The Love Shack

by Christie Ridgway

  His brother would have known something was up if he’d heard Gage’s exhausted voice. He still might, even though after the yeah-we’re-good-again text exchange with his pen pal, Gage had managed twelve hours of shut-eye. With all the lights on, of course.

  An unfamiliar couple came up behind him, and he was forced through the door, drifting in their wake. A household helper—hired for the occasion, Gage assumed—had let them in, so he was able to keep to the periphery of the party, unnoticed. Most of the action appeared to be poolside, and he stood in the shadows of the spacious backyard observing the other guests. Men and women were dressed in summer SoCal casual—that ran the gamut from crinkly cotton worn with shandals—rope-soled, awning-striped canvas footwear—to silk sundresses studded with sequins and glittery beads. A dozen kids were playing in the pool, the smallest at the shallows of the beach entry, while others scooted around the large Baja shelf like stingrays. Above the chatter of the partygoers, he heard “Marco!” and the expected response, “Polo!”

  The pool game took him straight back to his own childhood. He’d lived in a place just like this—a family neighborhood that revolved around kids and comfort. It had chafed at him, growing up. It wasn’t that he hadn’t appreciated his family and the privilege of his comfortable upbringing; it was just that it had felt so between-the-lines to him, and he’d never been good at coloring that way.

  His gaze caught on a figure stationed by the children playing in the water. It was his sister’s husband, David Quincy. Deadly Dull David. Gage had called him that from the very beginning, and the memory made him feel like a louse. David was an accountant, the head numbers guy for a big talent agency. Sure, he was the type to dot all i’s and leave no t’s uncrossed, but he’d also made his wife happy for fourteen years, and seeing him smile at his youngest son, Russ, sent a second pang of guilt through Gage. Where the hell had he gotten off criticizing the other man? There was a good, thriving family here.

  In a good, thriving place. After what he’d seen over the past decade, he wasn’t going to bitch about first-world luxury. Maybe it took third-world experience for him to see it with fresh eyes. All he knew was that the atmosphere didn’t hem in his spirit as it had done before.

  Probably because once you experienced a real cage, you recognized the difference.

  “There you are!”

  Gage stiffened at the sound of his brother’s voice, already on guard. Then, reminding himself of the reason for the occasion, he turned toward him, hand outstretched. “Hey. Congratulations again. Great day for a party.”

  His twin’s grasp was strong, his gaze sharp. “Thought maybe we’d have to send out a posse to round you up.”

  “I’m not late.”

  “Of course you aren’t,” Jane said, coming up to the men and kissing Gage’s cheek.

  He took her hand, admiring her crisp, lemon-colored sundress and ribbon-laced shoes. “Every time I look at you, I have this pressing urge to put you away somewhere safe, like a pretty, perfect toy. You know, Griff is going to smudge your dress with his grubby fingers or rip a seam by playing too rough.”

  Jane laughed, and flashed a look at her groom-to-be. “I sure hope so.”

  His brother sent her a private smile that caused Gage to avert his eyes. Yeesh, he thought, feeling scorched by the heat they were giving off. Maybe Griff was right and there was something special about committed sex.

  “Can you two excuse me?” Jane said. “I see someone waving at me.”

  As she walked away, Griffin followed her with avid eyes. Gage whistled, noting his brother’s hyperalert gaze. “You don’t have to go guard dog, bro. Not a cloud in the sky, so a lightning strike is out. Runaway buses tend to avoid backyard garden parties.”

  “I’m not taking any chances,” he murmured, still looking after her. “I almost lost her once.”

  Skye popped into Gage’s mind. “I was...touched. Threatened sexually. I was sure I would be raped.” He pulled out his phone, filled with a sudden desperate need to know she was okay. His thumbs flew. Where r u?

  “I wonder if I almost lost you, too,” Griffin continued.

  “Huh?” Gage responded, distracted by the concern he felt for Skye. He stared at the small screen of his phone, willing it to light up with her answer.

  “Did I almost lose you?”

  “They let me go,” he murmured, this time texting, WHERE R U???

  “Sweet Jesus.” Griffin breathed it out like a curse. “I knew it. What happened? Who had you?” he asked.

  At the same time that Skye texted, Look up.

  Gage did, and his breath caught in his chest, a sharp, painful ache.

  She stood on the other side of the pool. Twenty or so people surrounded her, but their colors ran together, their figures fading like a watercolor picture left out in the rain. Only Skye and he existed in this new world. Dressed in shades of deep seawater, she seemed to be wading through it, green swirling about her torso, fish swimming past her thighs.

  Griffin was saying something, making demands maybe, but Gage felt himself taken out on a tide, drawn toward the dark-haired beauty who called to him like a siren. He hadn’t seen her since that day in his office, and though he knew she’d felt embarrassed, he’d thought himself relatively unmarked by the experience.

  But...but something was different between them now.

  Was it because she looked different? Her glossy hair was loose, waving around her shoulders. Her eyes, surrounded by a wealth of luxuriant lashes, held all the mysteries of the sea, and he needed to get close enough to demand she speak them from the rosy softness of her tender mouth.

  It was like walking through a dream, the air soft, sounds muted, his limbs heavy. When he reached her, he kept his arms stiffly at his sides, his fingers curled into fists. If he touched her, she might disappear, like some mythical being you were only allowed to glimpse at the equinox or during an eclipse or when the capricious gods decided to wreak havoc upon your human heart.

  A little smile played at the corners of her bewitching lips. “Well?”

  He shook his head, trying to shake off the twined feelings of dread and delight that were wrapping his body like seafarer’s rope. Mutineers had been punished like that, thick dock line cinched around them from shoulders to ankles before they were cast into the ocean.

  Gage felt as if he were going under.

  His gaze ran across the fine-pored perfection of her bare throat and shoulders, the length of her slender arms, the sweet hint of knees and then her naked calves and ankles. She held herself still under his regard, and he could tell the effort cost her something.

  He didn’t feel bad about that, not for an instant, because he suspected he was going to be paying for this moment for the rest of his life.

  “I’m—I’m wearing a dress,” she finally said.

  “You’re wearing a dress,” he answered in solemn agreement.

  She tilted her head. “Perfume even.”

  A note of it tickled his nose, her fresh scent paired with a darker note of something that smelled female and seductive and worked its way down his spine and around to his cock like a slender, knowing hand. He sucked in a harsh breath, feeling as if the balance of power between him and his vulnerable pen pal had inexorably shifted.

  Self-consciousness clouded her eyes. “You don’t like it?”

  A wry smile tugged at his lips. He probably didn’t—but not only because of how hermit Skye’s new, shiny shell affected him. Other men would take a second look at her now—not to mention a third, a fourth—and the idea of that didn’t sit well. Something primal inside him wanted her to be his and his alone.

  He ruthlessly squashed the thought.

  “Gage?”

  But he couldn’t quash the impulse to express how beautiful she was, not when he could practically see the rising tide of doubt inside her. Reaching out, he ran a fingertip over one delicate shoulder strap. “You look incredible. So incredible I lost my voice for a minute or two.”

 
; The rigid set of her shoulders relaxed and a second smile flickered over her mouth. “That’s what a woman hopes to hear.”

  “But you made the changes for yourself, right?” he asked, gazing into her deep ocean-colored eyes. As much as he appreciated the transformation, whether wearing camouflage or sexy clothes Skye would always be a standout in his mind. “It’s your own approval that matters first and last, sweetheart.”

  She studied his face as she seemed to consider the comment, then she nodded. “I did do it for myself.” Her palm touched his arm, sliding down until her hand curled around his. “But you’ll stick close?”

  Of course he should have refused—there was potential danger in this new need he felt around her—but he was beyond refusing her anything. As her fingers tangled with his, it was like more sailor’s work, a tether securing them together. He’d always been intrigued by the names of nautical knots: Bowline on a Bight, Icicle Hitch, Rat-Tail Stopper. If there was a name for the tie now binding him to Skye, though, he figured it could only be Big Trouble.

  As the afternoon wore on, however, he decided he’d worried for nothing. They wandered about the party together and he found himself actually enjoying it. Between them, they knew most of the people there. He introduced her to some of the Lowell cousins. After that, she tugged him toward a couple standing by the dessert table and introduced them as Layla Parker and Vance Smith, July’s occupants of Beach House No. 9. Vance had been a combat medic in the platoon Griffin had been embedded with in Afghanistan, and had been wounded trying to save the life of Layla’s father, his commanding officer.

  The officer’s dying request had brought the pair together and now they were, well, together. Layla, it turned out, had baked the very excellent champagne cupcakes that Gage enjoyed while they talked. She also flashed a brand-new engagement ring and chattered to Skye about wedding plans and a new house in avocado country near Vance’s family’s ranch with such enthusiasm that Gage had to grin at her groom-to-be.

  “Lucky you,” he told the other man. “Sounds like she really wants to be your wife.”

  Vance ran an affectionate hand over his fiancée’s hair. “It took some persuading—and maybe more than a little Beach House No. 9 magic—but I’m damn glad to say I believe you’re right.”

  Gage was saved from responding to the magic comment when a voice across the pool hailed the other couple. He and Skye moved on, deciding to seek out his nephews. His niece, Rebecca, had apparently left childhood for adolescence like a small-town girl heading for the big city—on speedy transport and with little luggage—but Duncan and Oliver were the same scamps he remembered from his last visit. Little Russ had been a bump in his mother’s belly when Gage had last encountered him, but he was a small, sturdy person now. Looking content and sleepy, he sat in Skye’s lap, his chubby cheek pressed to her chest, his baby hair against the bare skin of her throat.

  Gage pitched a Wiffle Ball to the bigger boys, calling out encouragement as they drove for the fences with a plastic bat. His sister, Tess, even smiled at him as she came to collect her kids to make sure they ate some dinner. She’d been mad ever since he’d returned stateside, upset about those weeks he’d been incommunicado, but now it appeared she’d let bygones be bygones.

  Except her smile died as she brushed past him, Russ in her arms. “I’ll kill you if you hurt her,” she said between her teeth.

  “What? Who?” When of course it was obvious.

  Her eyes narrowed, darting from Skye to him.

  Instead of playing dumb this time, he held up his hands in surrender. “I have the very best intentions,” he said. Meaning it.

  They were friends, intimates you could even say, but they’d taken the physical relationship as deep as it would ever go. He’d reminded her of sexual pleasure, shown her she could reach it again, and that’s where it ended. As much as he was drawn to her, there wasn’t going to be any more flesh-to-flesh contact. There didn’t need to be.

  That didn’t mean he was going to push her away. She was still an effective shield between himself and his nosy brother. Griffin kept sending him looks whenever they encountered each other, looks that Gage pretended not to notice as he asked Skye a question or fetched her another drink.

  At one point they were standing with the engaged couple, Jane chatting with Skye, and under the cover of the female conversation Griffin spoke to him in low tones. “You’re going to explain yourself,” he said. “Before you leave tonight.”

  “Sorry, not on my own timetable,” he said, wearing his most innocent expression. “Told the lady of the cove I’d get her back when she asked. She came with Rex and he left early.”

  Not long afterward, he caught the lady in question stifling a yawn. Since it was well past dark and he was unwilling to push his luck—he didn’t put it past Griffin to lock him in a room with the intention of eliciting a confession—Gage suggested they make their goodbyes and head back to the beach.

  That went off without much of a hitch beyond the gleam in Griffin’s gaze that promised Gage couldn’t get away forever without a confrontation. Well, they’d see about that. Certainly there wasn’t going to be any soul-baring this night. As he hustled Skye from the house, he spied Teague sitting by himself in a corner, staring off into space.

  “What’s wrong with him?” he said, nudging her with an elbow.

  She glanced in the direction he indicated. “Oh,” she said, sighing. “He has this thing for your sister.”

  Poor dude. Tess was wholly committed to David and the kids. Yet... “She’s right there,” Gage pointed out, “and he seems to be oblivious. I’d say something—someone—else is on his mind.”

  Skye climbed into the passenger side of his car, and he shut the door behind her. When he settled into the driver’s side, she looked up from her phone. “I can tell you he was supposed to come with Polly but she refused at the last minute. She texted that it’s a long story.”

  “Ah.” He didn’t press any more. Let everyone keep their secrets, including him.

  The ride back to Crescent Cove was quiet but companionable. Gage relaxed, thinking he’d made it around or over the obstacles he’d dreaded earlier in the day. The party hadn’t been so bad; he’d mostly avoided his prying twin, and even the alarming sense of change he’d felt upon seeing Skye had subsided.

  Everything was contained and under control.

  Without thinking, he drove to No. 9 and parked in the driveway. “Damn,” he said, realizing his error and reaching for the ignition again. “I need to get you back to your place.”

  “Let’s just sit here for a minute.” She put her hand on his knee.

  As heat from her touch rocketed toward his crotch, alarm returned with a vengeance. Shit. He wrapped his hands around the steering wheel and gritted his back teeth.

  “Gage...” Her voice trailed off, then she cleared her throat as if hesitant about what to say next.

  He glanced at her, then hastily looked away. At Tess and David’s, the other partygoers and his family had distracted him after the initial wallop of glimpsing her in that dress, but now her changed appearance struck him again. Oxygen caught in his chest as the image of her skin, glowing like a pearl, was burned into his brain.

  So much of her was...bare. Though of course he knew the cut of the garment she wore was actually quite modest. It was all a matter of degree...or maybe it was just Skye. The bravery that it took for her to shed her concealing layers was sexy in itself.

  She cleared her throat again, drawing his glance a second time. Now he couldn’t look away. He’d been doing a damn good job of shrugging off that afternoon in his office—ignoring the memory of the satiny weight of her breasts in his hands, the thrust of her nipples against his tongue, the curve of her bottom against his hot palm—but in this moment it all came back in surround sound and Technicolor. She’d climaxed in sweet tremors against his cock, detonating his own release. The only thing he’d regretted about the interlude was that she’d moved away from him so fast. He wou
ld have cherished the chance to hold her sated self against his body.

  He’d die for another go at it, he admitted to himself, and knew that lust was setting fire to those promises he’d made to Tess and to himself. So what? said the devil on his shoulder. You’ve already proven getting physical with her won’t ruin the relationship. Shifting in his seat, he faced her more fully.

  She was an effing beauty. Or she wasn’t. Christ, he didn’t know what an objective person’s viewpoint would be on the subject. There was no way he’d ever be impartial when it came to the lady of the cove. He only knew that she was gorgeous to him, within and without, every side of her: the courageous spirit, the wounded soul, the friend who’d been his lamp in the dark night of his life, the lover he wanted to satisfy again...and again and again.

  Perhaps his sudden spiking lust was a tangible thing, because she made a little sound and drew her hand from his knee.

  He wanted it back, caution be damned. He wanted her to touch him everywhere.

  So he initiated the contact. Moving as slow as if penetrating water, he brought his palm to her face. He cupped her cheek, then drew his fingertips down the side of her throat and across her collarbone.

  Her breath hitched. “Gage?” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m finding you irresistible,” he confessed, and nudged a shoulder strap off the slope of bone. It fell like the stem of a wilted flower against her upper arm. He did the same on the opposite side. “I need to look at you again, Skye. Will you let me?”