All I Want Is You

by Toni Blake

  “Look,” he said, regrouping. “Why don’t we go to sleep, head to the beach tomorrow, and just . . . ease into this, see where it goes. I, uh, don’t want you to make a decision you’ll regret just because I wooed you with a fancy dinner and a five-­star hotel room.”

  At this, a loud laugh burst from her throat when he least expected it. And he laughed, too, and was glad he’d managed to lighten the mood.

  “If it happens later, at the beach,” he went on, “by then we’ll both be sure we want it to, you know? And if it turns out I’m meant to be the second guy you have sex with, well, I’d rather give you a better memory than doing it on a crappy old bed at the Colonial Inn.”

  Sitting up, she tugged her T-­shirt down over her hips and sat cross-­legged next to him. “It’s not so awful here,” she said gently.

  But he just tilted his head, flashed her a get real look.

  “Well, okay,” she admitted. “It’s fairly awful, but . . . I wouldn’t have regretted it. I promise.” She gave her head a soft tilt, peered up at him. “Though . . . you know what’s nice?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “To know you’re a really good guy. In that way.” She pursed her lips, met his gaze, and he sensed that she was going to confide something else in him. “The fact is, every guy I’ve ever said no to when it came to sex dumped me.”

  And damn, he hated hearing that. It was so wrong. And he could only imagine the ways that had hurt her. He lowered his chin slightly, keeping their gazes locked as he said, “Maybe you’re hanging out with the wrong guys.”

  BY the time they hit the road the next morning, Christy thought it seemed like business as usual. Jack was back to calling her Alice. “What do you want for breakfast, Alice?” “Chop, chop, Alice—­we need to hit the road.” And as they resumed heading south, she could have almost believed last night had never happened.

  Except that she knew it had.

  Right after they’d nearly had sex, Jack had mumbled that he should probably move back to his own bed. And she’d mumbled a muted sort of, “Yeah.” But he didn’t actually do it. And in fact, at one point she’d awakened in the night to feel him behind her, his hand curved warmly over her waist through her T-­shirt, his legs mingling just lightly with hers.

  Of course, later she’d woken up to find her bed woefully empty—­at some point he had moved. And she’d felt a little sad about that, but what had taken place earlier had mostly made her feel . . . happy.

  It was nice—­okay, amazing—­to be touched by him, kissed by him. But even just to look across the space that separated their beds and know things were happening between them, that he wanted her the same way she wanted him, that—­in spite of herself—­the prospect of romance with Jack loomed large . . . that was pretty amazing, too. Passion wasn’t all about touching and being touched. There was so much more to it. Maybe more than she’d known up to now.

  It made her feel . . . too young, in a way. Naïve. To realize how much she still didn’t know about things like romance and passion—­and also to have confessed to him what she had. Why did I say that? Why didn’t I just shut up and let it happen?

  But . . . maybe she’d wanted him to understand that, despite his earlier impressions of her, sex wasn’t something she took totally lightly. It wasn’t just some tool to get what she wanted. It had felt important to make him understand who she really was: a girl who valued her relationships, and a girl who valued herself. Maybe she was a little lost right now—­but at least he’d learned one important truth about her: that she respected herself enough not to just give her body away to every guy who passed by.

  She also wasn’t sure why she’d told him the part about getting dumped by guys she’d turned down for sex. After all, she hadn’t turned him down. In fact, the embarrassing opposite had taken place. But maybe it was just another way of saying to him: What’s happening right now means something to me. Without quite having to say that.

  And even as crazy as her body had been going with lust and frustration, she loved that it had mattered to him, too. Or that at least she mattered. How many other guys would have stopped at that point? Until last night with Jack, she would have guessed zero. And the fact that Jack had cared more about making it right, and special, than just making it . . . kind of blew her mind. Oh God, I wish I didn’t need a rich guy, I so, so, so wish I didn’t need a rich guy.

  But for now, she resolved to put that out of her mind. Jack was behind the wheel; they were going to the beach. They were heading to see Grandpa Charlie. Now was the time to stop thinking about her problems, to just let them go. It was vacation, after all.

  And as they passed through Valdosta a few hours after leaving the Colonial Inn, and the Florida state line grew near, that familiar sense of excitement from her younger years began racing through her veins like adrenaline. It was about ­getting closer and closer to paradise, knowing soon the rest of the world—­including your troubles—­would be far, far away for as long as you stayed. It struck her just now what a wonderful place it was to run away to if it could really give her all that.

  The Welcome to Florida sign had just appeared in the distance when the car began to slow—­and she looked over at Jack wondering why as he pulled off into the emergency lane, stopping just in front of the sign.

  “What’s wrong? Is something wrong with the car?” God, what if he’d been right to worry about that? She was thankful not to be alone, but she so couldn’t afford a car repair right now.

  “No, just thought we’d take a picture. Of you with the sign. Start rebuilding your collection.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, stunned. That he was so thoughtful, that she’d been lucky enough to meet him. Maybe getting locked out of her apartment hadn’t been such a terrible thing after all.

  THERE was something about that first view of the ocean, always.

  “There it is!” she announced, as giddy as if she were ten years old. The welcoming scent of crisp, salty air wafted through the open car windows as they crossed the bridge that led over a small bay and into the sleepy seaside town of Coral Cove. Hot, tropical sun blasted down, making the water sparkle beyond the sand dunes and sea oats that guarded the beach. “There’s a more touristy area up the road,” she explained to Jack, “but this is my favorite stretch of beach. It’s . . . empty but not lonely.” She looked over at him, feeling a bit silly. “Does that make any sense?”

  He gave a short nod. “Perfect sense. I like it, too,” he said. Then he asked, “How long since you’ve been here?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied, thinking back. “High school, I guess. Everything was different then. Life seemed a lot easier.”

  “Well, try to let it seem easy while you’re here,” he suggested with a soft grin. “Because that’s why you came, right? Vacation.”

  Now it was she who nodded. “Good point.” And there truly was something about the beach that made her cares feel . . . nonexistent. She knew the problems hadn’t disappeared, but it was nice the way that simply being here, just coming back to this place she loved, gave her a fresh sense of hope.

  North of the gulfside beach lay a small grid of short, quiet streets lined with pastel cottages where many of the community’s residents lived, but Jack and Christy followed the beach-­lined road south into town.

  “There,” she said, pointing oceanward once more. “That’s the public beach.” A small lifeguard tower painted in red and white stripes jutted from the sand, and colorful umbrellas dotted the shore. Families and other small groups congregated beneath them or lay stretched out on towels and in lounge chairs. A few kids played in the surf, and to one side of it all, a large wooden pier stretched from the beach out into the water.

  The few restaurants, motels, and other businesses resided across the street from the beach—a clothing boutique and a place selling beach chairs and T-­shirts caught Christy’s eye as they passed. This p
art of town was smaller than she ­remembered—­or maybe some of the businesses had just closed over time—­but she still found the atmosphere quaint and inviting.

  “Where’s your grandpa’s rest home?” Jack asked.

  “Further up the road,” Christy explained. “There are a few bigger hotels in that direction, too, past Grandpa Charlie’s place. That’s where my family always stayed. And there are probably some new ones since I was last here—­my grandpa tells me that part of town has grown.” She glanced back toward the area they’d just passed through. “Though I guess maybe the older part isn’t faring so well.”

  It was just then that Jack slowed the car as they approached an old row motel painted white with a red roof. According to the big faded sign out front, it was called the Happy Crab—­a thin, red tube of neon outlined the smiling crab on the sign. Jack pulled into the parking lot and said, “This looks like a nice place.”

  And Christy blinked. “It does?”

  “Well, a step up from the Colonial Inn at least. And it’s right by the beach. I’m betting the price is right, so I think it’ll be a good place to stay.”

  Christy tried to keep the smile on her face—­same as the crab on the sign. It wasn’t that she had anything against the Happy Crab, but all along she’d simply envisioned them staying at one of the bigger hotels near Sunnymeade, Grandpa Charlie’s rest home. Only now did it hit her that those places were probably a lot more expensive and that she’d just never thought about that kind of thing when it had been her parents footing the bill for vacation. Which meant she really couldn’t complain.

  Except . . . what had happened to making things so much more special than they’d been at the Colonial Inn? She glanced over at him, wondering . . . had things changed since last night? Was he calling her Alice again and checking them into another dumpy little motel because he’d decided anything romantic or physical between them was a bad idea?

  “Something wrong?” he asked, noticing her expression. Uh oh—­she’d forgotten to keep smiling.

  But she gave her head a quick shake. “Not at all. I’m sure this place is . . . great.”

  “And if this part of town is hurting a little, it’s nice to give them our business,” Jack pointed out. And Christy certainly couldn’t argue with that.

  After Jack parked the car, they both got out and walked toward the motel’s modest front office. Christy appreciated Jack holding the door for her as she stepped inside—­then she pulled up short. Holy mother of God—­a huge, scaly dragon-­like creature lay stretched across the entire length of the front desk! Christy screamed at the sight and, turning, leapt instinctively toward Jack, throwing herself into his arms.

  “Don’t mind Fifi,” a voice said from behind the desk. “She won’t hurt you.” And only then did Christy see the rather good-­looking man sitting there—­he’d been completely eclipsed by the horror of Fifi. Whatever the hell Fifi was.

  “Um, what is that?” Jack asked. With one strong arm anchored comfortingly around Christy’s waist, he leaned forward to visually inspect the dragon.

  “Fifi’s a giant iguana. I’ve had her since she was a baby,” the guy behind the desk explained. Getting to his feet to greet them, he shook his head in a playfully tired sort of way. “And she’s a handful, let me tell ya.”

  Christy just continued to stare, aghast.

  “A, uh, big handful,” Jack mused—­and the motel keeper laughed.

  “Kind of like when you buy a puppy and it gets way bigger than you expected,” the guy said with a lazy grin. He struck her as a little scruffy, in the way Jack had at first but which she didn’t even see anymore, only with an easygoing beach bum air about him. “But by then they’re like family, so whatta ya gonna do, right?”

  “Um, sure, right,” Jack said. And Christy was beginning to feel more at ease now that the humongous scaled iguana just lay there like a giant stone, but she took her sweet time disentangling herself from Jack. Because it was nice there.

  The motel keeper smiled at them from overtop the giant iguana. “So welcome to the Happy Crab. Need a room?”

  “Sure do,” Jack said.

  And the motel guy snapped his fingers and said, “Fifi, down. I gotta do some business.”

  When the prehistoric-­looking blob didn’t respond, he stepped closer and gave her a gentle shove. Finally the iguana began to move, seeming to rock slightly from side to side, and then ambled slowly down off the counter to silently disappear somewhere behind it.

  “I’m Reece Donovan,” the handsome beach bum introduced himself then. “Hope you’ll enjoy your stay in Coral Cove. And if I can do anything to make your visit better, just let me know.”

  And it was after Jack handed over his credit card and stood filling out a guest sheet—­because the Happy Crab didn’t seem to have anything so fancy or new-­fangled as a computer—­that Christy looked to Reece Donovan and said, “One question. Fifi doesn’t have any . . . brothers or sisters running around here, does she? I mean, she’s the only one, right?”

  Reece answered in the same easy way. “Nope, she’s one of a kind. But don’t be surprised if she turns up in some odd places. She gets around.” And then he winked—­and Christy thought it was supposed to allay her concerns, but it didn’t.

  Yet after that a funny thing happened. As she and Jack went back out into the Florida heat and walked down to the room they’d been assigned, she began to realize . . . well, the place really wasn’t so bad.

  And she felt that way even more as Jack used the key on the red plastic crab-­shaped keychain he’d been given to let them inside. The room could have used some remodeling, but the colors on the walls were friendly and beachy, and the space possessed unique touches she hadn’t expected, like a small glass bowl shaped like a crab holding fruit with a card signed Reece and Fifi, your Happy Crab staff.

  And unlike most row motels, the rooms contained back windows, which looked out over the bay they’d crossed to get here—­and also past a dock where a few boats were tied up. It wasn’t the stunning ocean view of a high-­rise hotel, but it was pleasant and reminded her with just a glimpse that she was at the beach. As she glanced out, a pelican strolled across the planked dock.

  “Hey, look,” Jack said with a slightly arrogant grin, “a water-­that-­leads-­to-­the-­ocean view. Only the best for you, Alice,” and then he winked. And she thought—­okay, the Happy Crab on its own was a decent place. But the Happy Crab with Jack . . . actually seemed like it might be sort of fun.

  JACK had seen the newer high-­rises farther up the beach and had figured some of them were bound to be resort hotels. But the truth was, he liked it here. It had character. He liked Reece, the guy who ran the place. And he already felt more at home than he usually did at some upscale but generic name-­brand hotel.

  And . . . he’d also just thought it was a good idea. To keep things low-­key. And inexpensive. Just because he’d nearly lost control with Christy last night didn’t mean he was ready to spill the beans about himself. All she needed to know was that he was a nice guy who had come on this trip with her but hadn’t wanted to take advantage of her.

  He still couldn’t believe he’d let that happen. There’d just been something unaccountably sexy about her sitting there in that way-­too-­big T-­shirt and something unexpectedly touching about the things she was saying to him, the way she was opening up.

  Like you should have.

  He barely knew where that little voice inside him had come from, but he silently told it to shut the hell up as they left their room, setting out for dinner and a visit to Christy’s grandpa.

  An ocean breeze wafted past, lifting Christy’s freshly washed hair from her shoulders—­left bare by a summery pale pink sundress—­and Jack decided to do exactly as he’d advised Christy, to forget his troubles for now. He’d come here for a vacation, he was with a pretty girl, and he was just going to
enjoy himself.

  The big yellow rain slicker and hat on the sign next door caught his eye. “The Hungry Fisherman,” he said, reading the sign aloud. “Sound good for dinner, Alice?”

  Her look gave him the impression she was amused by his choice, yet willing to humor him. “Sure.” Though as they walked in that direction, she said, “Even if the fisherman looks a little like a lunatic.”

  Jack studied the sign more closely—­it appeared to have been hand-­painted, probably a long time ago. She was right. “He has crazy eyes,” he observed. “Fisherman by day, psycho killer by night.” Then he gave her a wink and a smile. “See, aren’t you glad you have me to take you to such interesting places? I mean, if not for me, I bet you’d be out looking for an Applebee’s.”

  Her laugh told him he’d hit the nail on the head.

  “If you ask me,” he went on, “simple living ends up making life more interesting.”

  She tilted her pretty head, appearing to think it through. Maybe in the same way she’d thought through asking a stranger to kick her door down or giving names to the alcohol-­and-­flavor-­laced scents that floated through their neighborhood. He kept discovering there was a lot more to Alice than had met the eye—­and he always liked finding that out.

  The restaurant was an old, dark, woody place clearly designed to make them feel they were on a large fishing boat—­or maybe in an ark. Large fake fish hung on the walls above aged booths sporting torn red vinyl. And a life-­size replica of the fisherman on the sign stood at the door to greet patrons. As Christy tried to hide her gasp, Jack whispered, “Little boat of horrors,” almost more amused by the Hungry Fisherman than he could stand. “Damn, I love this place so far.”

  “Name’s Polly,” said a fifty-­something woman in an outdated waitress’s uniform dress of burnt orange as she approached a hostess stand. That was when Jack realized how small the dinner crowd was, apparently giving Polly time to be both waitress and hostess. “And that there fella we call the Fish Whisperer. I painted him myself.” She pointed at the life-­size statue.