He’s got hair the color of cinnamon. It’s short on the sides but long enough on top to look slightly mussed up even though his hair was combed to the side a little, displaying a jagged part. He probably uses his fingers to part his hair. Or maybe it just falls that way when he gets out of the shower. Either way, his style suits him well. His sideburns are closely groomed and perfectly straight. His eyes are a sapphire blue with gold-flecked eyelashes that any woman would die to have. The sun literally shined on him and made those lashes of his glitter. Men should not be allowed to have long, full eyelashes that glitter in the sunlight, showing off natural highlights. That should be reserved only for women like me who have to slather on mascara to get any kind of volume. He has high cheekbones and a sharp, defined jawline. There are traces of laugh lines around his mouth, but they’re only traces, as far as I can tell. I didn’t see any lightheartedness in him today. A little ache of dismay fills my chest at the thought that he may not smile or laugh much. I mean—I know that I don’t smile or laugh, either, but for some reason I don’t care about me and my lackluster existence, just his. I bet he has a great laugh. I imagine it’s one of those laughs that feels contagious. He has a dusting of facial hair that gives him a kind of rugged look that I’m sure only looks even better when he’s laughing or smiling. A little tug at my heart has me closing my eyes, thinking about the stunning man that I met today.
I noticed a small, thin scar on his cheek when we met on the beach today. It can’t be more than a half an inch long, but it’s there. It makes me wonder where he got it and why in the hell that teeny tiny scar makes him even more attractive. I find myself wanting to touch it. I want to run the pads of my fingers along the line of that scar. I imagine brushing my lips over the scarred tissue.
“Oh my God,” I groan, reaching for the pillow beside me and burying my face in it.
I’d love to stay here all night chiding myself just like this, but my stomach is protesting my lack of sustenance. Food and Zander now occupy my mind more than the detective on the television set.
I reach for the telephone on the nightstand and press “1” for the front desk.
“Beachcomber Inn,” Dawn greets.
“Hey, Dawn, it’s Sadie Parker in room four.”
“Oh, what can I do for ya, sweetie?” she chirps happily.
“I was wondering what restaurants deliver here?”
“Oh, okay. Well, there’s Ugo’s Pizzeria just down the block. They have great Italian food. I have their number if you want it. And then there’s Big Daddy’s Smokehouse. It’s a little place at the end of the street. They have the best pulled pork sandwiches. They don’t deliver, but it’s within walking distance,” Dawn explains. Just as she draws in another breath to undoubtedly list other options, a knock at the door has me scrambling to my feet.
“Uh, Dawn, gotta go.” I don’t say goodbye to her. I hang up the phone and stand up from the bed, unsure of what the hell to do. I glance around for my purse. I have pepper spray on me at all times, like Jake always insisted. I grab my purse and begin rifling through it for the small bottle.
Whoever’s at the door knocks again. I finally get the pepper spray in hand, shake it a few times, and tiptoe to the door. I lean forward to look out the peephole. My shoulders relax when I don’t see anyone there. Had to have been someone with the wrong room number. Maybe one of Ugo’s delivery guys. I unbolt the door and open it, pepper spray in hand, just in case.
Zander.
My shoulders slump in relief and the awkward realization of just how relieved I am to see him again doesn’t escape me.
He’s standing just outside the door of my room wearing a plain white t-shirt, jeans, and flip flops with canvas straps that appear to be frayed on the edges. His blue eyes wash over me. “Smart girl,” he says quietly, noting the pepper spray in my right hand by motioning his eyes down toward it.
“Oh. Um, yeah. Jake, my husband, he makes me, made me, carry it everywhere.” I stumble over my own words, still mixing present tense with past. I don’t know if I’ll ever get it right. It’s just another uncomfortable detail of my pathetic life.
Zander nods then holds up a very familiar surfboard key chain with the number four on it. “Thought you may need this.”
“Yes, I do. Thanks for bringing it by.” I hold out my hand for the key just in time for my stomach to announce that I’m starving.
Zander arches his eyebrows, making the first clear display of emotion I’ve seen on him yet. I can feel my cheeks redden; my second round of embarrassment in Zander’s company. First I partake in a wet dress contest and now my stomach is making noises that sound like they should only come from a man seven feet tall and five feet wide. So embarrassing.
“Hungry?”
“Yeah. I was just about to order some dinner when you knocked.”
“Wanna go eat?” The way he speaks in choppy little sentences has me wondering if he ever talks much at all. He’s like a primitive or something.
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m just going to take it easy since I’m supposed to meet you for breakfast in the morning,” I make it a point to remind him.
“So we can meet now. For dinner.” The way his eyes swallow me up makes it difficult to refuse.
Truthfully, I don’t want to refuse him. I want to be near him. I want to hear him speak. I want to watch his chest rise and fall as he breathes. I want to study him like he has studied me. I want to know him.
“Sure, I guess.” I shrug, knowing that I’d like to avoid having to get up early tomorrow. “I need a few minutes to get dressed.”
“Okay, I’ll wait in my Jeep.” He motions his hand towards the small parking lot right behind him. I peer around him to see a fire engine red Jeep Wrangler with big tires. The top is missing and I imagine that thing is a lot of fun to drive around in.
I crack a small smile and nod coolly. “Nice ride.”