Summer at Seaside Cove (33 page)

And if she said it enough times, it would certainly remain true.

Just friends.

“
I
have to thank you,” Jamie said.

Sitting on a striped beach towel with salt water still dripping from his hair courtesy of their last round of body surfing, Nick turned from watching Godiva race down the beach after the tennis ball a laughing Heather had just thrown, to look at the woman he'd been doing his damnedest not to stare at every minute since she and her niece had joined him at the beach several hours ago.

All three of them had splashed in the waves, walked to the pier—where he'd treated them to a gelato—built a sand castle, and played with Godiva, and through each activity he'd had to actually force his gaze away from her. Had to actually say to himself,
For God's sake, stop staring at her!
Only his Ray-Bans had saved him from her knowing he couldn't keep his eyes off her.

Yet who could blame him? With her honey hair blowing wild in the ocean breeze, the sun bringing out every shade of gold and brown, her skin glistening with something that made her smell like a cool, tropical drink, her gorgeous smile, and her killer curves showcased in another one of those bikini bottom/tank top bathing suits that left those few tempting inches of toned tummy bare—this one in bright turquoise with white polka dots that made him want to play connect the dots, first with his fingers, then with his tongue—she was completely irresistible. For some inexplicable reason he found those mere two inches of bare skin completely, utterly erotic, in a way he'd never found a skimpy bikini to be.

Definite possibility. And no doubt if she wore a skimpy bikini, his tongue would roll out onto the sand.

Yet if keeping his eyeballs off her was difficult, keeping his hands and mouth off her had proven an exercise in torture. The urge to touch her, tunnel his hands through that wild tumble of curls and kiss her breathless had all but choked him since the moment she'd appeared on the beach. And if not for the company of her impressionable fourteen-year-old niece, that's exactly what he would have done. For starters.

He managed to tear his gaze away from her long enough to note that Heather was now a good, safe fifty yards away, running after Godiva, affording them a brief moment of quasiprivacy. Yet he knew if he gave in to the temptation to steal even a quick kiss, he stood in real danger of losing the tenuous grip on his control and it turning into a full blown make-out, devour-her session.

So instead of doing what he wanted, he clasped his hands around his upraised knees to keep from grabbing her, and asked, “Thank me for what?”

“Curing Heather of any thoughts she might have been entertaining about her sexual preferences.”

“How'd I do that?”

She huffed out a laugh and buried her toes in the sand. “Pretty much just by standing there and breathing. That smile of yours, however, really sealed the deal. She may hate men—which means there's a boy she really likes—but apparently only in the way most women hate them at some point in their lives.”

“Happy to help. You need somebody to stand around and breathe, I'm your guy. You have any doubts about your sexual preferences you'd like to put to bed?”

Her quick glance in Heather's direction confirmed what he'd picked up on as soon as they'd joined him at the beach—that she wasn't comfortable with any public displays around her niece. Which instead of annoying him in any way only made him admire her more. He knew plenty of adults who didn't bother to consider how their words or actions might affect their kids—his own father among them. Heather wasn't even Jamie's child, yet she clearly loved her and was obviously being careful to set a good example.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder if there was more to her keeping her distance than merely not wanting to engage in any PDA in front of her niece.

The unsettling question had drifted through his mind several times during the day. Maybe her lack of flirting and the physical space she'd carefully maintained between them meant she wasn't interested in picking up where they'd left off. Maybe after her abrupt departure that morning, the heat she'd felt for him had cooled and she was done. With what they'd shared. With him.

A sense of loss walloped him. Done with him? The hell with that. Last night had only served to whet his appetite for her. The thought of not having a repeat reverberated a single word through him.

“I don't have any questions about my sexual preferences,” she said in an undertone. “But thanks for the offer.”

He frowned. Now what the hell did
that
mean? Somehow her words seemed fraught with a deeper meaning. Or maybe he was just losing his mind. He wanted to ask her, but Heather was nearly upon them, so he kept his mouth shut.

“I think Godiva's finally tired,” Heather reported, flopping down on the towel next to Jamie. A tail-wagging Godiva trotted up, dropped the ball at Heather's feet, then barked.

“OMG, you can't be serious.” Heather groaned.

“She's good for at least another four, five hours,” Nick said with a perfectly straight face.

“I'm gonna need some water,” Heather said, ruffling Godiva's fur. “Godiva, too.”

Jamie reached into the small cooler she'd brought and pulled out a plastic bottle, which she handed to Heather. Nick pushed off his towel, then knelt in the sand next to Godiva. “Pour some of that in here,” he said to Heather, cupping his hands together to form a bowl.

Heather did as he asked, refilling Nick's hands several times as they all laughed at the slurpy, splashy spray Godiva made lapping up the drink. When Godiva had had her fill, Heather took a swig from the bottle, then asked him, “Can I take a picture of you and Godiva?”

“Sure.”

Heather slipped her phone—the same iPhone he had, he noted—from the denim backpack she'd brought with her. Nick slung his arm around Godiva and smiled. Heather took more photos—of Jamie, Godiva, the beach, then Nick used her phone to take pictures of her and Jamie and Godiva together.

“Thanks,” she said, taking the phone from him with a shy smile. “I'm going to text these to Lindsey, then post them on Facebook.”

“Lindsey is Heather's BFF,” Jamie explained to him as Heather settled herself on her towel, her thumbs flying over the phone's touch screen.

“ 'Fraid I'm not really up on the teenage lingo,” Nick said.

“Best friend forever.”

“Ah. So Kevin's my BFF.”

“Right. Do you think of him like a brother?”

“Definitely.”

“Then he's your BFADM,” said Heather, not looking up from her busy typing. “Brother from a different mother.”

Nick chuckled. “I'll tell him.” He looked at Jamie and tightened his hold around his knees. “So what's on your agenda for the rest of the day?”

“Not much until the clam meeting at Dorothy's house tonight. Before I go I need to see if any more vendor applications have come in and adjust my figures. Make sure everything is up to date.”

“Did you say
clam meeting
?” Heather asked, glancing up from her texting. “Do I even want to know what that is?”

“Oh, honey, you aren't in Manhattan anymore,” Jamie said with a laugh. Heather listened to her explanation of the festival and all its activities with such a classic “you've got to be kidding me” expression, Nick could barely keep a straight face. Jamie concluded with, “There's even a clam mascot— one of the locals wears the giant clam costume and mingles through the crowd all day.”

“No way,” Heather said. “Who would want to do that?”

“Apparently it's the hottest gig at the festival. There's actually a lottery held the week before to see who wins the honor of being the Giant Clam.”

“I'd rather
die
,” Heather proclaimed. “All that—for
clams
?” Heather turned to him. “Is this true or is she just yanking my chain?”

“Completely true. The float is going to be a work of art this year, if I may say so myself.”

“Nick's going to compete for the title of Clam King,” Jamie said.

“Not in a million years,” Nick corrected.

Heather giggled. “OMG, Lindsey is going to
collapse
when she hears this,” she said, her fingers flying once again. “She won't believe it without evidence. Can I see this float so I can take a pic to send her?”

“Sure,” Nick said. “But it's a work in progress—and you know what happens when you get anywhere near a work in progress.”

Heather shook her head and kept on texting. “No. What happens?”

“You get put to work—so progress happens.”

Heather frowned. “What kind of work? I don't know how to build a float.”

“The building part is almost done. Think you can handle a paintbrush?”

She considered for several seconds, then shrugged. “I guess.”

“Great. I'll add you to the clam painting committee,” Nick said, nodding solemnly. “Which is fitting since your aunt told me you're an F. Scott Fitzgerald fan. Obviously you know James Gatz was a clam digger on the shores of Lake Superior.”

Heather's fingers stalled and her head snapped up. “That's right. When he was seventeen.”

“Who the heck is James Gatz?” asked Jamie.

“Jay Gatsby—before he changed his name and invented his persona,” Heather answered, although her gaze remained on Nick. “You like
The Great Gatsby
?”

He lifted one shoulder. “It's been a long time since I read it, but it made an impression when I did.”

“You read it in high school?” Heather asked, setting down her phone and pushing her hair over her shoulders.

“College actually. It was pretty much required reading at the time.”

“Where'd you go?” Heather asked.

“Princeton.”

He noticed Jamie's brows lift, but Heather's jaw dropped. “That's where F. Scott Fitzgerald went!” she exclaimed.

He grinned. “Which explains why
The Great Gatsby
was pretty much required reading. Even though he didn't graduate, there's still a strong connection.”

“You didn't tell me you went to Princeton,” Jamie said.

“You didn't ask.” He pumped his fist in the air. “Go, Tigers!”

“Well, aren't you just full of surprises,” she murmured.

There was any number of surprises he wanted to share with her, most of which involved them getting naked—a factoid best kept to himself. For now.

“
I
want to go to Princeton,” Heather said in a rush, making the sentence sound like one long word.

“It's a great school. I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have about it.”

“Cool. Thanks.” She took a sip of water, then asked, “Did you like it?”

“I did—but it took a while. I didn't want to go.”

Her expression indicated he'd sprouted a second head. “Why wouldn't you want to go to Princeton?”

“Mostly because my dad insisted I go.” An image of his stern-faced, cold-eyed father flashed in his mind.
You will attend Princeton, Nicolas, and that is final.
“He'd graduated there, and so had his father, which made me a legacy. It was just always expected that I would go there, too.” He shot her a half smile. “Which, of course, meant I would have preferred to go
anywhere
else.”

She giggled, then bombarded him with a series of rapid-fire questions, which he answered as honestly as he could while remaining age appropriate. When she asked what his favorite Princeton tradition was, he sure as hell didn't admit it had been the drinking game Robopound. He felt Jamie's gaze on him and he wondered what she was thinking as he extolled the virtues of the Ivy League and imparted a few G-rated anecdotes.

“Did you go to arch sings?” Heather asked. “They sound totally cool.”

“What are arch sings and how do you know about them, Heather?” Jamie asked.

Before Nick could reply, Heather said, “Late-night a cappella concerts under one of the campus's arches. And I know about them because of Google. Duh.”

“I went to a lot of them,” Nick said. “Especially my freshman year when I roomed in Blair Hall.”

“Were you in a bicker club?” Heather asked.

“I was,” Nick answered, impressed with her knowledge.

“Bicker club?” Jamie repeated. “Now that sounds up Nick's alley—a club for arguing.”

Nick laughed and Heather giggled. “You bicker to get into an eating club,” Nick explained. “They're sort of a cross between a dining hall and a social club—”

“And hello, they're in these totally awesome mansions,” broke in Heather, “that were the primary setting for Fitzgerald's
This Side of Paradise
. Seriously, Aunt Jamie, you need to make better use of Google. So which club did you bicker, Nick?”

“Cottage,” he said, using the students' name for the University Cottage Club, figuring she'd know, courtesy of her apparently exhaustive Internet searches.

She drew in a quick breath. “Oh! Fitzgerald began
This Side of Paradise
in the library there.”

“Yes, he did.” He turned to Jamie and teased, “See how much you can learn with Google, Aunt Jamie?”

“Do you still have your beer jacket?” Heather asked.

“Beer jacket?” Jamie shook her head at Heather. “You are not wearing anything that has a beer logo on it, kiddo.”