The Love Shack

Chapter FOURTEEN


THAT NIGHT, POLLY DIDN’T know what prompted her to nudge aside her front curtains. But some instinct had her crossing the living room floor, the flannel of her men’s-style pajamas flapping around her ankles. From Skye’s place next door, a floodlight was trained on the surf. It lit up the sand, too, giving it a glaze of silver. At the edge of its ghostly cast, closer to Polly’s house than to her friend’s, she saw a man sitting on the beach, his back to her.

Teague.

She dropped the curtain and retreated from the window. What the heck he was doing out there this late—it was close to midnight—was not her problem to ponder. Usually she’d be in bed herself by now, but insomnia had decided to move into the tiny cottage with her.

Biting her lip, she looked toward the front door. Should she...? No. The four walls were too small for her, Teague and sleeplessness. Good sense precluded her from going out to him. Telling him her bad girl secrets had only served to make her feel more vulnerable and insecure. In this state, who knew what other dangerous information—I love you, I’ve loved you for years—she might unwillingly reveal?

So instead she retreated to the bedroom and shivered as she slipped between the cool sheets. It was the only good-sized room in the house, large enough for her wrought-iron queen-sized bed with its very high mattress as well as the tall lingerie chest in the corner. The matching bureau had to be stored in the closet, but she still had access to all her things.

When she’d moved in at the end of last month, Teague had installed a hanging jewelry rack on the interior side of the door.

What a pal.

In return, she was leaving him alone in the cold night.

Shoving the thought away, she closed her eyes and tried picturing her upcoming students—the Olivias, the Beaus, the Bobbys.

But what popped onto the screen of her mind was that image of Teague sitting on the beach, dressed only in a T-shirt and jeans. Another shiver went through her, as she thought of how chilled he must be by now.

Or not. Maybe he’d already headed for home. Maybe he was driving back to his place that was twenty minutes away, the car heater blasting, leaving her to lie here, needlessly worrying about him.

Frowning at his rudeness, she threw back the covers and hurried into the living room without pausing for her slippers. She gripped the corner of the curtain, then jerked it back with a flourish, like a magician about to reveal that the rabbit had disappeared.

The bunny was still out there.

Damn his big ears. She stomped to the front door, worked the locks, then yanked it open. “Shoo” was on the tip of her tongue. But strange noises floated above the sound of the surf. Musical notes?

Curious despite herself, she hurried across the chilled sand toward her former best buddy. Getting her first frontal glimpse of him, she came to an abrupt halt, her heels digging in the damp grains. It was Teague, all right, sitting cross-legged, a bottle of something wrapped in a brown bag propped in front of him. He cradled a ukulele to his chest.

Polly stared. “Since when do you play an instrument?”

He squinted up at her, as if her face were too bright. “Wha?”

Sinking to her knees, she sniffed at the brown-bagged bottle. Booze. “You’re drunk,” she said, surprised. He was always very careful about the amounts he imbibed.

He plucked at the instrument’s strings. “Pozzible,” he said, slurring the word.

“Why?”

“Can’ talk.” He made a tipsy, big-armed gesture that she realized was him miming zipping his lips, then locking them and throwing away the key. “M’father’z advice. Don’ talk ’bout it.”

Polly decided not to try to decipher his mood. As she’d been saying for weeks, she was moving on from him...except she couldn’t move on until she got him off her beach. “Let’s go,” she said, grabbing for his wrist.

His skin was corpse-cold, his arm a deadweight. “Came here,” he said, a big lump of unmoving, drunk man. “Didn’ mean to.” His head turned slowly, as if taking in his surroundings for the first time. “But...”

“You’re here,” she said, impatient. “But inside here will be more comfortable than outside here.” Putting more effort into it, she tugged on his arm as she got to her feet.

He rose like a sleepwalker and stumbled after her. She kept her hand on him, worried that if she let go he might wander in the wrong direction. The ukulele’s neck was gripped in his fist as she towed him up her steps and into her living room. She breathed a sigh of relief as she shut the door behind them. Step one to getting him out of her house and out of her hair was getting him into her house and sobering him up.

“So, when did you take up the uke?” she asked, glancing down at it. “And why?”

“Hobby. For stress.” He blinked at her. “Where’s m’booze? Helps, too.”

Stress? He was one of the most laid-back men she knew. She pushed him toward the breakfast bar. “No more alcohol for you. I’m going to fix you some soup and a sandwich.”

“Thank you, Pol,” he answered in that earnest way of drunk people as he struggled to maneuver himself onto a stool. The ukulele fell to the floor with a clatter and he ignored it. “Owe you...owe you...”

His stare caught on a bowl of fruit. “Owe you an apple.”

He owed her an explanation, but she wasn’t going to press for one. Instead, she heated up a can of soup and slapped together some bread, meat and cheese. She poured him a glass of milk and even draped the throw blanket from the couch over his shoulders as if he were a small boy.

The thought sent a swift and unexpected shaft of pain through her heart. She could imagine it too easily, a little guy with Teague’s dark hair and eyes, his easy charm and even temperament. It was stupid of her, she knew, but tears stung the corners of her eyes. She’d never wanted riches or fame, just simple things like a teaching career, a family. A husband whom she could believe in.

Teague.

But that was a dream not to be, she reminded herself, and turned her back on him to wash up the sauce pan and then make half a pot of coffee. She didn’t look at him again until she placed a mug of dark brew beside the drained milk glass.

He was staring at his empty soup bowl and looking more miserable than she’d ever seen him. Even when Tess had dashed his hopes almost as soon as he’d had them, he’d never appeared so grim.

The milk-pourer in her wanted to ask what was wrong, but the woman who needed to get over an unrequited romance wouldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t allow her emotions to get further engaged.

Then he reached for the uke, which she’d retrieved from the floor and set on the stool beside him. He placed the fingers of his left hand on the neck and strummed with his right thumb. It sounded terrible.

A hobby to help with the stress.

He strummed another jarring chord. Polly winced. “That’s really awful, you know.”

His head came up and she could see that the food and nonalcoholic drinks had gone a long way to sobering him up. “Yeah.” Grimacing, he set the instrument aside again.

A tense silence welled up between them. Should she insist he leave now? Was he safe to drive? Because it wasn’t safe to have him here, where he only fueled more dreams, where he only made her feel things she’d vowed would remain unspoken.

“I suppose you want to know...” he started.

“I don’t want to know anything!” She whirled around and grabbed up the dishrag, blindly scrubbing at the clean countertop.

Another moment passed. Then she heard the stool’s legs scrape against the floor. “Okay. Yeah. That’s best.”

When she didn’t hear further movement, Polly peeked over her shoulder. Standing, he stared down at the class roster she’d left out, with the one-inch-by-one-inch photos of her students affixed beside each name. His finger traced a single line, over and over.

“What is it?” Polly heard herself ask. “What’s wrong?” Too late, she wished she’d shoved the dishrag in her mouth.

Teague looked over, his face set in tired lines. “I...” Then he shook his head. “No. I’ll be on my way. Sorry I disturbed you.”

His expression disturbed her now. Drunk she could dismiss him, but exhausted and upset was a different matter altogether. “What won’t you say?” she demanded, as she recalled him on the beach, telling her his father’s advice. Don’t talk.

“Had a few bad shifts, that’s all.”

Those shifts he never spoke of. The job he didn’t discuss beyond raunchy jokes and firehouse recipes. Teague’s father had been a firefighter, too. Had his instructions been to hold all the stress of the position inside? To never speak of it? Sympathy swamped her.

“Tell me,” she said, tossing the cloth into the sink and coming closer. It rattled her more than a little to see easygoing but always-in-control Teague in a mood. “What’s wrong?”

He collapsed back onto the stool and lowered his head to one hand. He massaged his temples with thumb and fingers. “The past couple of weeks we’ve had some disturbing calls. I just need a little time to...process.”

To put the experiences up on that high shelf he had, Polly thought with sudden insight. But wouldn’t there come a time when there was no more room for another? Didn’t he have to sort them out and clear some away in order to cope with the next batch?

“Care to share with me?” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder.

Not looking up, he shook his head. “It’s better to keep things...pretty here. I don’t need to bring disturbing stuff into this house or into your mind.”

“Because your father protected your mother that way.” Despite that—or because of it?—Polly knew the woman had ultimately left her husband and son.

Teague shrugged. “Most firefighters hold things back from their wives, their girls, their friends.”

“I’m made of strong stuff. You know that.” She put a teasing note into her voice. “I didn’t pass out when I heard you attempt the ukulele.”

He shook his head, still stubborn. Still miserable.

She couldn’t stand it. “One word,” Polly coaxed. “Just one simple word.”

Silence descended again. Then he suddenly opened his mouth. “Shoes,” he said, as if some unseen force had yanked it from him.

Instead of speaking, she merely firmed her hand on his shoulder.

“It’s been a f*cking week of shoes,” he said, his voice low and rough.

“Shoes—”

Before she could finish, he grabbed her close, burying his head at the curve of her shoulder and throat. It was a tight hold, as if he were going down in vast waters and she were the single life preserver.

Without even thinking about it, her arms came around him in a secure embrace. “Tell me,” she murmured, pressing her cheek to his dark hair. “Tell me about the shoes.”

Another long silence passed, and then he started speaking again, his voice still low. “A kid will get hit by a car—knocked right out of her shoes. You...you get to a scene and find the injured girl in the bushes, but a pair of pink, glittery sneakers left behind on the crosswalk.”

She rubbed his back, soothing.

“Or there’ll be a rollover accident, a minivan and its contents tossed everywhere. People screaming. Children crying. And then there’s the baby, contented as a cow, hanging upside down from the straps of a car seat, chewing on the rubber sole of his daddy’s work boot.” He hauled in a breath. “Then last night... Oh, God, Gator. Last night.”

She swallowed, trying to calm her unsteady pulse. “What happened last night?”

His hands clutched at her, as if assuring himself she was real. “House fire. Moving fast. One of the family’s sons was missing. We couldn’t find him.”

The agony he’d clearly felt then pierced her ribs and headed straight for her heart. She wanted to back away, to break free of him and put her hands over her ears, but self-protection had stopped being an option. “What—” She had to pause and lubricate her throat. “What happened?”

“It was a big place. Three stories. We were searching room by room and I tripped over a pair of shoes, crashing into and breaking through some louvered closet doors, scattering the ski equipment inside. At the very back of the space was the kid, curled in a ball, his arms over his head. I might have missed him if I hadn’t fallen and disrupted all the gear he’d taken refuge behind. I might have pulled open the doors to check but still not seen him.”

Relief made her knees weak. “Lucky for him about those shoes,” she murmured.

“They were his brand-new basketball high-tops. When I told him what happened, he thought his mom would be mad because he wasn’t supposed to leave them out.” Then Teague looked up, his gaze intense and staring straight into hers. “His name is Brett. One of your B-boys, Pol. And being bad was what saved him. When I thought of that...”

“When you thought of that...?” she prompted, whispering.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I just had to come to you.”

A hot sting of tears burned her eyes. To hide them, she let her lids close, and so she didn’t see Teague’s lips coming nearer; she only felt them brush her lashes, trace down her cheek.

It was a gentle, comforting caress. As platonic as every other they’d shared. Then his lips found hers, and she tasted the salt of her tears on their smooth, warm surface. Without thought, she opened her mouth to taste them with her tongue.

She heard and felt Teague’s sharp, indrawn breath. Heated embarrassment flushed through her, and she attempted retreat. But his hands tightened on her.

His lips pressed harder. It became a real kiss.

Polly’s head spun. It was what she’d always wanted, a dream she’d stopped waiting for. Their tongues touched, tangled, and she felt need flush over her from head to toe. Between her thighs, she went wet.

One of his hands speared the hair at the back of her head. His touch was masculine, masterful, keeping her in place so that he could take control of her mouth. She shivered in hot delight, thrilled by his hard hold.

His palm covered her shoulder, following the slope of it atop the flannel until his thumb brushed the outside of her breast. He stilled for a moment, and then his hand slowly moved to cup her, his palm seeming to test the slight weight. Polly’s nipple tightened to a painful bead and she clutched at Teague’s shoulders to keep upright.

He broke the kiss and she saw that his color was up, a flush across his cheekbones. His hands went to the buttons of her boxy top, and she couldn’t breathe as he unfastened them with skillful fingers.

A good man to have in an emergency, she thought, her head muzzy from lack of oxygen. But then he brushed the flannel sides away from her naked chest, and air refilled her lungs on a gasp. Teague just looked at her, his gaze avid, his own breath harsh as he stared.

She shivered, and he covered both breasts with his hot palms. Polly moaned as her nipples poked his flesh. Still staring, as if he was fascinated by the look of his big hands on her naked torso, he leaned toward her, licking at the hollow of her throat.

Polly jerked into the wet contact, and he made a soothing noise as he drew his mouth lower, moving one hand around her ribs and to her back. He pressed there, urging her inches closer, and then his mouth was on her breast.

She gasped again, closing her eyes as he sucked on the nipple, light but insistent. Her thighs clenched, and she felt another rush of wetness.

Her hands plunged into his hair. It had never been like this for her before. She felt hot all over, slippery inside, yearning everywhere from the roots of her hair to the tender skin between her toes. Every part of her wanted contact with him, but she was afraid to speak that aloud in case he woke to the fact that he was in the throes of passion with his platonic friend.

Teague released her flesh and looked up. “Polly,” he murmured. “Polly—”

She muffled him with her own kiss, desperate, and desperately worried that if he said her name one more time he’d realize that yes, it was Polly, Polly Pal who was in his arms. Her tongue slid into his mouth, and his hands clamped on her hips, then slipped beneath the waistband of her flannel pants to cup her bottom.

He groaned, the sound a sweet buzz of desire against her tongue. His fingers kneaded the soft flesh that he held and she felt another dizzying rush of heat engulf her. She’d wanted him before; his smiles, his charm, his male competence had called to her from the very beginning—not every man could make expert omelets!—but this was something else altogether. There was no way she’d anticipated the effect of his hands on her in sexual urgency.

And there was no sense in trying to apply the brakes now.

After all, she doubted she could ever go back to being his friend, she thought, so she might as well give it all as his lover. Shrugging, she allowed the flannel top to drop. Then, still kissing him, she shoved her thumbs into the elastic waistband of her pants and yanked them down, letting them fall to her ankles.

She was completely naked to him.

He jerked his head away from hers, breaking the kiss. She heard the slow suck of his breath as his gaze took in her nude form. Trembling, she didn’t hide from the perusal, knowing she was not voluptuous and not tall and definitely not Tess.

But she was his for the taking.

And as if she’d said it aloud, he did.

One moment she was standing before him; the next they were in a race down the hall. In her dim bedroom, he took her by the shoulders and propelled her backward until her hips hit the end of the high mattress and she fell onto the bed.

She stared up at him, breathing hard, and felt another shimmer of delight work through her as he reached behind his neck with one hand to toss away his T-shirt. He toed off his shoes and shoved down his jeans and boxers and there he was—there it was—the aggressive jut of male flesh that said he wanted to be here.

Her stomach jittered in anticipation and she scooted up toward the pillows, but he caught her ankles and hauled her back. The height of the bed was such that if he stepped forward—

Then he did. Pushing her thighs wide apart, he moved into the space. The thick head of his penis brushed the inside of her thigh, and she jerked, the heat of it like a brand. He circled one hand around her thigh, keeping her open for him, and then grasped the thick stalk of his sex.

He directed it toward her pleated flesh, but instead of thrusting, he nudged her layers apart with short strokes and gentle prods. Her body flowered easily for him, making it clear she was more than ready for him. But he continued toying, playing, tapping at her *oris and then sliding wetly down to her entrance to tease her with the promise of penetration.

Her fingers clutched at the bedclothes, and she arched her hips, trying to entice him into her heat. The hand encircling her thigh controlled her, though, and she made a needy sound low in her throat.

Teague’s gaze lifted from the place where they weren’t quite joined, to her face. His eyes were glittering, his skin seemed to be stretched tightly against his cheekbones. She’d never seen him look so harsh, his handsomeness almost brutal with desire. Another wave of sexual longing ran through her and she shuddered against the cool sheets. “Please,” she said. “Please don’t make me wait another minute.”

Her skin was throbbing everywhere, her inner muscles were rhythmically clenching with her body’s need to be filled, her *oris was so sensitive that when he gave it another delicate tap, she lurched, driven a giant step closer to orgasm.

“I won’t,” he said, and his hand pushed her thigh even wider.

Exposing her. Exposing everything.

He stared down, seemingly mesmerized, and then he penetrated, a slow, thick parting of her flesh. Moaning, Polly closed her eyes at the exquisite sensation. She was so ready for him that there was only the tiniest, sweetest pinch of discomfort as he continued inside. Oh, yes. He was hot and smooth and—

He wasn’t wearing a condom.

Her lashes flew up and she opened her mouth to warn him, but then he rooted deep, and she gasped at the goodness of it. He held himself motionless inside her, and she could feel her muscles clenching around him, her body trying to incite movement. She moaned with impatience.

“Shh,” he murmured, and caressed her hip. “Let yourself get used to me.”

Pleasure was breaking in little waves across her body. Condom, she thought sluggishly, her mind trying to bring the word to her mouth. She was on the Pill so she wouldn’t get pregnant, but—

“God, Pol.” Teague suddenly jolted, his body almost leaving hers so she had to clamp her knees against his flanks to keep him close. “No, no. Listen, I’m not wearing protection.”

His urgent voice cleared her own mind a little.

“Do we really need it?” she asked. “Because...because I’m thinking not.”

He stilled, staring at her face. “Polly...”

She met his gaze. “I’m thinking not,” she repeated. Teague was well aware she was on birth control. Just last month, on their way to a weekend of wine-tasting with friends, she’d had to ask him to turn around to retrieve her forgotten little packet of pills. As for STDs, they were close enough to know that wasn’t an issue, either.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Yes.” They might not have a future, but they had so much trust between them she knew they could do this without barriers.

At that thought, her inner muscles squeezed him. He groaned and then began to move, thrusting into her with deep intent. She wiggled and he tightened his hold on her hips, keeping her still as he continued to pump inside. Desire threatened to swamp her again, as the feeling of being at his mercy was delicious, all she’d ever wanted. She gave herself up to it, sinking into the mattress and opening her mind and body to his forceful thrusts.

Then he started pulling her into each one, and a wave of heat broke over her skin. She moaned, her eyes closing at the inexplicable goodness of this man’s touch. Nothing had ever been like this for her. It was possible she might just be a female body to him, a way to work out the stress he’d been feeling, but she had no regrets with orgasm just inches away. Aware it was ready to pounce on her, she half opened her eyes.

To find Teague gazing down at her. His fingers were hot brands on her hips as their eyes met and he plunged into her again. Oh, he was well aware this was her, Polly thought, panicking a little. But his next thrust shattered her concern. It was so good she lifted into it despite his firm hold, writhing while he held himself deep.

As he pulled back, she cried out, but then he was driving deep again. Her body gathered around him, gathered in on itself, her muscles tense everywhere, and then Teague slid one thumb to her *oris, circling once, twice, until bliss shot free and she fractured, joyful sensation raining down like hot, happy tears.

Groaning, Teague thrust once more before he came in great shudders of his big body.

Lying boneless on the bed, Polly kept her eyes closed as he withdrew and climbed onto the mattress. He pulled her up to him so that he was propped on the pillows and she was against his shoulder. His big palm gently stroked her shoulder.

Okay, Polly thought, bracing herself. Here came the regrets. Here came the moment when he would make excuses, throw on his pants, leave and perhaps never be heard from again.

“Well, Gator,” he said softly. “What now?”

He wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t making excuses. Instead, he was putting the ball in her court.

Polly’s heart raced. She could lay it on the line. Tell her final secrets. Confess her love and see where that might lead. Her mouth opened. And words came out in the bright, chirpy voice she used for selling indoor recess on rainy days. “You ever hear of friends with benefits?”

It was all she’d never wanted.

* * *

IN HIS SISTER’S BACKYARD, Gage sat on the edge of a large cement planter, partly screened by the fronds of a thriving queen palm. He tipped back his bottle of beer and took a long swallow, then let his gaze roam about. Just a week after the engagement party, his sister was in gonzo hostess mode again, throwing a shower for the bridal couple. This crowd appeared to be a smaller subset of the other, but again there was a table piled high with presents.

He kept his gaze on the gifts when his twin came to lean beside him. “Where the hell are you going to put all the loot?” he asked Griffin. “I thought you said Jane’s place is tiny, and she’s already got you crowded in there.”

“We’re on the hunt for new digs. Have a line on something not far from the cove, as a matter of fact.”

Gage didn’t respond, but he heartily approved of the idea. If his bro and Jane settled near Skye, he wouldn’t think twice about insisting they keep an eye on her once he was gone. Without turning his head, he sought her out now himself, and smiled when he caught sight of her laughing with Tess. Her hair was caught up in an artful bun-looking thing, with wavy pieces left to lie against the back of her neck and along one cheek. There was something about the carefree style that made him want to pull out the pins and then take her to bed.

He’d been doing a lot of that since she’d put her hand in his on the deck at Captain Crow’s a few days before. Skye continued to be an enthusiastic partner between the sheets, her fears, it seemed, mostly forgotten. Satisfaction made his smile deepen.

She didn’t question his avoidance of complete darkness, but since she’d been beside him, he’d managed to make do with only the bathroom light burning through the half-opened door. He’d found sleep easier, too, and had better rest when he did nod off.

Living in the moment with Skye, at the cove, was turning out to be the best damn idea of a decade. Nothing was going to mess that up, not if he could help it.

Griffin cleared his throat. “You know, we never finished that conversation we started at the engagement party.”

“What conversation?” Gage asked absently. He was counting the buttons on Skye’s little mermaid-green sundress. They ran from neckline to knee and were the shape of tiny starfish. Likely a bitch to unfasten. Was there a hidden zipper or something?

“The one where you come clean about your last assignment and why the hell you went MIA.”

His mind jerked to attention. Shit. Instead of letting his brother see his alarm, Gage took another long sip of his beer. Then he set it on the ledge beside him and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I hate to break it to you,” Griffin said, “but your body language is a dead giveaway.”

Gage cursed his brother’s skills of observation. Damn reporters. “Let’s talk about something else. This is supposed to be a happy time...and all about you and Jane.”

“Jane and I are great. And we are happy. But it’s you who has me worried.”

“Look,” Gage said, wincing at the defensive edge to his voice. “I didn’t bug you when you were holed up in No. 9, acting weird as shit. Skye wrote me about the parties. Rex said you were cliff-jumping again—the higher the better.”

“I admit I had—have—issues. I’m working on them.”

“Let me work on mine in my own way, all right?” And his way was the Skye-way, soaking up summer and the scent of her skin at every opportunity.

His brother’s sigh sounded like acquiescence.

Gage risked a glance at him. His twin was staring, and their eyes met. People often asked him if it was creepy, to see his own face on another man, but when he looked at his brother he only saw their dissimilarities. Griffin “presented” in a different manner, he thought. While he’d been born only a few minutes earlier, he had the gravitas of the older brother. Gage had been the one to disregard consequences.

That thought gave him a guilty start and he redirected his attention, stealing another glance at Skye. Was he acting irresponsibly there? But the smile on her face and the relative wealth of skin she felt comfortable showing now said no. This afternoon, he’d been a fingernail away from convincing her to put on a bathing suit and go out with him for a swim.

“What are you looking at?” Griffin said, sounding suspicious.

“Nothing.” He grabbed up his bottle of beer. “I’m just recalling I have a best-man duty to fulfill. What are we going to do about a bachelor party? I could throw a classic, you know, martinis, poker and trash talk at No. 9. Or could you fit in a quick guys’ getaway to Vegas?”

Damn, he thought, instantly regretting the suggestion. Las Vegas would mean leaving Skye. Their final goodbye was coming soon enough.

“Nah,” his brother answered. “When Dad gets here, why don’t we just take him and David out for drinks one night? They can tell us both about the joys of married life.”

Gage groaned. “What, bamboo sticks under the fingernails too tame for you?”

“Don’t let Mom hear you disparage marriage.”

“I don’t disparage. I think marriage is just great for Mom and Dad. And for Tess and David. There’s people all over the world who make it work.”

“Including, now, me and Jane.”

“Yeah.” He studied his brother, noting the ease of his body and the faint, satisfied smile he wore. “It’s really what you want.”

“It’s really what I want. She’s really what I want.”

“That’s sappy enough to make me want to hurl right into this planter,” Gage said, “but I admit liking you looking so contented. I guess Jane will have to be the sacrifice for your happiness.”

Griffin shook his head. “Dumb-ass.”

“But you say it with such affection.” Their eyes met again and a dozen unspoken messages passed between them, all condensable to one single idea: I’ll always have your back.

“So,” Gage finally said, “Dad, David and drinks. We’ll find a good night for it.”

“Hope you’re not too disappointed about skipping strippers and titty bars.”

He waved that away. “Not disappointed at all.”

Going suddenly still, Griffin narrowed his gaze at him. “You’re getting regular sex.”

“What?”

“Gage Gorge sex just makes you restless. Antsy, like you’ve eaten too many candy bars.” His brother pointed a finger at him. “You’re calm. Serene, I’d even say, which means you’re getting the real thing now, the libido-sating kind of sex.”

“My libido is not the least bit sated,” he scoffed. “Jesus. You writers have overactive imaginations.”

“I can tell what I can tell,” Griffin said.

“You can tell shit. For your information, I’m calm because...because I like the cove. It’s a good place to rest. I’m in recharge mode.” He took another draw on his beer and studiously avoided looking toward the last place he’d seen Skye.

Then a flicker of color drew his eye, and his gaze shot to the fluttering hem of a blue-green skirt. Skye’s skirt. He couldn’t help staring at her legs, then her slender hips, then her—

“Shit,” Griffin muttered.

With a casual turn of his head, Gage looked to his brother, one eyebrow raised.

“Don’t give me that.” Griffin huffed out a sigh. “You’re with Skye, aren’t you?”

Gage didn’t consider it a true secret. He wasn’t ashamed to be with her, that was for sure. “If you weren’t so damn protective of her, I would have mentioned it sooner.”

“You’re together,” Griffin said, as if requiring exact clarification. “Together together.”

Impatient with the questioning, Gage glared at his twin. “Yes.”

“And you’ve thought this through?”

It wouldn’t be good form to deck the groom-to-be. “You want the truth? I’m doing my best not to think at all. How’s that? Some of us aren’t f*cking navel-gazers, okay?” He’d had two weeks of no company but his own and what he could conjure up in his mind, and that was enough inward exploration to last a lifetime.

When his brother just stared at him, Gage forced himself to lower his voice and relax his rigid spine. “It was a...a long, grueling stretch, that last assignment.”

Griffin nodded. “Some of them are like that.”

“Yeah, some are worse than others.” Gage took in a deep breath of fresh air. “So before I get back to the usual frustration, stress and bad food, I’m chilling at the cove, enjoying myself with a woman I really like. We have an...affection for each other, Skye and I. We know each other very well.”

“Through your letters.”

“Yeah. So it just seemed natural to take the relationship to this place.” Completely natural, which was why he didn’t have to overexamine it.

“What happens when you go?”

Gage shrugged. “I go. She knows that. But until then, it’s sunshine and sea breezes and...”

“Your little love shack on the sand,” Griffin said.

It made him grin. No. 9 had the power to make the past recede and fill the present—fill him—with contentment.

“You’re looking a little happy there yourself,” his brother observed.

Why deny it? Especially when he saw the siren of the cove heading in his direction. He aimed his grin at her. She wore earrings that were long strings of beach glass in alternating colors that matched her dress and her eyes.

Now that the cat was out of the bag, he didn’t hesitate to slide off his perch and grab her hand to pull her close to him. “Hey,” he said softly, drawing her freshwater scent into his lungs. “How you doing?”

Her green eyes slid to his brother.

Gage squeezed her fingers. “Don’t pay attention to that ugly dude,” he told her.

A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Ugly,” she scolded.

Griffin patted her shoulder. “Should I catalog all this guy’s vices for you, Skye?”

“No need,” she said, and she reached up to touch his twin’s hand as if he were the one who needed comfort. “Stand down, friend.”

Without comment, Gage plucked his brother’s fingers from her bare shoulder. “Having fun?” he asked, lowering his voice, his eyes only for her. Lifting his free hand, he let the back of his knuckles trace her cheek.

Griffin made a sound, then walked away. Skye’s gaze flicked in his direction. “Uh-oh. Your twin does not approve.”

“Forget about my twin.” His fingers stroked her throat. She shivered, and he saw her gaze focus on his mouth. A surge of satisfaction warmed his blood. “You want to be kissed?”

“Not here,” she said quickly, glancing around.

“Oh.” His smile was knowing. “You want that kind of kiss.”

The blush that spread across her pretty face did him in. He slid both arms around her and drew her to him, spreading his legs so she was nestled close to his chest and they were half-hidden by the fortuitous palm fronds. Angling his head, he found her mouth with his, stroking in with hot demand. She seemed to have a second’s thought of pulling away, but then she melted against him, her fingernails curling into his chest like a kitten’s.

“Dangerous,” he murmured, breaking the kiss, though he found himself bussing her forehead, her cheeks, her nose. It was impossible to get enough of her, he thought, then frowned. There would come a day when he’d board a plane and what he’d had already would have to be sufficient.

“Let’s go back to the cove right now,” he said, feeling a pressing need to get them there, to the place where he’d banished the future. He and Skye could lie in bed, engage in some more blissing-out on the present.

“Okay, but— Oh, I almost forgot. I ran into someone you know. You need to say hello to her first.”

“Her?” Jesus, she hadn’t encountered some woman he’d previously hooked up with, had she? “Wait...”

She started tugging him out of their semiconcealment. “I invited her to come to the cove day after tomorrow.”

Now he let himself be moved, because he sincerely doubted she’d ask some former bed partner of his to their special place. “If you’re referring to my aunt Joanna, I already talked to her and please, let’s tell her we won’t be around then after all. She’ll bring the peanut brittle she considers her specialty, and I can’t risk going halfway across the world with broken teeth.”

Damn Aunt Joanna, for making him think of his looming departure.

“Wipe that vicious frown off your face. It’s not your aunt Joanna. It’s Mara Butler. Griffin knew her Charlie, too, went to visit her last week, and she’s here tonight. She says she’d love to talk to you.”

Mara Butler. Charlie.

Charlie Butler. His war correspondent friend who’d been kidnapped. Killed.

Gage slowed his footsteps. “She’s definitely coming to the beach? Day after tomorrow?”

“Mmm-hmm. With her little boy, Charlie’s son, Anthony.”

Damn. His friend’s widow was going to visit the cove. And, Gage thought, his chest filling with a painful, prescient regret, most likely bringing unpleasant reminders of his recent past with her.