Summer at Seaside Cove (18 page)

“I don't lie.”

She rolled her eyes. “Give me a break. Everybody lies.”

“I don't. Not anymore. I don't have to. I walked away from all that and I don't regret it for a minute. You should give complete honesty a try, princess. It's very liberating. I'll even give you a free lesson on how it's done.”

He pushed off from the wall, and before she could react, he reached out and lightly grasped her hands, brushing the pads of his thumbs over her skin. In spite of the warmth that skittered through her, she was about to snatch her hands away when he said quietly, “I want to kiss you again.”

Her gaze flew to his face and she stilled when she found him regarding her through very serious eyes.

“So badly I can barely think straight,” he continued in a husky voice while his thumbs continued to draw slow, hypnotic circles on the backs of her hands, “although a small part of the not being able to think straight has to do with the fact that I haven't eaten since breakfast and I'm exhausted. But most of it's because of you.

“I didn't kiss you to prove a point. I kissed you because I couldn't
not
kiss you. Believe me, I tried to talk myself out of it. I knew it wasn't a good idea. For a whole slew of reasons. But in the end none of them seemed to matter.” His gaze seemed to burn into hers. “That honest enough for you?”

Wow, wow, holy cow. Her head was spinning. She doubted she'd gotten that much truth out of Raymond during their entire eight months together. Nor had Raymond's hands ever felt like that on her—impatient and restless. Like he wanted to touch her everywhere at once. Nor had Raymond ever looked at her like this. Like she was Red Riding Hood and he was the big bad wolf.

“I know that kissing you again wouldn't be smart,” he said.

She couldn't argue with that.

“Especially given how incredible the first kiss was.”

She couldn't argue with that, either.

“But it's going to happen again.”

That
she could argue with.

The independent woman in her demanded she stare him down and say something in an arctic tone that included the words “you're an arrogant ass” and “over my dead body.” Instead she had to swallow to find her voice at all. And when she did, all she managed to squeak out was, “Says you.”

“That's right. Says me.” He hoisted a brow. “You disagree?”

“Absolutely.”

“Figures you'd argue about it.”

She hoisted a brow right back at him. “Are you insinuating I'm argumentative?”

“No, I'm flat-out saying it. If I told you the sky was blue, you'd feel compelled to reply it was ‘azure' or ‘cerulean' or some crap like that.”

“It was a rhetorical question.”

“And besides that you're bossy.”

“Okay, you obviously don't know what ‘rhetorical' means.”

She tried to pull her hands away, but he lifted them to his mouth and brushed his lips over her fingers. The fact that fire shot up her arm at the touch seriously irked her. How could she feel such heat for such a pest?

“But you're also cute,” he continued. “And funny. And good to my dog. And for reasons I'm at a loss to explain, I actually
like
that you don't agree with me all the time—although agreeing with me
once
might be nice. Plus you're ridiculously, incredibly sexy. So even though I don't want to like you, I think I might. A little.”

Okay, so a poet he definitely was not, and flowery compliments were obviously not his thing. But she didn't doubt he meant what he said. And she couldn't deny it was a heck of a lot more refreshing to hear a man say he might like her, a little, rather than having him say he loved her and totally not mean it and sleep with her sister.

“Oh, yeah?” she replied. “Well, you're arrogant and annoying and more than a little mysterious, which makes you
doubly
annoying.”
Ha! Take that!
Yet given his honesty, she felt compelled to add, “But you're also good to your dog, and I like that you think I'm sexy.” Okay, maybe that was
too
honest.

He touched his tongue to the center of her palm. “
Ridiculously, incredibly
sexy,” he corrected.

Yikes. Okay, she'd just discovered his superpower. The ability to melt knees with his tongue. For self-preservation purposes she slid her hands from his and backed up a step. “Uh, yeah. Thanks. Too bad I think you're a troll,” she added, proving her theory that everyone lied.

He laughed. “Good. That should make things easier between us. After all, one of us should stay in control, and I think I've proven it's not likely to be me.”

Oh, great. If that was supposed to be her—what with Mr. Sexy, with his knee-melting tongue here—they were doomed.

Now that he wasn't touching her, her better judgment roused itself from the vacation it had apparently taken and smacked her in the head.
Not doomed!
Better Judgment intoned.
Get your shit together and set him straight. That kiss was a mistake and it's not going to happen again.

Right. Annoyance at her lack of self-possession straightened her spine. “Look—the kiss was nice—”

“We've already established it was much better than ‘nice.' ”

“Now who's being argumentative? Bottom line is, I'm not looking for a relationship.”

“Neither am I.”

“I have enough unresolved crap going on in my life without adding to it.”

“Well, God knows I wouldn't want to become anyone's ‘unresolved crap,' ” he said dryly.

She winced. “Sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. But casual hook-ups aren't my style so I don't want to go down any path more kissing might lead to. Therefore—no more kissing. Got it?”

“Got it.” A combination of heat and humor glinted in his eyes. “Guess that means a no-kiss quickie against the wall is out of the question.”

An image of him taking her hard and fast against the wall, his flesh stroking deep inside her, flashed through her mind, followed by the words,
Yes, please.
“Out of the question,” she forced herself to say. “Definitely.”

He nodded. “I understand. And now, as much as I'd love to continue arguing and not kissing and whatever the hell else we've been doing here, I've gotta get some sleep.”

Humph. Arrogant jerk. Just assuming
she'd
want to continue this tonight.

“No problem,” she said in her breeziest tone. “I need to get back to my mom. No telling what sort of drama she's managed to involve herself in during the few minutes I've been out here.”

“Okay.” He whistled for Godiva, who jumped up and ran to him, knocking Nick back a step when her tail-wagging body collided with his legs. It was then that Jamie noticed just how exhausted and drawn he looked. And she wondered—for about the hundredth time—what he'd been doing for the past three days.

“Enjoy your rest,” she said.

“Thanks.” He turned to walk back to Southern Comfort, but after taking only two steps, he turned around. “I meant what I said.”

She raised her brows. “Specifically what? You said a lot of things.”

“Yeah. And meant all of them. But mostly that I think I might like you. A little.”

“And I meant all the stuff I said, too. But mostly that I think you're annoying. And that there'll be no more kissing.”

His lips twitched, damn him, as if he didn't believe her. “Whatever you say, princess.”

With that he turned and walked around the hedge, Godiva trotting after him.

Jamie drew a deep breath. Thank God he was gone. She touched her fingers to her kiss-swollen lips.

Gone . . . but definitely, and unfortunately, not forgotten.

T
he following morning, at precisely oh five hundred hours, Jamie began her Kill Melvin With Kindness campaign and climbed the stairs to Gone Fishin' bearing a carafe of freshly brewed coffee and a platter of her favorite frosted sugar cookies. Jeez, it was dark—like the freakin' middle of the night. Which it pretty much was. Who the heck ate breakfast at this time of day? Obviously people who had lights out at twenty-one hundred hours, which, thanks to Google, she'd discovered was nine P.M. Who the heck went to bed at nine o'clock? Obviously people who woke up at five A.M.

She was about to knock when the wooden door suddenly opened and Melvin glared at her through the screen door. “Newman. What do you want?”

Reminding herself that the emphasis was on
kindness
rather than
kill
, Jamie smiled. “Since I missed breakfast beverage time the day we met, I thought I'd stop by this morning with some coffee. I also baked some cookies.”

His gaze shot to the platter she held. She thought she detected a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but it was so darn dark she couldn't be certain. Then he looked at her with a fierce frown. “Don't think I don't know what you're doing, young lady. Trying to butter me up over these newfangled ideas of yours regarding the Clam Queen contest before tonight's meeting. Well, it won't work. I've lived on this island longer than you've been alive and things are just fine as they are.”

Wow—word did travel fast. “I'm sure they are,” Jamie agreed. “So . . . I guess that means you're not interested in a cup of coffee and these cookies I baked while looking over the revenue projections I worked up.” The printouts of which were conveniently in her shorts pocket. She lifted the platter of puffy, gorgeous, fragrant cookies so it was right beneath his nose.

His nostrils twitched, then his brows collapsed even farther. “I normally eat an egg-white omelet and Bran Buds for breakfast. Cookies aren't a breakfast food.”

“I have to disagree with you, Mr. Tibbs. According to my grandfather, who is retired military, cookies are the best breakfast in the world.”

His eyes narrowed. “Retired military, you say? Must have been in the Air Force if he liked cookies for breakfast.”

“No, sir. Army. Infantry officer.”

Jamie caught a definite gleam of interest in his eyes before he masked it. He seemed to conduct a brief internal debate, then said brusquely, “No sense in cookies going to waste. Come in.”

Ah, the power of cookies.

Jamie stepped into Melvin's kitchen and the first word that hit her was
stark
. If she hadn't already pegged him as a military man, the sight of his home would have instantly done so. The interior was laid out exactly the same as Paradise Lost, but Melvin's house was pristinely clean and neat and as austere as an army barracks. Bare beige walls, plain blue sofa and chair, TV, coffee table. The only decoration was an American flag displayed in a triangular wood and glass case, set on top of a narrow bookcase.

Jamie set the carafe and the plate of cookies on the counter. As Melvin took two mugs from a cabinet and poured the coffee, she wandered into the living area to look at the bookcase, which contained a variety of military thrillers and biographies of famous army generals. And a single framed photograph. Of a young Melvin wearing his dress military uniform and an attractive, smiling brunette on what was obviously their wedding day.

“Your wife?” Jamie asked, studying the photo.

“Yes.”

“She's lovely.”

“Yes, she was.” He set a container of half-and-half on the counter. “Died seventeen years ago.”

Jamie turned back toward him and noted the muscle that ticked in his jaw. “The summer before we were married, she won the Clam Queen title.”

Her heart squeezed, and with that single gruffly spoken sentence, she realized that Melvin had adored his wife. And that the reason he so adamantly didn't want the contest changed was because she'd once won it. Her gaze scanned his unadorned home. She also realized he was very, very lonely—and probably didn't even realize it. Or, if he did, wasn't about to admit it.

She offered him a smile. “Let's have some cookies and talk.”

 

“
I
think that ornery old coot Melvin must be sick or something,” Dorothy whispered to Jamie. They stood in Dorothy's kitchen, cutting thick slabs of the carrot cake Jamie had baked to serve at the conclusion of the clam meeting. “He didn't say boo when you put forth your suggestion about adding additional categories to the Clam Contest and he actually voted in favor of them!”

“I'm not deaf, you know,” came Melvin's gruff voice from directly behind Dorothy.

Dorothy whirled around and pressed a hand to her heart. “You scared the bejeesus out of me, Melvin Tibbs.”

“That's what you get for gossiping about people behind their backs,” Melvin said with a glare.

Dorothy drew herself up and glared right back at him. “I wasn't gossiping. I merely expressed surprise that you didn't put up a stink about changing the Clam Queen contest.”

“That's because we're not
changing
it—we're adding to it.” He nodded toward Jamie but kept his gaze on Dorothy. “Newman here put together a clear, concise report containing all the pertinent facts, including the financial advantages for Seaside Cove, of which there are many. I may be ornery but I'm not stupid.” He swiped up a plate of cake, grabbed a plastic spoon, then strode back into the living area much like a conquering hero onto a battlefield.

“Well, if that don't beat all,” Dorothy said, staring after him. “That's the longest speech I've ever heard from that man.”

Jamie pressed her lips together to hide her smile. “Maybe you've misjudged him. Maybe he's just . . . lonely.”