The Love Shack

by Christie Ridgway

  His friendship with Polly?

  Shit.

  Tossing his empty can in a waiting recycle bin, he decided to track her down. Another woman snagged his wrist as he moved past the bonfire. “Have a s’more,” she said, pressing a napkin and treat in his hand.

  He looked down at her. “Tess,” he said. “I didn’t see you before.”

  “We haven’t been here long. I came bearing wire coat hangers.” She smiled at him. “How are you? We haven’t had a chance to talk lately.”

  Bemused, Teague just stared at her. Sure, she was still pretty astonishing to look at. But she didn’t do a thing to his pulse rate any longer. What had Polly said?

  You’d be putting your feelings somewhere, with someone, who was safe. Because deep down you’d know you’re not really risking your heart.

  Tess tilted her head. “Well?”

  “I...” His gaze drifted over her. On the other side of the fire, he finally spotted Polly. Her gaze was on his, but the instant she saw him catch her staring, she turned and walked into the darkness beyond the circle of their party. “I’ve got to go.” Teague handed the graham cracker concoction back to his brief—and pretty foolish, he now realized—summer crush. Then he strode after the woman at the forefront of his mind.

  At her door, he caught up with Polly. She must have been a million miles away, because she gasped when he touched her back.

  “Don’t scare me.” She turned to face him, her hand flying up to her throat.

  His eyes narrowed, taking in her expression revealed by the glow of the porch light. Don’t scare me. “Pol,” he said, grasping her by both shoulders. “Did I...did I do that the other night? Did I scare you? Make you uncomfortable?”

  “Of course not,” she said, but her gaze skittered away.

  He tightened his grasp on her. “No lying between friends. I’m sorry if telling you about the shoes—”

  “You don’t need to apologize for that. I don’t need to be protected. I was happy that you were able to share something that bothered you.”

  “I don’t like you thinking I’m a whiner.”

  She frowned at him. “You weren’t whining. I’ve heard you whine. That was when your team didn’t make it to the Super Bowl.”

  “Funny.” He couldn’t dredge up a smile, though, because he knew things still weren’t right between them. “Polly, the sex...”

  Her feet moved and she stepped away from his hands. “Do we have to talk about that?”

  “God. I knew it.” He let his eyes close for a moment. “I shouldn’t have let that happen. I’m sorry—”

  “Please quit apologizing.”

  “But I regret—”

  Her fingers fisted in the collar of his shirt. “If you say you regret being with me like that I’ll scream.”

  “If you scream, someone will hear. People will talk.” It’s what she’d said about the flowers, right? “I’d say it’s you who—”

  Her mouth crushed his. She was a short thing, but she’d gone on tiptoe so their lips were grinding together, and lust shot like a meteor through his body. Teague rocked back on his heels, but she came right with him, her body pressed against his.

  He staggered back, off-balanced by her slight weight and the absolute searing power of the kiss. His head angled and he slid his tongue into her mouth, the erotic combination of beer and Polly hitting his taste buds. He clutched at her hips, scooping her closer against him.

  It was like that other night all over again. Zero to sixty in a single heartbeat.

  Needing air, he lifted his head, staring at her blue eyes and damp mouth. “God, Polly. We should...we should talk.”

  She turned, leading the way through her front door as if she wanted that, too, but the instant it was shut behind them she was kissing him again, one leg winding around his hip so their lower bodies were flush. “I don’t want to talk,” she said against his mouth.

  Her fingers were already attacking the buttons on his shirt. Teague knew he should stop the headlong flight. But that meteor was still blazing across his personal sky, and his reaction to her still so astounded him—this was Polly!—that his logical thoughts were flung away with his shirt.

  She slid her palms up his chest and he jolted into her touch, then shoved his own hands beneath the firefighter sweatshirt. Her torso was sleek and hot against him and he shuddered, so aroused that his cock was throbbing behind his pants.

  Turn her, take her, his instincts clamored. He could push her against the door and have his way with her, driving into her giving heat within seconds. But he’d been on Mindless Rut the other night, and she deserved better. His friend deserved that tenderness he’d neglected before.

  Grabbing one of her wandering hands, he towed her down the hallway to her dark bedroom. There was that big bed, primly made up now, and he tore at the covers to get to the cool white sheets.

  Slow, he reminded himself. Slow. His hands shook as he cupped her face. “Beautiful Polly,” he whispered.

  She fumbled with the button of his jeans, and he had to capture her eager fingers. “What?” she asked, pouting a little. “Why?”

  He drew the sweatshirt up. “Because we’re slowing this down. I’m making sure you get some benefit out of the whole ‘friends with’ deal.”

  A look crossed her face that he couldn’t decipher. Then she went on pants attack again and they started grappling with each other, which turned into groping each other, which turned into another set of frantic kisses and hurried hands, and then they were naked and rolling around on the sheets. He found himself laughing, his hand holding her wrists above her head as he subdued her beneath his bigger body. “You behave,” he told her.

  “Told you I was a bad girl,” she said, mischief in her voice.

  That they could be teasing like this, even while exploring this new and unfamiliar turn to their friendship, slayed him. The night she found him on the sand, the words he’d shared with her had uncovered pieces of him he rarely showed anyone. But this was rare, too, this absolute intimacy that was both urgent and intriguing.

  He bent to kiss her neck, inhaling the scent that he’d savored for four-plus years on a purely pal basis. “God, I’m going to lick you all over.”

  No one ever accused Teague of not following through. Despite Polly’s breathless pleas and her sexy, squirming body, he held out against stroking into her until he’d stroked her everywhere with the flat of his tongue and the caress of his lips. It was some of his best effort—but she deserved it and more, his best friend.

  Her luscious taste was still in his mouth as he rose over her. She was panting in the aftermath of orgasm. He brushed her hair away from her face. “I went bareback before,” he said.

  “I know,” she whispered. Her mouth was reddened from his kisses.

  “I wasn’t worried, because—”

  “I remember,” she said.

  Of course she did. They both were aware she took birth control pills, that both of them were clean. Nevertheless... “I have a condom in my wallet.”

  “I have condoms in the bathroom,” she countered.

  He looked into her face. Very Private Polly, Skye had called her. But not with him. “Since we’ve shared so much...”

  “It seems right that we do this without anything between us.”

  The permission he’d been waiting for. Slowly, because it felt so good that he needed time to absorb the pleasure, he sank into the giving heat of her. She moaned, the flush renewing on her face.

  His big hands slid beneath her hips to tilt her into his unhurried thrusts. A shiver worked through her body. “Teague,” she moaned.

  He drove in again, and dropped his head to kiss and suck one of her reddened nipples. She jerked up, and he felt the telltale tightening in his balls. When he bit down on the hardened tip, she jerked again, crying out, a sound of cresting pleasure.

  His movements were steady and sure then, rhythmic and demanding, and she lifted into each one. He groaned, low in his throat, knowing
he had just seconds before cataclysm. Hoping to take her with him, he slid his hand between them.

  She stiffened, her pelvis lifting into his as his thumb brushed the engorged nub of flesh. Her next cry took him over and he spilled into her as her contracting muscles closed around him.

  In the aftermath, he lay on his back and gathered her close again. Replete and feeling damn good about the universe, he was astonished and then alarmed when something hot and wet dropped onto his shoulder.

  Polly was leaking tears.

  Oh, shit. “What’s wrong?” He went on one elbow to look at her. “Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head.

  Panic drained all the satisfaction from his body. “Polly.” Oh, God. “This whole friends-with-benefits thing is such a bad idea. What can I do? How can I fix it?”

  “It’s not your fault, it’s mine.” She held the back of her hand against her nose. “I—I’ve been lying. I’m not really your friend.”

  “What?”

  “I shouldn’t have let this happen again. But I saw you with Tess, and I felt stupid and jealous and I really, really want to be angry with you for being in love with her, though I know that isn’t fair.”

  “What?” he said again, thinking of that last brief encounter with the former woman of his dreams. Her presence had barely registered, he’d been so concerned about Polly.

  “You’ve been making me nuts,” she said. “There’s all your big talk about wanting kids, wanting a family, but then you go and fall for someone who’s already taken.”

  “The fact is—”

  “You shouldn’t love her,” Polly said, her voice fierce. “You only love her because it means you risk nothing. Teague, you’re never going to have her.”

  “Sure, but what does that have to do with this? With us?”

  She rose from the bed and dashed for a robe. Then she threw his jeans and boxers at him. “You have to go.”

  The expression on her face was so serious, he did as she asked. Her hands on his back, she practically pushed him down the hall to her front door. But he drew the line at leaving before he had his shirt on—swooped to grab it—and before he had a clear explanation. “You’re serious? We’re not friends?”

  “No. We’re not friends.” She closed her eyes. “That’s over.”

  God, how it hurt. “Gator, I don’t understand—”

  “Because I’ve loved you for years, all right? I’ve been in love with you for years, but you’ve never really seen me, or you would have seen the truth.”

  Stunned, he stared at her. “Polly—”

  “Go,” she said. “Just go and stay away.”

  And because a feather would have knocked him over, he did.

  * * *

  SKYE LOCKED THE DOOR of the room that held the Sunrise Studios archive and headed back to the beach, Mara Butler beside her. The other woman sighed a little. “I love that story of your great-great-grandparents. He sacrificed his career, his passion for her.”

  “Did he consider it a sacrifice? While we have the letter that makes clear she was the one who wanted to get out of the silent-film business, we only have her side of the story. She thought he would have wanted to make movies forever, but obviously he wanted to make Edith happy more.”

  Mara breathed out another sigh, then tented her hand over her eyes and gazed down the stretch of sand. “I hope Anthony’s okay.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine. Tess is looking out for him and he has her little boys to play with. Duncan and Oliver will make sure he’s having fun.”

  “You’re right.” Mara slanted her a smile. “I have a tendency to hold on to him pretty tight.”

  “Nobody would blame you for that.” Skye studied the other woman’s profile as they strolled in the direction of Beach House No. 9, where the Lowell-Quincy clan was gathered to discuss wedding logistics and entertain Anthony and Mara Butler. Her reporter husband had been held for ransom and then killed when the American military went in to rescue him. Charlie Butler had left behind Anthony, who was now five, and the fragile-looking Mara, who’d had the soul-squeezing responsibility of okaying the failed attempt at releasing her husband from his captors.

  She hunched her shoulders and shoved her fingers in the pockets of her shorts and glanced at Skye again. “People blame me for other things.”

  Her heart thudded hard against her ribs. “Surely not...”

  There was heartbreak in Mara’s blue eyes. “Not every country leaves it up to the loved ones, you know. But that’s the U.S. rule, so it’s the next of kin who make the decision and bear the guilt if it doesn’t go right. Charlie’s parents will never forgive me.”

  “Oh, Mara,” Skye said. “That’s terrible.”

  The other woman shrugged. “I understand their pain. Some days I have a hard time forgiving myself. But...but we had to try. For Anthony.”

  “Of course you did.” Skye patted the woman’s shoulder and could feel her thin, birdlike bones. “I’m just so terribly sorry.”

  Mara dashed a hand over her cheek. “No, that would be me for bringing all that up on this beautiful day at this beautiful spot.” She smiled at Skye. “It’s quite a legacy. You can’t be sad in a place like this.”

  “I think you can be sad anywhere,” Skye replied, “but today we can do our best to enjoy ourselves.” That had been the whole intent of inviting Mara to the cove, to get her mind off her troubles. “Which I think calls for walking with our bare feet in the water, don’t you?”

  Grinning now, the other woman slipped out of her sandals. Skye followed suit. Then they trotted to the surf line, both inhaling sharp breaths as the cold water rushed over their toes and ankles.

  Skye looked at Mara. “As my dad always says, ‘refreshing.’”

  “Is ‘downright cold’ not allowed?”

  “I’ve been trained not to say it,” Skye admitted as they continued splashing through shallow water on their way back to No. 9. “We don’t want to discourage the visitors who keep the cove busy all summer long.” With a nod, she indicated the crowd of day tourists and cottage guests.

  But it would be so different, so deserted as fall took over. Skye could sense the change in seasons coming already. The air smelled different as summer drew to a close, the slightly bitter scent of drying grasses adding to the sweet aroma of sunshine.

  “What’s it like during the off-season?” Mara asked, as if reading Skye’s mind. “What do you do?”

  “I keep busy, with maintenance and upkeep projects that I can’t accomplish during the peak months. In the tradition of my father, I do what I can myself. I’m great with cleaning products as well as a paint roller and brush, though I don’t tackle plumbing or electrical beyond the very, very basics.”

  “I’m thinking of taking a home repair course myself,” Mara said. “Even though Charlie was gone a lot of our marriage, he’d tackle the honey-do list when he came home. It must be great to be even minimally capable.”

  “Yeah,” Skye murmured. Until her monster-in-the-closet fears made that capability moot. For the hundredth time she wondered if she could make it through the desolate months ahead. There’d be Gage’s letters to look forward to, she reminded herself, though that thought didn’t cheer her much.

  “Anthony!” Mara’s fingers suddenly closed around Skye’s arm. “That’s Anthony’s scream!” she said, then lurched down the sand at a run.

  Skye caught up with her just as the other woman skidded to a halt, a sheepish expression on her face. “It’s okay,” Mara said. “I believe those are shrieks of joy.”

  Up ahead, Gage and Griffin were in the water, supervising their nephews, Duncan and Oliver, as well as Anthony. The other little boys were five and seven, and accomplished shallow ocean-goers. Anthony looked more tentative and wore a pair of neon water wings on his skinny upper arms, but had a grin on his face even as he squealed every time he was splashed by a low, foam-topped wave.

  Duncan was encouraging the younger boy to get on a small canvas raft w
ith him and Oliver. When Anthony glanced up at Gage, the man smiled and bent over to help him onto the apparatus. Then the twin brothers waded into the surf, one to launch the raft on the small waves, the other to catch it at the sand before starting the fun all over again.

  Skye knew she was staring, fascinated, at the half-naked man who had been all hers for the past several nights. In a pair of low-slung board shorts, he was tanned and strong, his arm and back muscles rippling as he maneuvered the raft through the water.

  Come back to my bed. Stay there until it’s time for me to go.

  He was her lover. Her summer fling. A shiver rolled across her skin as she thought of the long nights and the sleepy mornings. Sometimes she wondered if she should hold back a little, just for self-preservation’s sake, but then he’d stop whatever he was doing and look at her in that alert way of his—as if he sensed her retreating and disapproved. She’d flush hot and her breasts would tingle and that low-belly clenching would happen, which she absolutely recognized was arousal now, and thoughts of preservation seemed a case of too little, too late.

  He’d get a glint in his eye, curve his finger at her and then she’d be close enough to breathe his body heat, her gaze fixated on his mouth.

  It would curve, an all-male, all-macho smile. You want a kiss.

  Never a question, because she always wanted his kiss.

  Mara was talking, and Skye had to force her gaze off that wet, tanned man flesh in order to absorb her words. Something about Griffin appearing pretty relaxed for a man about to get married.

  “Even Jane doesn’t seem rattled,” she said.

  “You’re right. Maybe because it’s going to be at No. 9, where they met,” Skye said.

  “I heard it was your idea to have the ceremony on the deck.”

  “It seemed natural.” Skye glanced over to the beach house in question, and pictured how it would look on the day of the wedding. White tulle wrapped around the railings, flowers and candles everywhere, barefoot Jane walking down the aisle demarcated with sand toward her devoted groom. She sighed.