License to Date (7 page)

The corner of his mouth turned up and we exchanged a look that warmed my belly.
 

I cleared my throat. “There’s a great space by the dock. When I can afford to, I’ll tile the entire area. First, I’m going to sand the paint off the table and chairs, then stain the wood deep blue like the ocean.”
 

And Paul’s eyes. . . .

He smiled, seeming to enjoy my rattling. “You’re very ambitious.”

“It’s a great set. Just needs a little TLC.” Picturing what my home would look like after I’d finished gave me a serene feeling—that same feeling I’d had that week we’d spent by the beach in Kauai, right before my parents had split. “The entire house is a major eighties remodel, but I like replacing the old with my style. Makes the home mine.”

His eyes sparkled as if he got was I was saying.

While leaning back, I concentrated on putting one pink heel behind the other. “It’s not like I wouldn’t enjoy some help, though—which, I’ll have this weekend from Ginger and Kristen. Well, if Kristen’s up for it, that is.”

He rubbed his knuckle across his chin. “Isn’t her help part of your dating deal?”

Thinking back to her phone call, I said, “Yeah, but she and her boyfriend just got engaged and her mom gives the word ‘overbearing’ new meaning. She’s insisting Kristen and Ethan get married at the Geoffries hotel, but the earliest they could book is eighteen months from now.”

His brows came together. “What’s Kristen’s last name?”

“Moore.” I glanced over at him, wondering why he’d ask that. “You met her last night. She was wearing the white, button-up blouse.”

“I remember her.” He nodded, seeming deep in thought.

As the silence drew on, I started to feel uncomfortable. Why had I told him so much about me? And why did I want to tell him more? The pull I felt toward him unnerved me.

Needing a distraction, I glanced up to see the distance we’d covered and it was about one story’s worth. Amazing that we’d gotten this far and I hadn’t needed a sedative. I turned back to Paul who I found watching me intently with those amazing eyes. “Do you own your own house?” I asked, having no clue what a bartender’s salary was.
 

There was an awkward pause, then he finally said, “I’m new to the area, so I’m staying here.”

My forehead crinkled, remembering his out of town area code. “You’re living at the hotel?”

“For now.” He eased down the building next to me and I tried not to stare at the muscular shape of his legs. “If you’re interested, we just replaced the patio tiles in the garden terrace and we have a lot of leftover tiles. They’re Mediterranean style. Easy to install, too . . . there’s a video online that gives a step-by-step. If you’d like, I can take a look at your space and see if the tiles would work there.”

Wow. Someone willing to help me with my remodel without strings attached . . . that was something new. “That’s really nice of you, Paul. Thanks.”
 

“No problem. I’ll show you the tiles when we get down.”

When we get down? Laughter bubbled up inside me. I’d forgotten how high we were. Lost in my conversation with Paul, it felt like we were strolling (backwards) down a mountain or something. It was hard to believe I’d been worried. . . .
 

Then I glanced beneath me.

Nothing.

My stomach dropped and my feet halted as I gaped at the darkness spread out below. The dotted city lights blurred. “Oh . . . my . . .”

“Kaitlin? Don’t look down. Look at me.” Paul’s voice was low, calm, and commanding. “Right here, Kaitlin. Lift your eyes.”

I wanted to look over at him. I really did. But the horror had grabbed me with its claws, holding me captive, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the vast empty space below.
 

My knees shook as terror sliced through me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized the rope had stopped moving and I was vaguely aware of voices in my earpiece. I even felt hands grip my waist, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Couldn’t stop picturing myself spiraling down to my death.
 

“I c-can’t—”

Suddenly, my view was blocked and warm lips covered mine—the terror inside me immediately ceased. What the . . . ? I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. With Paul’s mouth capturing mine, I’d been thrust into a different kind of spiraling. One where my heart thudded, not in panic of dying, but from the amazing warmth flowing through me.
 

I wanted more. . . .

My mouth opened and Paul’s tongue connected with mine. Chills vibrated down my neck and flutters danced through my belly as we searched, explored, and savored each other. I slid my fingers into that thick tousled hair, pulling him closer. His arms slipped around me, his fingers kneading into my back, and then I felt something rub insistently against my cheek—tugging me out of the heavenly fog I’d been in.
 

My eyes burst open and I saw the yellow rope nudging against me, reminding me of danger—only not from falling to the pavement below.

I pulled away from Paul abruptly, and he studied me through heavy-lidded eyes.
 

My heart pounded and my eyes widened. “Why did you do that?”

“To distract you.” Cupping my face, his thumbs brushed my cheeks, then he leaned his forehead against mine. “Did it work?”

“Yes,” I said, savoring the feel of his skin against mine.

Only now I was scared for a whole different reason.

 
****

Later that night, my doorbell rang, and I trudged to the front door in my painting sweats. In the twenty minutes I’d been home, I’d already touched up the white paint on my bathroom cabinets. The whole time I’d been painting, Paul’s kiss kept replaying in my mind.

Not good.

Blocking the kiss from my head, I opened the door to find my sister on my front porch. “Mel! What are you doing here?”

She stepped inside, kicked the door shut behind her, and thrust her cell phone screen in my face. “Is this
really
you?”

“Is what really me?” I snatched the phone and stared at the image on the screen. There it was in color. Me. Paul. Attached to the side of the Geoffries hotel. Kissing. The caption under the photo read
Radio Love
. I gasped. “What the . . . ?”

Mel grabbed the phone back, tapped something on the screen, then started reading. “Brian Burnside and Kaitlin Murray find love thanks to local Sacramento radio station. It all began for the couple when Mr. Burnside won Descending for Diabetes tickets from—”

“Stop!” I pressed my hands to my ears, dropped down onto my living room sofa, and groaned. “How could this happen to me?”

“Seriously.” Mel sat next me, staring at the picture on her phone. “So not like you to spider down a building and I really didn’t picture Brian Burnside as your type. Is he a good kisser at least?”

Remembering the feel of Paul’s lips on mine ignited a fire in my belly. “I did
not
kiss Brian Burnside.”

Mel glanced from the picture to me. “Um . . .”

“The guy in the photo is the bartender from the Geoffries hotel. I can’t believe our kiss is on the Internet.” I buried my face in my hands. “I’m so mortified.”

“And I’m so confused.”

I straightened my spine. “Brian won tickets to rappel down the Geoffries hotel but he freaked out and refused to go down.”

“Yeah,
that
sounds more like the Brian I met. All talk and no action.” Mel patted my thigh. “So glad this wasn’t Brian, but how did you end up rappelling down with a bartender? One with a fabulous physique, no less. And, uh, how did you two end up in a lip-lock? A bartender doesn’t seem like your type either.”

Hearing her say Paul wasn’t my type caused a knot to form in my belly and my forehead wrinkled. “Why isn’t he my type?”

Mel held her palms up. “Don’t get in a tizzy. You seem like you’d go for someone more like—”

“Paul DeWitt?” I said, cringing at the sound of my ex’s name.

“Well, yeah.” Mel shrugged. “White-collar businessman. Country club member. Minus the whole cheating part.”

I leaned back against the couch, pulled one of the decorative couch pillows onto my lap, and threw my hand in the air. “Who knows what my type is? I didn’t even want to date in the first place.”

“Are you and the bartender dating?”

“His name is Paul and no.” Although, maybe I could ask him on a date. We had kissed, after all. And the kiss had been amazing.

Mel rubbed her hand against her temple. “Let me get this straight. You don’t want to date, but you’re going on five dates so Kristen and Ginger will help you paint. And you’re not interested in any of the guys you’re dating, but you kissed the only guy you’re
not
dating and his name is Paul. Is that right?”
 

“Yes,” I said, having a hard time believing the chaos resulting from two dates. All I’d wanted was to make my new home a relaxing oasis.
 

“Please tell me the bartender’s last name isn’t DeWitt.”

I racked my brain. “I have no idea what his last name is. I don’t even know him.”

Yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
 

Mel spread her fingers across her cell phone screen then held it up to show me the zoomed-in photo of Paul kissing me. “Looks like you know part of him up close and personal. Woo-baby, that is hot!”

Mel was right. The photo was hot. His hands gripping my waist. My hand speared through that thick tousled hair pulling him closer. And our mouths devouring each other. . . .

Staring at our personal moment plastered on the Internet made me feel exposed. Like that camera had exposed me to all of Sacramento, which it had. Sigh. “My mom’s going to freak when she sees this.”

Mel tilted her head thoughtfully. “Not if she thinks you’re smooching Brian Burnside.”
 

“But I’m not going out with Brian again. Ever.” I squeezed the pillow in my lap. “When we finished rappelling, we landed in the Geoffries’ garden patio—which was free of reporters, thankfully—and Brian was waiting for me so I had to join him for our free four-star dinner.”

Mel’s brows quirked. “Don’t look for sympathy here. I had mac and cheese tonight.”

“But I wanted to have dinner with Paul,” I said, finding it hard to believe I’d just admitted that aloud.

“The new Paul?”

“Exactly.”

Mel nodded. “Just making sure.”

“But I can’t fall for a flirty bartender. I won’t. That would be like begging for a broken heart.” I shook my head. “No, it’s much safer remodeling my house.”

“Speaking of . . .” Her face lit up and she reached into her large handbag, “Tada! Happy housewarming.”

Surprised, I glanced at the rectangular white box in her hands. “For me? You didn’t have to get me anything.”

She handed the box to me and clapped her hands together. “I couldn’t resist.”

My heart swelled at Mel’s thoughtfulness. I broke the gold seal on the box, and pulled out the sea-foam blue vase I’d admired at the boutique shop in Old Sac. “Mel! I can’t believe you went back for this.”

“I had to.” She popped up excited, taking the vase with her and placing it onto the dark bookshelf across the room. “I knew it would go perfectly here. See?”

The sea-foam blue vase looked amazing on the dark wood, and it was complimented further by the black and white Swan Lake Ballet poster I had framed next to the bookshelf. The ballet my dad had taken me to on our first father-daughter visit after he’d moved out.

I glanced back and forth between the poster and the vase as I realized that if my parents hadn’t divorced—a phantom ache sliced through me thinking back to that time—then I wouldn’t have Melanie for a sister. My eyes welled. Oh the irony of life.

Mel’s face tensed and she hurried back, then put her hand on mine. “Do you not like the vase anymore?”
 

“No, I love it.” My mouth spread into a small smile. “And I love you.”

She pulled me into a hug. “Right back at you, sis.”

****

To text or not to text, that was the question.

I stared at the square paper napkin containing ten seemingly harmless digits. I’d confessed to Mel that Paul had given me his number. She’d promptly searched the area code online, determined he’s from Southern California, then insisted that I call him tonight.

Ten digits. One phone. Tough decision.

I stood and circled the coffee table, eyeing the cell on my coffee table and the square napkin suspiciously. Then I dropped back down on the couch and sank into the cushions.

What harm could it cause to send one friendly text? The man had rappelled down a building for me so I wouldn’t have to go alone. So romantic!

Oh, please. I gripped the sides of my hair. It hadn’t been for romance. The guy bartended at the hotel. He’d probably just been looking for an excuse to ditch work for an hour. Maybe he’d even received brownie points for helping a freaked out customer (
moi
).

Then again, maybe not.

I’d just text him. Yes, I would. One text. To be polite. Even my mom would approve of good manners.