Take Me All the Way (8 page)

“You know,” Fletcher observed, “you practically bristle when I even suggest anything between the two of you.”

“Maybe it irritates me that everyone
keeps
suggesting it—when I've expressed no interest in the man whatsoever.”

“You have a habit of doing the same thing to me,” he pointed out.

“True,” she admitted. “Because I think it's for your own good.”

“Likewise,” he countered simply.

“But then you also know how annoying it can be,” she pointed out reasonably.

“True,” he replied. “But . . .”

She turned toward him, her look filled with warning. “But?”

He met her gaze. “But if there's anything there at all, any slight hint of attraction, what would be wrong with exploring that? What would be wrong with having some fun with him? It wouldn't have to be some big, serious thing if you don't want it to. It could just be a little fun. A fling.”

Tamra thought back to earlier times in her life, times when she'd surrendered to a man, trusted a man, and how horrible the results had been. Years had passed since then—she was older and wiser. And she tried not to be a slave to her past—she lived for now and was happy to leave bad things behind her, where they belonged. She was open to the idea of love, or any other kind of relationship. But . . . only with someone who had all the right ingredients. She had no intention of giving in to any sort of pursuit from a man who seemed all wrong for her.

“Why are you all so eager to fix me up with someone who, frankly, seems like trouble?” she asked Fletcher, truly wanting to know.

He didn't answer for a minute, clearly weighing his reply. Until he said, “Honestly?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“I've known you for four years. Reece and Polly and other people around here have known you since you got here, eight years ago. And as far as anyone knows, you haven't dated anyone since then. And it's a long time, Tamra. Especially for someone who has as much to offer as you. So maybe we just think you should . . .”

“Date any loser who comes down the pike?”

Fletcher finished his thought in a different way. “Not be so picky.”

And Tamra's back went rigid. “Okay, now I'm bristling. Because you're saying it's wrong to have standards. Or that I can't get a guy who doesn't have major stuff wrong with him. Which is insulting. If you think I'm going to be into just any yahoo who happens to have a penis, you're sadly mistaken.”

At this, Fletcher let out a laugh. “That's not exactly what I was suggesting.”

“Well, it feels that way.” She raised her eyebrows. Then calmed down a little to add, “I have an idea.”

Fletcher appeared relieved, probably at her less abrasive tone. “What's that?”

“From almost the beginning of our friendship, you and I have been pushing each other in romantic directions neither one of us seems to want to go in. So . . . maybe we should just stop. It's never led anywhere anyway, except to getting on each other's nerves. Agreed?”

In the wicker chair next to hers, Fletcher pursed his lips, obviously thinking this over. “I guess you make a decent point,” he finally said. Then added a short nod. “Okay—agreed. No more unsolicited advice or suggestions between us in the romance department.”

O
VER
the last year or so, much of Tamra's pottery work had focused on fish. Fun, colorful, silly, happy fish. Some of them were plates, others bowls. Still others hung on walls. Smaller, more three-dimensional fish became knickknacks for tables or shelves, or were incorporated into windchimes.

Before fish had taken over her art, she'd gotten into crabs—making red crab-shaped dishes Reese had commissioned for each room at the Happy Crab, and making more crab plates and bowls to sell. And before that, she'd been drawn largely to creating more abstract pieces that were reminiscent of the sun or waves, and her stained glass suncatchers had often followed that same general design dynamic, as well.

But fun fish, it turned out, sold enormously well to the vacationing masses who patronized the Sunset Celebration at the pier each night, and she'd discovered they also made her happy. Something about just working on a silly smiling fish with big eyes or brightly colored fins made her feel uplifted. Sun and sea pieces had made her feel relaxed, calm, peaceful—and that was what she'd needed for a long while after coming to Coral Cove. Yet somewhere along the way, she supposed, she'd started needing less peace and more happy.

She generally kept the cottage quiet when she worked. Sometimes, though, in the mild weather of spring or fall, she could open the windows and let the sound of the surf echo in, as it was doing on this September morning the day after making her new agreement with Fletcher. An added benefit of the art studio in her cottage was the large window above her worktable that allowed her to look out on her garden as she created new pieces.

After using her string cutter to cut a fresh slab of clay for a new fish plate, she used a rolling pin, same as you would on cookie dough, rolling the clay out to about a quarter inch thickness. Then came the fun—the freehand design of a brand new happy fish.

Mostly it was shaping it with her fingers, but once she accomplished that, she would smooth down the edges with a wet sponge, then use a knife or the tip of a small paint brush to carve in indentions and detail. And later, she would add in additional pieces of clay—a fin, a tail, a mouth—to make the plate three-dimensional.

As the piece of simple clay became a fish in Tamra's hands, she wondered how Jeremy was doing on the golf hut. As far as she could tell, the work had been looking good, but since that first morning, she'd only stopped by in her SUV a few times to check in with him, then driven away.

It's stupid to let that one uncomfortable-yet-heart-rippling event keep you from spending time on the jobsite. After all, since when do you let anything or anyone intimidate you?

And yet, as she crimped one edge of clay with her fingertips to create a scalloped tail, she couldn't
not
be honest with herself. The thought of going back to the jobsite brought about other feelings, as well.

It's stupid that you want to see him. You don't even like him.
And yet, the truth was, every time she thought about him, even when Fletcher had brought him up yesterday and she'd so vehemently stuck to her story of having no interest in him, she'd continued suffering a reaction. A tingling sensation that ran the length of her body yet was undeniably centered at the crux
of her thighs, emanating outward in waves, like radio signals coming from a tower.

Eventually pleased with the new fish she'd created, she placed it in a plastic container, where it would dry for a week or so before the first firing. Otherwise, it would crack or explode in the kiln.

Three fish later, she decided to go up to the golf course and start behaving like an adult here. She had a job to oversee, after all.

But this wasn't because she wanted to see him. It was . . . to stop avoiding him.

Part of Tamra was tempted to put on one of her long, flowy skirts. Because so far she didn't think Jeremy had seen her looking her best.
But that's ridiculous. Especially since you're not interested in him. Or so you keep claiming.

Instead, she opted to just change the simple tee she'd been working in to a nicer top—perfectly casual but more fitted. There was no crime in showing off her shape a little, after all. Not particularly to him, but to just . . . anyone.

As she parked her car in the mini-golf course's recently paved parking lot, she spotted Jeremy in the distance. Working in the hot sun, he'd tied a dark bandana around his head as a sweatband and wore a snug white T-shirt, dingy and soiled from work, but which still managed to outline the muscles in his chest and upper arms. His khaki shorts were loose, and a low-slung tool belt draped his hips above dirty workboots. He appeared to be hammering nails into a large window frame. His skin, more tan than the last time she'd seen him, glistened with sweat. And the spot between her legs tingled hotly. Oh hell.

Turning off the engine, she drew in a deep breath, let it back out. Looking again, this time she tried to focus on less pleasing aspects of his appearance—his longish, messy hair hung in unkempt waves and tendrils about his head. His pale beard remained gangly and ungroomed.

Unfortunately, she still suffered an almost giddy sense of nervousness to know she'd be approaching him. It made no sense.

Unless . . . this is what chemistry is.

If so, it was . . . well, either something she'd never truly experienced before or she'd entirely forgotten what it felt like. Like yesterday, her mind flashed on past men in her life, from when she was younger. Maybe she'd felt this then—a certain need, a fathomless magnetism that defied logic—but had chosen to forget, given how those relationships had ended. Maybe she'd
wanted
to forget—maybe she'd decided nothing good could come from a feeling that stole so much of her control, in such a non-sensical way.

Because, good Lord, if anything was non-sensical, it was that the man in the distance made her feel that. She barely knew him, she didn't much like him, she found his unkempt hairiness unattractive, and she truly questioned whether he was a good guy or a bad one. And yet, under the surface remained a tingling that had intensified to a ridiculous degree since parking the car. Craziness.

Okay, pull yourself together here and just go talk to him. Like a normal human being. And his boss, for that matter. And . . . see how things go.
More of her conversation with Fletcher came back to her now—the part about being open, and about fun. Maybe . . . she would be
open to letting Jeremy change her opinion of him. Maybe.

One more deep breath and she exited the car and crossed the jobsite to where he still hammered nails into the little building, which appeared to be mostly done. He concentrated on his work as she grew nearer and made no indication that he knew she was there until he looked up and asked, “What do you think? Looking pretty good?”

He didn't smile, but sounded proud. Almost like a guy who cared about his work.

Upon closer inspection she had to agree. “Yes, looks great. Good job,” she added. Trying to be nice. Even though it made her feel a little vulnerable with him. Maybe because they'd gotten off on the wrong foot. Inside, she supposed she feared seeming even the least bit weak to him—and sometimes in life, nice equaled weak. Sometimes, nice
made
you weak.

“Be ready to start painting it soon. And gotta build the doors that'll close over the windows when the course isn't open. We'll need to paint those and the trim boards before I put them on.”

She nodded.

“You have the colors picked out, right? Should I buy the paint or is that something you want to do?”

The truth was, for someone who was usually on top of a project, Tamra hadn't thought through any of the next steps—too waylaid by Jeremy Sheridan's insertion into the situation. A realization that was all the more reason to get her head back in the game and just get used to having him around. Especially now that it actually appeared he was going to be a good, dependable worker, despite his other faults.

“I can pick up the paint. I can start painting, in fact, while you work on making the doors and cutting the trim.”

He returned his eyes to his work. “Never thought I'd say this, but might be nice to have some company.”

And the comment begged the question, even if she asked it cautiously. “Um, why did you think you'd never say that?”

He shrugged, looked solemn. “Been more of a keep-to-myself guy the last couple years.”

Now she returned the nod. And wondered out loud, feeling a little braver, “What's changed that?”

For the first real time since she'd arrived, he fully met her gaze. Reminding her how piercing it was. She felt as pinned in place by it as a butterfly in someone's collection case. “Maybe I like the idea of this particular company.”

Her heart fluttered nervously. Lord, it had been so long since anyone had flirted with her—and here he was, at it again, this fast. She'd totally forgotten how to respond to flirtation. Perhaps she'd never really known in the first place. Her chest tightened as she drew in a tense breath.

“Oh.”

That's what she said, what left her. She felt frozen in place. Socially inept. What on earth was wrong with her?

His eyes. It was his eyes. The way they held on her, so intently. It was nearly unbearable.

“Maybe,” he went on, “even though we didn't exactly hit it off, I'm cool with giving somebody a second chance.”

Okay, that was easier to deal with. And it was fair—
they'd both been at fault in ways so far. So she managed to say, “Me, too.”

“Second chances have been good to me lately,” he added, ending with a soft, deep laugh that seemed to vibrate gently all through her. And she could scarcely understand how she'd felt his laugh that way, as if it had somehow entered her, become part of her. And she was all into this second chances thing, but even this small exchange of flirtation had been enough to make her want to get away from him, just a little, so she could mentally regroup.

“Um, it's hot out here,” she said.

A hint of amusement reshaped his eyes.
He knows I'm nervous.
“Yeah,” he said.

She pointed vaguely over her shoulder toward the strip of businesses including the Hungry Fisherman and Gino's. “I think I'll walk over and get us both something to drink.”

For the first time since her approach, he actually grinned. And just like his laugh, it moved all through her. “That'd be great—thanks.”

And with that, she turned and made a beeline for Gino's Pizzeria.

Her heart beat too fast as she walked away.

She still didn't get it, this effect he had on her.