Читать книгу Saying Yes To The Dress! - Сорейя Лейн - Страница 17

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CHAPTER EIGHT

DREW JORDAN ORDERED himself to say no. No to magic. No to the light in Becky’s eyes. And especially no to Tandu’s highly invasive question. But instead of saying no, he found he couldn’t speak at all, as if his throat was closing and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“They say a man is not given more than he can take, eh?” Tandu said.

If there was an expression on the face of the earth that Drew hated with his whole heart and soul it was that one, but he still found he could say nothing.

“But you were,” Tandu said softly. “You were given more than you could take. You are a strong man. But not that strong, eh, Mr. Drew?”

His chest felt heavy. His throat felt as if it was closing. There was a weird stinging behind his eyes, as if he was allergic to the overwhelming scent of those flowers.

Without warning, he was back there.

He was seventeen years old. He was standing at the door of his house. It was the middle of the night. His feet and chest were bare and he had on pajama bottoms. He was blinking away sleep, trying to comprehend the stranger at the door of his house. The policeman said, “I’m sorry, son.” And then Drew found out he wasn’t anyone’s son, not anymore.

Drew shook his head and looked at Tandu, fiercely.

“You heal now,” Tandu said, not intimidated, as if it was an order. “You heal.” And then suddenly Tandu was himself again, the easygoing grin on his face, his teeth impossibly perfect and white against the golden brown of his skin. His eyes were gentle and warm. “Eat, eat. Then swim. Then sunset.”

And then he was gone.

“What was that about?” Becky asked him.

“I don’t have a clue,” he said. His voice sounded strange to him, choked and hoarse. “Creepy weirdness.”

Becky was watching him as if she knew it was a lie. When had he become such a liar? He’d better give it up, he was terrible at it. He poured two glasses of wine, handed her one and tossed back the other. He set down the glass carefully.

“There. I’ve toasted the wedding spot. I’m going to go now.” He didn’t move.

“Have you?” she asked.

“Have I what? Toasted the wedding spot?”

“Had a heartbreak?” she asked softly, with concern.

And he felt, suddenly, as alone with his burdens as he had ever felt. He felt as if he could lay it all at her feet. He looked at the warmth and loveliness of her brushed-suede eyes. You heal now.

He reeled back from the invitation in her eyes. He was the most pragmatic of men. He was not under the enchantment of this beach, or Tandu’s words, or her.

Not yet, an inner voice informed him cheerfully.

Not ever, he informed the inner voice with no cheer at all. He was not touching that food with its potential to weaken him even further. And no more wine.

“People like me,” he said, forcing a cavalier ease into his voice.

She leaned toward him.

“We don’t have hearts to break. I’m leaving now.” Still, he did not move.

She looked as if she wanted to argue with that, but she took one look at his face and very wisely turned her attention to the chicken. “Is this burned?” she asked, poking one of the pieces gingerly with her fingertip.

“I think it’s jerked, a very famous way of cooking on these islands.” It felt like a relief to focus on the chicken instead of what was going on inside himself.

She took a piece and nibbled it. Her expression changed to one of complete awe. “You have to try it,” she insisted. “You have to try it and tell me if it isn’t the best thing you have ever tasted. Just one bite before you go.”

Despite knowing this food probably had a spell woven right into it, he threw caution to the wind, picked up a leg of chicken and chomped into it. Just a few hours ago it definitely would have been the best thing he had ever tasted. But now that he was under a spell, he saw things differently.

Because the blackened jerk chicken quite possibly might have been the best thing he’d ever tasted, if he hadn’t very foolishly sampled her lips when she had offered them yesterday afternoon.

“You might as well stay and eat,” she said. She reached over and refilled his empty wineglass. “It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

He was not staying here, eating enchanted food in an enchanted cove with a woman who was clearly putting a spell on him. On the other hand, she was right. It would be a shame to let the food go to waste.

There was no such thing as spells, anyway. He picked up his second piece of chicken. He watched her delicately lick her fingertips.

“We don’t have this kind of food in Moose Run,” she said. “More’s the pity.”

“What kind of food do you have?” He was just being polite, he told himself, before he left her. He frowned. That second glass of wine could not be gone.

“We have two restaurants. We have the Main Street Diner which specializes in half-pound hamburgers and claims to have the best chocolate milk shake in all of Michigan.”

“Claims?”

“I haven’t tried all the chocolate milk shakes in Michigan,” she said. “But believe me, I’m working on it.”

He felt something relax within him. He should not be relaxing. He needed to keep his guard up. Still, he laughed at her earnest expression.

“And then we have Mr. Wang’s All-You-Can-Eat Spectacular Smorgasbord.”

“So, two restaurants. What else do you do for fun?”

She looked uncomfortable. It was none of his business, he told himself firmly. Why did he care if it was just as he’d suspected? She did not have nearly enough fun going on in her life. Not that it was any concern of his.

“Is there a movie theater?” he coaxed her.

“Yes. And don’t forget the church picnic.”

“And dancing on the grass,” he supplied.

“I’m not much for the church socials, actually. I don’t really like dancing.”

“So what do you like?”

She hesitated, and then met his eyes. “I’m sure you are going to think I am the world’s most boring person, but you know what I really do for fun?”

He felt as if he was holding his breath for some reason. Crazy to hope the answer was going to involve kissing. Not that anyone would consider that boring, would they? Was his wineglass full again? He took a sip.

“I read,” she said, in a hushed whisper, as if she was in a confessional. She sighed. “I love to read.”

What a relief! Reading, not kissing! It should have seemed faintly pathetic, but somehow, just like the rest of her, it seemed real. In an amusement park world where everyone was demanding to be entertained constantly, by bigger things and better amusements and wilder rides and greater spectacles, by things that stretched the bounds of what humans were intended to do, it seemed lovely that Becky had her own way of being in the world, and that something so simple as opening a book could make someone contented.

She was bracing herself, as if she expected him to be scornful. It made him wonder if the ex-beau had been one of those put-down kind of guys.

“I can actually picture you out in a hammock on a sunny afternoon,” he said. “It sounds surprisingly nice.”

“At this time of year, it’s a favorite chair. On my front porch. We still have front porches in Moose Run.”

He could picture a deeply shaded porch, and a sleepy street, and hear the sound of birds. This, too, struck him as deliciously simple in a complicated world. “What’s your favorite book?” he asked.

“I have to pick one?” she asked with mock horror.

“Let me put it differently. If you had to recommend a book to someone who hardly ever reads, which one would it be?”

And somehow it was that easy. The food was disappearing and so was the wine, and she was telling him about her favorite books and authors, and he was telling her about surfing the big waves and riding his motorbike on the Pacific Coast Highway between LA and San Francisco.

The fight seemed to ease out of him, and the wariness. The urgent need to be somewhere else seemed silly. Drew felt himself relaxing. Why not enjoy it? It was no big deal. Tomorrow his crew would be here. He would immerse himself in his work. He could enjoy this last evening with Becky before that happened, couldn’t he?

* * *

Who would have ever guessed it would be so easy to be with a man like this? Becky thought. The conversation was comfortable between them. There was so much work that needed to be done on Allie’s wedding, and she had already lost a precious day. Still, she had never felt less inclined to do work.

But as comfortable as it all was, she could feel a little nudge of disappointment. How could they go from that electrifying kiss, to this?

Not that she wanted the danger of that kiss again, but she certainly didn’t want him to think she was a dull small-town girl whose idea of an exciting evening was sitting out on her front porch reading until the fireflies came out.

Dinner was done. The wine bottle was lying on its side, empty. All that was left of the chicken was bones, and all that was left of the croissants were a few golden crumbs. As she watched, Drew picked one of those up on his fingertip and popped it in his mouth.

How could such a small thing be so darned sexy?

In her long pants and long-sleeved shirt, Becky was suddenly aware of feeling way too warm. And overdressed. She was aware of being caught in the enchantment of Sainte Simone and this beautiful beach. She longed to be free of encumbrances.

Like clothing? she asked herself, appalled, but not appalled enough to stop the next words that came out of her mouth.

“Let’s go for that swim after all,” she said. She tried to sound casual, but her heart felt as if she had just finished running a marathon.

“I really need to go.” He said it without any kind of conviction. “Are you going to swim in nature’s bathing suit?”

“Don’t be a pervert!”

“I’m not. Tandu suggested it. One-hundred-percent waterproof.”

“Don’t look,” she said.

“Sure. I’ll stop breathing while I’m at it.”

What was she doing? she asked herself.

For once in her life, she was acting on a whim, that’s what she was doing. For once in her life she was being bold, that’s what she was doing. For once in her life, she was throwing convention to the wind, she was doing what she wanted to do. She was not leaving him with the impression she was a dull small-town girl who had spent her whole life with her nose buried in a book. Even if she had been!

She didn’t want that to be the whole truth about her anymore, and not just because of him, either. Because the incident in the water yesterday, that moment when she had looked her own death in the face and somehow been spared, had left her with a longing for second chances.

She stood up and turned her back to him. Becky took a deep breath and peeled her shirt over her head, then unbuckled her slacks and stepped out of them. She had on her luxurious Rembrandt’s Drawing brand underwear. The underwear was a matching set, a deep shade of turquoise not that different from the water. It was as fashionable as most bathing suits, and certainly more expensive.

She glanced over her shoulder, and his expression—stunned, appreciative, approving—made her run for the water. She splashed in up to her knees, and then threw herself in. The water closed over her head, and unlike yesterday afternoon, it felt wonderful in the heat of the early evening, cool and silky as a caress on her nearly naked skin.

She surfaced, then paddled out and found her footing when she was up to her neck in water, her underwear hidden from him. She turned to look at where he was still sitting on the blanket. Even from here, she could see the heat in his eyes.

Oh, girlfriend, she thought, you do not know what you are playing with. But the thing about letting a bolder side out was that it was very hard to stuff it back in, like trying to get a jack-in-the-box back in its container.

“Come in,” she called. “It’s glorious.”

He stood up slowly and peeled his shirt off. She held her breath. It was her turn to be stunned, appreciative and approving.

She had seen him without his shirt already when he had sacrificed it to doctor her leg. But this was different. She wasn’t in shock, or in pain, or bleeding all over the place.

Becky was aware, as she had been when she had first laid eyes on him, that he was the most beautifully made of men. Broad shouldered and deep chested, muscular without being muscle-bound. He could be an actor or a model, because he had that mysterious something that made her—and probably every other woman on earth—feel as if she could look at him endlessly, drink in his masculine perfection as if he was a long, cool drink of water and she was dying of thirst.

Was he going to take off his shorts? She was aware she was holding her breath. But no, he kicked off his shoes and, with the khaki shorts safely in place, ran toward the water. Like she had done, he ran in up to about his thighs and then she watched as he dived beneath the surface.

“I didn’t peg you for shy,” she told him when he surfaced close to her.

He lifted an eyebrow at her.

“I’ve seen men’s underwear before. I’m from Moose Run, not the convent.”

“You’ve mentioned you weren’t a nun once before,” he said. “What’s with the fascination with nuns?”

“You just seem to think because I’m small town I’m prim and proper. You didn’t have to get your shorts all wet to save my sensibilities.”

“I don’t wear underwear.”

Her mouth fell open. She could feel herself turning crimson. He laughed, delighted at her discomfort.

“How are your sensibilities doing now?” he asked her.

“Fine,” she squeaked. But they both knew it was a lie, and he laughed.

“Come on,” he said, shaking the droplets of water from his hair. “I’ll race you to those rocks.”

“That’s ridiculous. I don’t have a hope of winning.”

“I know,” he said fiendishly.

“I get a head start.”

“All right.”

“A big one.”

“Okay, you tell me when I can go.”

She paddled her way toward the rocks. When it seemed there was no chance he could catch her, she called, “Okay, go.”

She could hear him coming up behind her. She paddled harder. He grabbed her foot!

“Hey!” She went under the water. He let go of her foot, and when she surfaced, he had surged by her and was touching the rock.

“You cheater,” she said indignantly.

“You’re the cheater. What kind of head start was that?”

“Watch who you are calling a cheater.” She reached back her arm and splashed him, hard. He splashed her back. The war was on.

Tandu had been so right. She needed to leave whatever fear she had remaining in the water.

And looking at Drew’s face, she realized, her fear was not about drowning. It was about caring for someone else, as if pain was an inherent ingredient to that.

Becky could see that if she had not let go enough in life, neither had he. Seeing him like this, playful, his face alight with laugher and mischief, she realized he did carry some burden, like a weight, just as Tandu had suggested. Drew had put down his burden for a bit, out here in the water, and she was glad she had encouraged him to come swim with her.

She wondered what his terrible burden was. Could he really have been given more than he thought he could handle? He seemed so unbelievably strong. But then again, wasn’t that what made strength, being challenged to your outer limits? She wondered if he would ever confide in her, but then he splashed her in the face and took off away from her, and she took chase, and the serious thoughts were gone.

A half hour later, exhausted, they dragged themselves up on the beach. Just as he had promised, the trades came up, and it was surprisingly chilly on her wet skin and underwear. She tried to pull her clothes over her wet underwear, but it was more difficult than she thought. Finally, with her clothes clinging to her uncomfortably, she turned to him.

He had pulled his shirt back on over his wet chest and was putting the picnic things back in the basket.

“We have to go,” she said. “I feel guilty.”

“Tut-tut,” he said. “There’s that nun thing again. But I have to go, too. My crew is arriving first thing in the morning. I’d like to have things set up so we can get right to work. You’re a terrible influence on me, Sister English.”

“Sister Simone, to you.”

He didn’t appear to be leaving, and neither did she.

“I am so far behind in what I need to get done,” Becky said. “I didn’t expect to be here this long. If I go to work right now, I can still make a few phone calls. What time do you think it is in New York?”

“Look what I just found.”

Did he ever just answer the question?

He had been rummaging in the picnic basket and he held up two small mason jars that looked as if they were filled with whipped cream and strawberries.

“What is that?” Knowing the time in New York suddenly didn’t seem important at all.

“I think it’s dessert.”

She licked her lips. He stared at them, before looking away.

“I guess a little dessert wouldn’t hurt,” she said. Her voice sounded funny, low and seductive, as if she had said something faintly naughty.

“Just sit in the sand,” he suggested. “We’ll wrap the picnic blanket over our shoulders. We might as well eat dessert and watch the sun go down. What’s another half hour now?”

They were going to sit shoulder to shoulder under a blanket eating dessert and watching the sun go down? It was better than any book she had ever read! The time in New York—and all her other responsibilities—did a slow fade-out, as if it was the end of a movie.

Saying Yes To The Dress!

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