Dockside

by Susan Wiggs

  She tossed a pillow at him. “I thought you came here to talk about Max.”

  “We did. We talked about Max. I said I was pissed about what happened and you explained and now we need to move on to the fact that you never told me you had plans for the inn.”

  Her face heated, and it wasn’t from the night air. He knew. How had he found out? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Daisy told me tonight. She heard it from Sonnet—the reason you were so pissed that I bought the place from the bank was that you wanted it.” He took a long drink of his beer and set the bottle aside.

  She bristled. “So what if I did?”

  “You might have said something.”

  “What, and make myself even more pathetic than I already was?”

  “Nina, you were never pathetic.”

  Yes, she thought. I was. She’d been naive, too, thinking the world would wait for her to buy the inn herself. Had she really thought no one would come along? Why had she left this to chance? Why had she failed to safeguard her plan?

  “You should have told me,” Greg said.

  “Would you have changed your mind?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Then there’s nothing to discuss. I always dreamed of having the inn. Once you bought this place, I had to find another dream.”

  “And did you?”

  “I’m…still looking.”

  He studied her oversized baseball jersey, which looked like something straight out of Li’l Abner. Her hair was still damp, spiky and unkempt. She tried not to feel self-conscious about her bare feet, the chipped pink polish on her toenails. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “All right. Change of subject. So you want to go out tonight? Maybe find a place with air-conditioning?”

  She shook her head. This, like all her dealings with men, was not going well. She was too awkward, too blunt, too forward, definitely too much of a slob. Besides, first dates were supposed to take place in an elegant setting, with scented candles and soft music surrounding the gauzy, golden-hued couple. She was supposed to have spent three hours primping and pampering herself. A plunge in the lake didn’t count.

  And the food. There was supposed to be champagne and something light and sophisticated to eat, like vichyssoise or sushi, not beer and pretzels.

  “Come on, Nina, what do you say?” Greg asked. “Is it a date?”

  “Everything about this is wrong,” she blurted out.

  He stared at her. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” He slammed back the beer and stood up. “Glad we cleared that up about Max. Thanks for the beer. See you around.”

  He left so quickly that she was still sitting there, mouth agape. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, getting up and taking the bottles into the kitchen. She told herself there was no reason in the world to feel hurt—and yet she did. But why? She’d run him off and then felt hurt when he was gone, even though he was simply doing what she’d asked him to do.

  No, wait. He was supposed to understand the meaning behind Everything about this is wrong. He wasn’t supposed to agree with her and leave. He was supposed to stay and…and what?

  She rinsed the beer bottles and placed them in the overflowing recycling bin, then stood at the sink, staring down at the dishes she hadn’t bothered washing. A cereal bowl and spoon, the lonely remains of a dinner consumed alone.

  The sight of it pushed some button and Nina melted from the inside out. She’d never been much of a crier, but now she found herself overwhelmed with emotion—the painful kind. Greg was able to walk away from her at the drop of a hat. It wasn’t fair. She’d finally met someone she could really fall for, and he was all wrong for her. Not only that, he didn’t care about her. He was all too ready to flirt with her and then turn away, walk out. It was only a game to him. He had no idea how this was tearing her up. The sobs spasmed through her body and the tears burned her cheeks. It was not a release for Nina. It was not a “good cry,” the kind that made her feel cleansed and emotionally healthy. It was a moment of hurt and despair so profound that she nearly didn’t hear the phone ring.

  She decided to ignore it. She didn’t fall apart and cry very often; a single mother didn’t have that luxury. She wasn’t going to let herself be interrupted.

  Then she couldn’t help herself. She checked the Caller ID. It read Bellamy, G and his number.

  Oh, God. If she picked up, he’d hear the grief in her voice. He might even question her about it or worse, realize he was the cause of it. Then again, if she didn’t pick up, he’d know she was avoiding him and realize she was devastated, which might mean he’d come back, and then he’d see what a mess she was—

  “Hello.” She snatched up the phone on the ninth ring.

  “Nina, it’s Greg.”

  “Yes?” She paused, swallowed hard, tried to sound normal. “Did you forget something?”

  “Boy, did I.” He chuckled. “I forgot the most basic rule of dating. Don’t show up unannounced.”

  “We’re not dating.”

  “I know. My bad.”

  “Greg—”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me.”

  “What?”

  “Go out. With me. You know, on an actual date. I owe you the courtesy of a formal invitation for our first official date. A first date should be special, in case we end up together, so when our grandkids ask us what our first date was like, we don’t have to tell them it was a night of sweaty sex on a sofa—not that there’s anything wrong with sweaty sex on a sofa. Personally, I find it a turn-on but I wanted to ask you—”

  “No.” The tears welled in her eyes again; his attempt at humor hurt. Everything hurt. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Greg. But, um, thank you.”

  “That’s not the answer I was looking for,” he said.

  “It’s the only one I have for you.” She was shaking with the effort to control her voice. She paced the room as she spoke, struggling with her emotions. She hated being in this position. Hated the fact that it was torture to hold back her emotions and keep herself from wanting the impossible.

  He was saying something else, but she didn’t let herself listen. “’Bye, Greg,” she said quietly, and turned off the phone. As she set it in its cradle, she was still shaking. Get a grip, she told herself. It was actually good that they’d gotten this out in the open, this doomed attraction. It clarified for her exactly what she needed to do, so really, she should be grateful.

  Except she didn’t feel grateful. She felt empty, bereft. And lonelier than she ever had in her life. And whose fault was that? She’d just run him off. It was time, she told herself, to face facts. Clearly this thing with Greg wasn’t working, wasn’t ever going to work. She simply had to accept that and move on, even if it meant leaving the Inn at Willow Lake. She just could not stay. The sense of resolve came with a fresh influx of tears. She hated this, hated breaking down and losing control. She felt betrayed by her own emotions.

  When she heard the heavy footsteps on the deck outside her door, she froze, too surprised to do anything but stand there as Greg returned to her. He didn’t bother knocking but wrenched open the door and strode inside. How Rhett Butler of him, she thought. But still she stood frozen in her old clothes and bare feet, her face burned by tears. And although she found her voice, the words that came out were totally inane. “I thought you had a new rule about unannounced visits.”

  “I lied,” he said and grabbed her as though she’d been about to fall off a cliff. And then he walked her backward into the room, pressed her down on the sofa and kissed her—long, hungry kisses that took her away somewhere, huge and endless makeout kisses that felt more like sex than sex. In those moments she forgot everything. Mostly, she forgot to worry or try to control things. They didn’t come up for air for a very long time, and when they did, Nina felt dizzy and helpless, and amazed herself by loving the feeling. “This wasn’t the way I pictured getting together
with you,” she blurted out.

  “Yeah? Totally flattered. So tell me how you pictured it.”

  Busted. She scooted away from him on the sofa. “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “Come on. This has been a long time coming.”

  She glanced away, hoping he didn’t know she’d been crying. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know what I mean. You think I don’t remember all the times we brushed up against each other in the past, but I do. I just pretended not to because it seemed so pointless. I remember your smile the first time we met. I remember what it felt like seeing you with that West Point cadet, knowing what you’d done. I remember watching you with your little daughter. Just because I kept quiet doesn’t mean I didn’t see and don’t remember. It was pointless to talk to you, to let you know you mattered on any level to me. We had different lives. I had a marriage and kids. You had Sonnet and your family and your job. What would be the point of letting you know you mattered to me?”

  Nina gaped at him, not bothering to act as though she didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “It’s different now,” he said, pulling her back into his arms. “I don’t have to pretend. I can tell you flat out that you matter to me.” He bent and used his teeth to slip the shirt down her shoulder, kissing her bare skin with searing, single-minded attention. He kissed her again and his hand drifted down, undoing the top button of her cutoffs. He made a hissing sound, as though she’d burned him.

  “Something the matter?” she whispered against his mouth.

  “You’re not wearing any underwear.”

  She blushed. “It’s, um, not a habit with me.”

  “It should be. Promise you’ll always dress this way. I’m begging you. I’ll do anything….” He kissed her again, long and hungrily.

  Men were so easy, she thought. In some ways.

  “What turns you on, Nina Romano?” he asked, barely lifting his mouth from hers, very slowly unzipping her shorts.

  Everything. Fortunately for her, she couldn’t remember how to speak, and even if she could, she would not know what to tell him. This was so new to her, this feeling of need and surrender.

  “On second thought,” he whispered, his hand disappearing beneath her shirt, “don’t tell me.” And with that, he pressed her back against the sofa cushions, causing the stack of folded clothes to topple in a soft heap. “I’d rather figure it out on my own.”

  When Greg woke up at dawn with Nina in his arms, he didn’t say the first words that popped into his mind—I told you so. He knew the sex would be amazing. He’d had all summer to contemplate and imagine and fantasize. But the fact that she hadn’t been wearing underwear…good lord. That was the sort of thing a guy didn’t even dare wish for. He couldn’t believe it had taken so long to get to this point.

  She slept as though wrapped in the softest of dreams, breathing lightly, arms and legs entwined with his. Taking care not to wake her, he rubbed his eyes and looked around. At some point in the night, they had migrated into the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor. Incongruously, there was a half-empty pint of maple syrup—never let it be said they lacked imagination—and towels leading from the shower to the bed. It had been a long, incredible night, one he would never forget. One he already wanted to repeat, as soon as possible.

  Yet at the same time, he felt an insane surge of tenderness for Nina. He liked her. He was starting to love her, and not just for her inventiveness with maple syrup. He liked her independent nature and her fierce loyalty. He liked her passion and her decisiveness, even when she was arguing with him. And he liked—no, this he definitely loved—the way she was during sex, vulnerable and bold at the same time, and the way she slept in his arms.

  Easing out of the bed, he left her asleep, pausing to drape a sheet over her. He slipped on his shorts and made his way to the kitchen, quickly picking up condom wrappers along the way.

  He checked the time—6:00 a.m. The kids wouldn’t be up for a couple of hours. Good. Trying to be quiet, he found the Moka—the only coffeemaker, Nina had once insisted, worth having—and a bag of Lavazza, which was apparently a direct import from Italy. Okay, so she wasn’t a neat freak, he thought, shaking yesterday’s coffee grounds from the filter. To Greg, that was an asset. Sophie, now, she had been neat in the extreme. So neat, he always got the feeling he was messing up a room just by breathing the air.

  Willfully he banished Sophie from his thoughts and lit the flame under the Moka. Then he rummaged in the fridge for something to eat, discovering such unacceptable options as fat-free soy milk, grapes that were well on their way to becoming raisins and a scary wedge of something that resembled a science experiment. He was about to give up when he moved the milk carton aside and spied, in the white Sky River Bakery box—paydirt. A half-dozen sfogliatelle—pastries filled with sweet ricotta. Greg held one clamped between his teeth while he rinsed two cups he found in the sink and poured the coffee, balancing the cups atop the pastry box. Hearing a noise behind him, he straightened up and turned.

  Nina stood there, draped in a sheet, staring at him. She resembled a pint-sized goddess, with her short, tousled hair, creamy olive-toned skin and the sheet tucked under her arms. He felt her surprised gaze travel slowly from the pastry in his mouth to his bare chest and the two coffees he held.

  “Mmm,” he said, carrying the coffee into the bedroom and motioning her with his head to follow. He set them down and took the pastry out of his mouth. “Get back in bed,” he ordered around a bite of sfogliatelle. “I’m bringing you coffee.”

  “You are not,” she said from the doorway.

  “Too late,” he said, capturing her hand and bringing her to the unmade bed. “I already did.”

  “Greg—”

  “Coffee,” he said. “You take it black, right?” He passed her a cup and offered the box of pastries. “Hungry?”

  “In a minute.” She propped herself back against the pillows, holding the sheet in place. “I need to savor this first. This is not something that happens to me every day—some guy bringing me coffee in bed. In fact, I think this is the only time it’s happened.”

  He clinked his coffee cup to hers. “But not the last, not if you stick with me.” Crap, he thought as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Not only did that sound cheesy, it also implied a choice to be made. He quickly covered the mistake by leaning across the bed and giving her a long, sweet, good-morning kiss, not letting up until he felt her lips curve into a smile under his. “You’re beautiful, you know,” he said.

  She laughed softly and touched her messed-up hair. “Yeah. I know.”

  “Really. I mean it.”

  “Okay, whatever. A girl doesn’t argue with something like that.” She sipped her coffee, gazing out the window while he gazed at her. She sighed with contentment. “I love this view,” she said.

  For a moment, Greg was sure she’d said, “I love you,” and even the imagined declaration caused the world to shift. Then he regrouped, realized what she was talking about and laughed at himself.

  He turned to look at the lake. The sun wasn’t up yet. There was a thin pink thread on the horizon above the hills, weaving its way down toward the water. A few shadowy puffs of fog gathered here and there on the lake. A deep stillness pervaded the scene. Yet Greg knew the contentment he felt this morning had far less to do with the view out the window than with the woman in the bed behind him. His heart hadn’t felt like this since…never. He had never felt like this. He’d always gone for the Sophies and Brookes of the world. Nina made him feel something. She delved down to the heart of him. Somehow, she managed to find the place he never let anyone touch before.

  He turned to her, savoring the sight of her, still slightly groggy but clearly grateful for the coffee. Her eyes seemed misty, a bit unfocused, and her mouth was soft, as though she was about to smile. Unable to resist, he crossed to the bed, slipped beneath the covers. He was mesmerized by a gap in the sheet covering her breasts. “Hey, Nina—�
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  “Greg, I—”

  They both spoke at once, both hesitated. “Sorry,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  She set her coffee very deliberately on the nightstand. “I just thought you should know, this changes things.”

  He settled in beside her, propped himself up on his elbow and used his free hand to punctuate the conversation, watching her face as he touched her. “Good. I’m ready for something different.”

  She shivered a little, but didn’t push him away. “So that’s what this is, a change of pace to keep you from getting bored?”

  He couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah, that’s it. Exactly.”

  She put her hand over his, stopping his under-the-sheets teasing. “I can’t talk when you do that.”

  “My plan is working, then.”

  “Are we really not going to talk about this?”

  That would be too good to be true, he reflected. But gamely enough, he grew serious. “That day in the attic, you asked me why I was telling you about my marriage. I wanted you to know I get it. I know what went wrong. And I know how to get it right.”

  “It all seems a little fast to me.”

  He thought about all the times their lives had crossed paths over the years. “Not to me.”

  “I’m not so good with change,” she admitted.

  “Believe me, it’s not a bad thing.”

  “Depends on what it changes into—something good and strong and fulfilling, or something complicated and messy and sad.”

  “You act as though we don’t have a choice. Don’t get cold feet on me now, Nina. It’s too late for that, anyway.” He traced the line of her jaw with his index finger. He wanted to learn every part of her, the geography of her body as well as the secrets of her heart.

  She turned to him, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “What are we doing, Greg?”

  “Falling in love.”

  “Right. Very funny.”

  “I’m not joking. We’re falling in love. Tell me you’re not feeling it.”

  “You can’t just—”

  “Sure I can, honey. It’s happened to me before. I know what it’s like. I can identify all the signs. And this is…whew. Off-the-charts better than anything I’ve ever felt before.”