Going Deep (Coastal Heat #1) (7 page)

“Wha—”

Before he could finish forming the question, she whirled and pinned Brian with a hard stare. “I’ll be in touch to set up an alternate day and time for the interview.”

Winding her way through the tables, she kept her sights set on the exit. The soles of her shoes stuck to the worn linoleum, but there was no force in the world strong enough to hold her. The scarred wooden door swung out and her step faltered as a sharp shaft of bright spring sunlight blinded her.

That moment was enough for the boy who’d surprised everyone by lettering in track to catch up to her. “Hey.” Brian grasped her arm, but instead of holding her back, he stepped out into the sunlight with her. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll get it another time,” she said, attempting to sound unaffected by both his proximity and his concern.

“Not about the interview.” He froze for one long second, then the next sentence burst from him. “When can I see you again?”

Her heart jumped up into her throat. The intensity of his stare sliced through her, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable. She pulled her arm from his grasp and took a step back. “I guess it depends on your agent.”

“Brooke, please.”

She shook her head. “Don’t make this more than it is, Brian.”

“It
is
more,” he insisted. “Come to my boat. No one will bother us. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Wagging her head harder, she backed away. “No. I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both,” she answered, hoping to put an end to this seduction by semantics.

Her heels scraped the broken pavement as she shuffle-ran for the parking lot. Slipping into the seat, she caught a glimpse of Brian in her side mirror. He stood still, his hands sunk into his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. Looking like a man utterly comfortable with embracing the inevitable. She gripped the steering wheel and pressed her forehead to the backs of her hands.

“I won’t,” she whispered, but the reinforcement didn’t take the second time either.

Brian was getting to Brooke. He had to believe he was, or he’d go crazy. All the signs were there. Each night as he fell asleep he catalogued the data. And his response to the stimuli. The flutter of mascaraed eyelashes made his body tighten. He’d spent a full week thinking about licking the pulse below her jaw. The memory of her pink tongue gliding over glossy lips kept him awake into the wee small hours. Frustrated and aching, he rolled from his bed before dawn Wednesday morning, left the boat, and headed for the opposite end of the island.

He’d closed on the house within a week of moving back to Mobile. At the time, it was basically four walls and a freshly shingled roof. Of course, he didn’t mention as much to his mother as he packed his clothes and thanked her for the use of the guest room that was once his bedroom.

The minute the plumbing and electrical passed inspection, he paid a crew to hang the drywall then kicked everyone out. Well, almost everyone. More and more often, his brother could be found installing crown molding or hanging cabinets. It was funny to see his aerospace engineer brother with a drill in his hand, but Jake claimed it helped him unwind after a long day of being a rocket scientist. Brian suspected he just liked the whir of the power tools. Still, he appreciated the help. He also appreciated Jake’s heretofore unseen talent for blackmail. In exchange for the opportunity to live out his fantasy of being Bob the Builder, Jake refrained from telling their mother her younger son had ditched her tastefully comfortable accommodations and lovingly prepared breakfasts in favor of a triangular berth on a boat.

It wasn’t that Brian didn’t appreciate his mom’s efforts to ease his transition. He was glad she wanted him nearby. He didn’t want to be close enough to hear her tapping on his bedroom door at seven-thirty each morning as if he had a school bus to catch. He tried to tell her she didn’t need to do his laundry for him, honest he did. It wasn’t his fault she scoffed and continued separating his whites from the colors. The truth was his mom, while sweet and loving and undoubtedly still beautiful in an aging Disney princess sort of way, was terrifying in the efficient way women who’d made marriage and family a career could be. She’d managed a too-brilliant-to-tie-his-shoelaces husband and two sons with all the earmarks of becoming chips off the old block with an almost militaristic respect for routine. And a firm belief that the day started as soon as the sun peeked over the horizon. Now it was a habit so ingrained, he doubted he’d ever shake it.

Chronic fatigue aside, Brian enjoyed working on his house. The other early birds trilled as he trudged to the unadorned entrance. Beyond the non-existent back deck, the Gulf of Mexico pitched and rolled, but inside all was silent and still. Plywood subflooring absorbed his footfalls as he crossed the large open-plan living room. Floor to ceiling windows showed the faintest line of pink spreading along the horizon. He started toward the glass wall and the sole of one work boot skidded on a streak of sawdust. He frowned at the pervasive layer of dust, but the scowl faded as his eyes took in the honeyed glow of the maple trim, molding, and baseboards. His brother might be a slob about cleanup, but he sure as hell did beautiful carpentry work.

He had two rooms left to paint, then he’d turn his attention to learning to lay tile flooring. Rolling eggshell onto each wall provided the right amount of monotony in task and color. Bland as they may be, the smooth, blemish-free walls represented a clean start. His brain could run free without running wild. There, in his blank slate of a house, he could plan and plot a new future. Possibly one involving the girl who’d haunted his past.

Just inside the bedroom door, he paused and pulled his phone from his pocket. Brooke hadn’t returned any of his calls. His agent hadn’t made a peep. The flimsy excuse of the interview was wearing thin on both sides. He had to do something. He decided to downshift and started moving them forward by conducting his own interview via text message. The idea had come to him the night before. He started with a simple,
Q: What do television stars eat for dinner? A: Mac ’n cheese with a side of grilled cheese.
Without giving her a chance to respond, he fired off a follow-up.
Q: Aren’t you afraid you’ll clog your arteries? A: No, I like to live on the edge. Makes women think I’m dangerous and therefore hot.
He managed two or three more texts, fascinating stuff along the lines of
Q: What are you reading? A: A signed copy of Al Gore’s
Earth in the Balance and
Q: Is that supposed to impress a girl? A: I hear women think Al is sexy.

Apparently he hit the magic button because at last she replied.

Al Gore is NOT sexy.

But no matter how clever and witty he tried to be, Brooke reverted to radio silence after that brief response. As far as interview tactics went, it was insanely effective. Between midnight and the birds chirping, he’d divulged his favorite color, choice of pie, and the shows he considered must-see TV. Standing alone in the echoing space of his master bedroom, he felt compelled to try one last time.

Q: What now? A: I don’t know. I’m just happy to be home
.

Staring at the screen, he pressed send and felt the whoosh of the sent message in the strum of his heart.

The sun rose as he applied the first coat of paint, and burned high in the sky by the time he heard his phone chirp, but he didn’t allow himself a peek. Surveying the expanse of wall ahead of him, he told himself he couldn’t check until he finished. Of course, he finished in record time.

White paint cracked where it dried in his knuckles. It smoothed his fingertips, filling in the whorls and erasing his individuality. By the time his screen lit, he was another anonymous guy hoping for a sign from the girl who eluded him.

His heart turned over in his chest when he saw the icon proclaiming a message from Brooke had been received. He fumbled the phone in his haste to prove his opposable thumbs worked. When the window opened he saw three words.
Tomorrow. When? Where?

Cursing the minutes he let pass in the name of pride, he quickly tapped out his answer.
Yes, noon. Slip #22 Dauphin Island Marina.

He held his breath, staring out the windows while he waited, afraid he’d mojo the whole damn thing if he glanced at the phone. Thankfully it buzzed within seconds.

OK.

He never knew two little letters could make such a difference, but they did. Grabbing his roller, he stalked back to the paint pan and peered down into the pale flatness of the eggshell, unable to suppress his smile. For the first time in months, his future was filled with promise rather than questions.

He wanted to see Brooke here in his place. His bed. His space. Turning in a slow circle, he allowed himself to visualize it all. Shades of pink, purple, and red from the setting sun streaking the ceiling. The golden spill of Brooke’s hair spread across the pillow. He stared at the bank of west-facing windows, picturing the sun sinking into the sea as he held her close to him. Turning back to the room, he scowled at the too-white walls, hating their blankness.

Disgusted by his cowardice, he dropped the roller into the pan and stalked from the room. It was time to hit the home improvement superstore again.

* * * *

Brian worked through the day, through the sound of a car door slamming, through the blare of Flaming Lips coming from the wired-in speaker system, and through the pepperoni pizza and a six-pack of beer his astrophysicist brother called dinner. Wandering into the kitchen, Brian was oblivious to the rainbow of colors now smeared on his jeans, but all too aware of the rumbling in his belly.

“Hey.” He jerked his chin in Jake’s direction. “How long have you been here?”

His brother glanced at his watch then turned back to the rails he was installing in the cabinetry. “About an hour. Didn’t you hear the music?”

“Is that what you call that noise?”

Jake smirked. “I swear you’re really an eighty-year-old woman in disguise.”

He shot back with the best retort his Brooke-addled brain could concoct. “Maybe an eighty-year-old lesbian.”

The last syllable had barely faded, but Brian tasted the all-too-familiar ash of regret on his tongue. Lame comeback. His brother’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth twisted into a smirk. Somehow, he always got like this around Jake. Tongue-tied and stupid. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever outgrow the nerdy little brother phase. Rather than risk another dose of idiocy, he grabbed a slice of lukewarm pizza from the box and shoved it into his mouth.

Jake turned back to the cabinet. With a slight squeeze of the trigger, the drill whirred to life. “Mom wants you to come for supper on Sunday.”

He chewed slowly, weighing the pros and cons of a Dalton family dinner. On the plus side the prospect of a full meal—meat, vegetables, dessert, napkins, and all—was damn tempting. But on the other hand, the fact that an invitation had actually been issued meant his mother was gearing up to do some smothering.

The beer trickled down his throat, icy-cold and refreshing. He tried not to look too closely at the half-petrified slice as he took another too-big bite. “Why?”

Asking and answering questions with cheeks full of food was one of the little pleasures only two brothers out from under their mother’s thumb could enjoy. Jake snatched the decimated slice from his hand and took a big bite of his own before deigning to answer, but it didn’t help. His brother still had their mother’s penetrating blue eyes.

“I imagine she heard you were dancing on the lawn with Brooke Hastings.” Jake gulped audibly then reached for his own bottle of beer. “I believe the invitations have been ordered,” he added with a lazy grin.

Brian groaned and tossed the scrap of pizza into the open box. “Seriously?”

“Making out with a girl at the Saints Preserve Us is not the way to conduct a clandestine affair.”

He wiped his fingers on his jeans then shoved away from the counter. “We weren’t making out, and I wasn’t trying to conduct a clandestine affair.”

Jake nodded as he peered at the drill bit appraisingly. “Good, because you really kind of suck at it.”

Rolling his eyes, he started for the door. “Well, maybe you can give me some lessons or draw me a blueprint or something.”

“Bri?” The note of warning in his brother’s voice came through loud and clear. He stopped in his tracks but didn’t turn. “She’s a nice girl.”

The assertion surprised him as much as its source. If a guy as self-contained as Jake had noticed, much less felt the need to verbalize his observation, something had certainly registered on his big brother’s radar. The thought of Jake looking at Brooke made his made his territorial hackles rise.

He pivoted to catch his brother’s gaze, but saw genuine worry reflected back at him. “I know she is.” Still, tension sizzling and popping in his veins. “But how do you know?”

The soft snort soothed him a little. He knew that exasperated huff of breath. His brother was a man of few words. So few Brian used to wonder if Jake believed he’d been allotted a finite number of syllables at birth and felt compelled to make up the difference with a variety of noises. But right now, he knew the derisive snort was an order to stand down.

“Mom makes me go to those things sometimes, too, you know,” Jake said at last. He fished a screw from the plastic tray and aligned the head with the magnetic drill bit. “We’ve talked a little.”

Brian couldn’t suppress a smile. It didn’t take a heaping helping of imagination to picture his laconic elder brother trapped in conversation with the inquisitive Ms. Hastings.

“She’s a hometown girl. Not the type to go running off to Hollywood or wherever.”

The terseness in Jake’s tone wiped the smile right off Brian’s face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, if you don’t plan on sticking around, you might want to look into getting back on Jennifer Aniston’s good side.”

Incredulous, he glared at his brother. “Why would I be doing all this work if I didn’t plan on sticking around?”

Jake let one shoulder rise and fall. “Investment property.”