bonfires in her mind’s eye, smelled the delicious blend of coconut oil and roasting corn on the cob, could almost taste the salty flavor of the ocean on her lips.
Meg didn’t try warding off the recollections as was her usual practice. Instead, she let them roll through as she continued watching the home movie—an assortment of moments from that last summer—taking in each scene of the visual playlist. Her dad trying to catch a fish in the ocean, her mother at her easel on the bluff, Skye still turning cartwheels at seventeen. And always Peter and Starr, smiling into each other’s eyes like the rest of the world and the future didn’t matter.
Maybe they didn’t. Maybe the fact that their present had existed once upon a time was enough.
Nobody got forever. That couple, Peter and Starr—they seemed like old friends to Meg’s fond gaze now—had lived large for three glorious months. Let them go now, a voice inside her said. Let them continue on their walk down that sunny beach.
Meg, let go.
When the screen finally faded out, she rose from the chair, her legs almost weightless. Everything about her felt lighter, and she drifted out of the office, then drifted up the sand, Bitzer at her side. Fog lingered over the beach, and strains of music carried toward her on the breeze, the sound of Happy Hour cranking up at Captain Crow’s.
She could use a drink.
Her timing couldn’t be better, she realized. A tradition went back to the 1950s when the same group of families summered at the cove year after year. They celebrated the arrival of 5:00 p.m., cocktail hour, with a special ceremony that was still carried on at Captain Crow’s today.
As she approached the restaurant’s deck, many of those crowded at the tables cleared out, gathering around a flagpole at the base of the steps that led to the sand. Meg stood at the periphery of the ragged circle, watching as a man in low-slung shorts and a faded sweatshirt lifted a conch shell to his lips. A loud blast from it caused the people around him to cheer, then they saluted as a blue flag was run up to flutter in the breeze.
“The martini symbol,” an amused voice said near her ear.
She didn’t need to look behind her to know it was Caleb’s warm breath that stirred the hair at her temple. “All hail revelry.”
“The cove’s a place for good times,” he said, as the others tromped back up the steps to their seats.
“I’m starting to remember that,” Meg admitted.
Caleb’s fingers curled around her upper arm and he turned her, his gaze searching her face. “You look...relaxed.”
She shrugged, trying not to show how something as simple as his sure touch made her belly quiver. His thumb caressed the vulnerable flesh of her inner arm and she had to put some starch in her knees to keep from leaning into him. “Thanks to Bitzer.”
“Yeah?” He slanted a glance at his dog. “I’ve been looking for you, buddy—but you’re forgiven for running off if you’ve been doing good works.”
The dog responded with waving tail and toothy grin.
Then Caleb’s palm slid lower to take Meg’s hand. “I can do good things, too,” he told her, the corners of his mouth curving up. “You should give me a chance.”
She considered it, trying to drum up all the reasons it was wrong. But they were hardly a match against that weightless feeling she still enjoyed and Caleb’s potent physical presence. He was so damn good-looking, with his hair falling over his brow and the intriguing dichotomy of his serious eyes and smiling lips.
His warm hand clasping hers—when had a man last held her hand?—was irresistible. “I’ll give you a chance to buy me a drink,” Meg said.
The sun broke from behind the clouds.
Really. Not that it was uncommon for it to finally shine after being held back for most of the day, but the warm, yellow blast of it against her face felt like a benediction. Caleb grinned, correctly interpreting her wonder. “The universe is on my side.”
Oh, arrogant man. But it was hard to disagree as they were given the best table on the deck, in a corner close to the railing. It was an intimate two-top, and she angled her chair so that the ocean wasn’t in her line of sight. The move brought her closer to Caleb, who didn’t seem to mind the quick, innocent bump of her knee against his. Instead, he moved his leg so the denim of his jeans was pressed lightly against her bare calf.
Bad man. Because he left it there, a reminder of his male heat, and even played with her fingers as they waited for his beer and her margarita. In her veins, her blood started chugging
hot and heavy, and her skin turned ultrasensitive, the breeze blowing against it feeling like a caress. On her other side, Bitzer leaned against her knee, caging her against his owner—though she no longer felt inclined to move away. As her icy glass was set in front of her, she sighed a little.
Picking up his beer, Caleb cocked a brow. “Problem?”
She lifted her drink and tapped the rim to the lip of his bottle. “I’m just thinking about the futility of delaying the inevitable.”
“Yeah?”
“I should have gone to bed with you last night.” She smiled when she saw him freeze, relishing the surprise crossing his face. But really, hadn’t the conclusion felt foregone? It seemed the only answer to this helpless, girlish flutter she felt just looking upon his face. The only way to manage it. “What have we wasted? Twenty-four hours?”
With a deliberate movement, he set down his beer. “Believe me, sweetheart. We’re not going to waste another second.”
CHAPTER THREE
AS MUCH AS Caleb would have liked to throw down some bills and drag Meg to his bed, the time-appreciater in him wasn’t going to act so rashly. Especially as he was aware that she’d pulled out a metaphorical stun gun by announcing her sudden willingness for sex. She thought to get the upper hand on what was going on between them by taking it down to its basest level.
Hell yeah, he wanted to kiss her, touch her, taste her, take her, but he was in this for a much longer game. That weird dream during surgery had intrigued him enough that he’d made the trip here, but it was Meg herself who held him now. Her beautiful face, her rare smile, that empty place inside her that made him want to pull her close, to fill her up, to treasure her forever.
Tearing off her clothes and driving himself inside her was not the way to make that happen. So he sat back in his chair, picked up his beer again to take a swallow, then caught the server’s eye and asked for a couple of menus.
Meg shot him a suspicious glance.
He hid his smile behind his bottle. “Got to fuel us up, you know,” he explained. “Want to have plenty of energy to deplete.”