On the Rocks (A Turtle Island Novel) (15 page)

“I have.” More times than she wanted to admit.

There was something about not being the “ideal” that most men seemed to want. It shamed her at times.

“It sucks,” Carter said.

“Yes, it does.” She tried to force a smile. To tease away the moment. But she couldn’t do it.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, you know,” he added softly.

Tears burned at the backs of her eyes. How was it that they were suddenly talking about her? “You mean other than the fact that I love the ocean more than dating?” she asked. Then she shrugged. “And yes, I know there’s nothing wrong with me.”

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t have to eventually change.

He reached over and took her hand in his and squeezed. The move made her catch her breath. But then he removed his fingers, and she was left feeling cold.

“So horror stories, huh?” His quick change took her a moment to catch up.

“You got me started on them, don’t you remember? I used to devour your Stephen King books. Since then I’ve read everything I can get my hands on.” She curled to her side. She could talk about books for hours. “There’s this fairly new author I can’t get enough of. Jules Bradley—have you heard of him? I’m in
love
with him.” She chuckled as she pictured Julie’s bookcase. “Your sister must be, too. She has all his books. She even had his last one before it was released. I have no idea how she pulled that off, but I want her secret.”

Carter stared at the sky. “You like Jules Bradley?”

“
Love
Jules Bradley. So much. I heard his next book has been contracted for a movie, which I’ll be first in line to see. But wow, his last book . . . have you read him?”

Carter’s heart pounded so rapidly as he listened to Ginger talk about how much she loved his latest book that it threatened to cut off all oxygen. He could feel each pump of his blood in the main artery of his neck, as if someone had slit the tiny vessel open and he were bleeding out. He’d wanted to know if Ginger had ever read one of his books, but hearing about it firsthand moved him in a way he hadn’t been ready for.

His parents liked his novels. Julie did, too. They were proud of him. And he’d gotten plenty of accolades from readers. But Lisa had never read a single one. She wouldn’t lower her standards to such.

He needed to tell Ginger that he was Jules Bradley. To stop her gushing. And honestly, he
wanted
to tell her. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it tonight. She’d be embarrassed, and he didn’t want to change the atmosphere of the evening.

He’d come over because he’d been sitting in the house by himself, contemplating another night of drowning his sorrows, and he’d realized that he wanted to see Ginger. She hadn’t been around that morning.

She’d made it home last night, he knew. Alone. He’d forgone the beer and watched out the window until he’d seen her make it safely inside. But she hadn’t been around for sunrise.

So he’d come over, hoping to find her, or entice her to come outside. What he hadn’t expected was to discover her there with her mom and Clint. Doing so had sent him back to his childhood. He’d always liked her mom. He’d liked their families hanging out. And he’d suddenly not wanted to be mad and angry, if just for one night.

“You seem lighter tonight,” Ginger said, running out of commentary on his books, and mercifully changing the subject. A slight breeze slid a lock of hair across her cheek and he focused on that, because he was embarrassed that she’d picked up on the change in him.

“What does ‘lighter’ even mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Not as angry.” She gave him a tiny smile. “I worry about you.”

He looked down at his hands where they lay clasped in his lap, and thought about the phone call from his mother earlier that day. She’d expressed the same sentiment. Again. “You and my mother, both,” he griped.

“I miss your mom,” Ginger said breezily as she seemed to curl deeper into the wood of the chair. “Your dad, too. I always loved watching them together. They’re so in love.”

“Like your parents were?”

“Yeah.” She blinked rapidly, and he felt momentarily bad that he’d brought her father up. “They were good role models,” she said softly.

He agreed. If anyone ever wanted an example of true love, they’d only had to look at either set of their parents. It was part of why he’d stupidly believed in love for so long.

Hell, it was the exact reason why. And that added to his anger now.

How did it exist for them? Or did it really?

Or had it totally been a figment of his imagination for his entire life?

He knew it wasn’t fake, though. His parents were still as in love today as they’d been when they’d first met. Probably more so. And he was anxious to see them again. To see their love. To remind himself that it wasn’t all like his life.

“I miss them, too,” he said. He looked at Ginger. “And yeah, I feel ‘lighter’ today.” He wasn’t sure why, exactly. Maybe the ocean air was getting to him. “Don’t tell my mom, though. She’ll think she was right.”

“About what?”

He paused, only for a second. “She wanted me to come here for
me
as well as Julie.”

“Ah. Because of the divorce?”

“Among other things.” He pulled a hand over his face and wished he’d taken a second beer. “It’s been a rough summer.”

“Do you miss your wife?”

He moved his gaze to hers. “I don’t.”

“But you loved her?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to deny it. He nodded instead.

“What did you love about her?” She asked the question quietly, but it was enough to send his “light” mood into the ether.

His instinct told him to get up. To leave. To ignore her probing. He shouldn’t have left the house tonight to begin with. But he kept his gaze glued to hers. “What good would it possibly do to talk about how stupid I was?”

“Love isn’t stupid,” she objected.

Their gazes dueled as he fought the urge to tell her to face reality. It didn’t work for everyone. He shoved to his feet. “Love is idiotic. Thanks for the company.”

She didn’t reply, and he moved to the edge of the deck. But before going down he looked back at her. She sat quietly in the light of the flames, a slight frown on her face, and his pulse once again thundered. She was his friend. His only one at this point; his months-long bad mood had pushed all the others away. He didn’t want to end the evening with this tension.

“I missed you this morning,” he admitted. His tone softened, and he tried hard to ease the sternness from his face.

“I left you a note.”

“I got it.”

After getting up and trying to write again—only to reread her sex scene, this time rewriting it to have her stripping off the faded, curve-hugging jeans she’d had on the night before—he’d come over well before sunrise ready to see her. Only to find a small note taped to her door.

“What’s tomorrow look like for you?” she asked.

Relief hit him hard. And unexpectedly. He didn’t want to come across as needy, but he
needed
to watch the sun come up with her. “I’m thinking there’s a sunrise in my future.”

She smiled lazily at him, and he smiled back.

Then she stretched, her arms reaching high above her head and a sleepy little purr slipping out. His breaths grew shallow. It was time to take his returning libido home before he did something he’d regret. He didn’t want to hurt her.

“Tell your mom thanks for the beer. And the offer of a casserole.”

“Will do.” She yawned. “See you in the morning.”

He nodded, taking her in one last time, and silently thanking his mother for sending him home. Just possibly he would heal a little before these few weeks were up.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

I
t was already past six o’clock, and she was late.

Ginger hurried into the mudroom Monday afternoon, pulling her shirt over her head before she even made it to the washing machine. She had a date arriving to pick her up in less than an hour, and she was filthy. She’d taken a boatload of tourists deep-sea fishing that morning, had spent the next hour out at the house doing nothing more than watching her home come to life—she had electricity and plumbing installed, and a huge crew of men had shown up to hang drywall today—then she’d finished her day on the ferry.

After departing the ship for the last time, she’d hurried, attempting to edge around a group to get to her car and save a few minutes, only to slip and end up in a mudhole. Not stepped in it, but fell. It had rained last night, and she was well aware that the hole was always there.

And now she was even later.

She shimmied out of her jeans, eyeballed Mz. Lizzie as she pranced into the laundry room with her tail swishing in the air and a yellow bow hanging lopsided around her neck, then dumped her underthings in the machine along with her jeans and shirt.

Meow.

She looked down at the cat. “What?”

Meow.

“Really? You’re going to pay attention to me today? What happened, did your mama forget to feed you before she left?” Her mother had gotten off work early, and she and Clint had gone over to the mainland for a business party. They planned to stay overnight, returning on the ferry tomorrow. Which would be convenient if tonight’s date happened to turn out spectacularly.

She couldn’t see it going
that
well, but just in case, she did plan on bringing out the lace. She was getting a little desperate.

Meow.

“What, silly cat?” Ginger stooped, reaching out a hand to scratch Mz. Lizzie behind the ears, but the cat sidestepped her. Of course she did.

Grabbing the dirty clothes from the weekend, Ginger ignored the animal and tossed the armload in with everything else, added a healthy dose of laundry detergent, and closed the lid. Then she moved to put out food for Mz. Lizzie, but the bowl wasn’t empty.

Meow.

“I don’t know what you want,” Ginger grumbled. She was running too late to play games with a cat.

She grabbed her cell off the dryer, and as if the cat had simply been waiting for her to be done, Mz. Lizzie pranced out of the room, leading Ginger into the kitchen. Where Ginger picked up the scent of something good.

“Did she cook before leaving?” Ginger spoke to herself.

But why?
Her mother knew she planned to go out tonight.

Nevertheless, Ginger headed to the source of the smell, which was the oven, and peered in. The heat was still on. Still cooking. And a yummy-looking cheesy casserole bubbled inside.

“What the . . .”

She dug two pot holders out of a drawer, intending to pull the dish from the heat. Only to freeze at the sound of the powder-room door opening and closing. Then footsteps heading her way.

“Mz. Lizzie.”
She hissed the cat’s name in a panic, as if the feline could save the day. Who was in the house? And why?

And where was that darned can of Mace Kayla was always preaching about?

Her questions were answered the instant Carter reached the kitchen door. Ginger’s shoulders slumped, and a burst of air expelled from her lungs. “It’s you.”

Carter stopped in the doorway, and the expression on his face looked as if she’d thrown cold water at him. Or as if he’d seen her naked.

“Ah, crap.” Ginger jumped into action, scanning for a dish towel, but there was none. Only the pot holders that were already in her hands. So she slid behind the center island, and covered each breast with a hand-stitched, white-robed angel. Her mother had gotten the pot holders as a Christmas gift last year. Apparently she’d never put them away after the holidays.

Meow.

Ginger gritted her teeth. “I see now, Mz. Lizzie. We have company. Thanks for that warning.”

“Uh . . .” Carter looked shell-shocked.

“What are you doing here, Carter?” she asked calmly. Someone had to say
something
.

“Your mother let me in.” He pointed to the oven, his arm stiff. “So I could cook.”

She nodded. “Okay. Cooking.” Why in God’s name hadn’t her mother warned her? Her mind whirled, trying to figure the best way out of the situation. She could send Carter to her room for clothes.

But then he’d have to rummage through her stuff, and she didn’t want that.

She could just walk out of there as she was. She wasn’t overly concerned about nudity as a general rule. And it
was
only Carter. If it were Andie or Roni she wouldn’t give it a second thought.

“Here.” Carter thrust an apron at her, his eyes now cast in another direction. His cheeks had turned pink. A feat she wouldn’t have expected was possible. It made her even more tempted to sashay right past him in the buff.

But he was trying to be such a gentleman . . .

“Thanks.” She took the apron, having to step away from the island to reach it, and slipped the strap over her head. The material was black with white polka dots, there were two large pockets below the belted waist, and the whole thing was edged with a white ruffle. It was cute.

But it made her look a little like a French maid.

Also, the sides of her boobs poked out.

After tying the apron behind her back, she tugged her hair from under the neck strap and picked up the pot holders. She used
them
to cover the outer boob area.

“I’m decent,” she announced. Of course, her rear was bare, but he couldn’t see that.

Carter carefully turned back.

“For the love . . .” he muttered.

“French maidish, right?” Ginger teased. She figured playing it off would be the only way to keep from turning bright red. She looked down at herself. She hadn’t seen this particular apron before, but it totally looked like something her mother would pick out. Very feminine. And kind of naughty.

Carter, clearly attempting to avoid looking at her, went to the built-in oven. He walked stiff-legged and flipped the interior light, actually turning it off, before flipping it back on and stooping to peer through the glass as if his life, as well as that of the casserole, depended on it.

“What are you cooking?” she asked.

“Chicken.”

She smiled at his clipped tone. “It smells good.”

Time was ticking down on getting ready for her date, but this was actually kind of fun. Carter’s embarrassment made any she’d had disappear. And the whole thing struck her as funny.

“Could you please put some clothes on, Ginger?” He still didn’t look at her.

“I have clothes on.”

He literally growled, which only made her laugh out loud.

“Why are you so embarrassed? I’m covered.”

“You’re naked.”

She moved to his side—being sure to keep her exposed backside away from view—and leaned in, peering into the oven with him. “It looks good,” she whispered loudly.

“I swear to God, Ginger. Put on some clothes.”

She straightened, but looked down at herself to ensure she truly was covered. There was a bit of cleavage going on, but with the addition of the pot holders at the sides, she was hidden.

“What’s the matter, Carter? Never seen anyone in an apron before?” She gave him a toothy grin, and finally, he looked at her. His gaze burned steady, and his jaw was clenched. And then she saw it. Her eyes went wide. “You’re turned on?” She glanced down at herself. “By me?”

“You’re
naked
.”

“I’m—” She snapped her mouth shut, growing embarrassed herself. “It didn’t occur to me this would bother you. You never even noticed me back in high school.”

“Sweetheart, we are no longer in high school.”

A thrill rushed through her. For two totally different reasons. She went with the safer one. “So you’re saying my problem with men isn’t my looks?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “It is
not
your looks.”

“Well, that’s”—she cleared her throat—“good to know. Because I have a date tonight,” she tacked on, nerves making her voice too perky when he didn’t take his eyes off her. “A firefighter I met at the bar Friday night,” she rattled. “I’m keeping my fingers crossed with this one.” She crossed the fingers of her right hand to show him, but the pot holder slipped and she exposed a curve.

“Damn it, Ginger.”
He unbuttoned his shirt. “Put this on.”

And then
she
got turned on.

The soft cotton of his button-down settled around her shoulders, and she eyed the set of ripped muscles with a fine sprinkling of hair that just happened to be right in front of her. “Wow.” She lifted her eyes to his. “You’re
definitely
not as scrawny as you first looked.”

“You’re not helping matters any.”

He looked somewhere above her head as she released the hold on the pot holders and slid one arm at a time into the sleeves. The material was warm against her back, and suddenly the only thing she could smell was him. Hot male flesh mixed with sawdust, a bit of sweat, and whatever cologne he’d started the morning with. It was intoxicating, but she fought the urge to bury her nose in the collar and inhale.

When he finally looked back down at her, she realized how close they were standing, and she struggled not to be sucked under by the pulse beating rapidly in his throat. He pulled in a deep breath, expanding his chest toward hers, then blew it out. The puff of air ruffled the hair over her left ear, and her eyelids fluttered. And she
was pretty sure that if she were wearing panties, they’d be instantly damp.

“You need to get your ass out of the kitchen, and put on some clothes.” His words were too calm, almost cold.

“I have to shower first.” Two inches forward and she could put her lips to his neck.

“Get out of the kitchen,” Carter ground out.
“Now.”

She gulped, but she didn’t waste any more time. She whirled and ran. At the top of the stairs, she smiled. Then she slipped inside her room, closed the door behind her, and pulled Carter’s shirt to her nose.

Carter was attracted to her. She had
not
seen that coming.

In the bathroom, she slipped out of the shirt and apron and took the world’s quickest shower. After she dried off, she stood in front of the mirror and considered, for one brief moment, walking back downstairs just as she was, and proclaiming that she wanted Carter. At least for tonight.

She got hot all over again.

But that would be silly. She had a hot date on his way to pick her up at that very moment. A guy who, at the very least, stood a
chance
of being long-term. Carter wasn’t even in the same ballpark. He had too many issues. Too many hurts. And way too much anger. And she wasn’t ready to give up the hunt just yet.

Ten minutes later, she was as polished as time would allow. She wore a cute blue sundress, and slipped into heeled sandals, then gave one last fluff to her hair before grabbing Carter’s shirt and heading to the kitchen. With any luck, he’d be gone and she could return the clothing later.

But he stood right where she’d left him, the casserole cooling on top of the stove, his chest still wondrously bare, and his hip propped against the counter. He’d waited for her.

Nerves had her pausing at the kitchen door. She took a fortifying breath and walked in as if she hadn’t recently been there wearing little more than the man’s shirt and a couple of pot holders.

“Thanks,” she murmured as she held the shirt out to him.

This time it was she who didn’t look at him. But she heard his every move as he slid his arms into the material.

Her gaze landed on her fingernails, and she bit down on her frustration. Why did she always forget that? Without another word, she yanked open a drawer and dug through the contents. Carter watched her. She came up with a fingernail file as the doorbell rang, but remembered at the same time that she’d forgotten her purse upstairs. And jewelry.

She faced Carter. “Will you get the door for me?”

“You had him pick you up here?” He sounded annoyed. “Do you even know this man?”

“We met the other night, I told you. At Gin’s.”

The scowl she knew so well was firmly back in place as he finished up the buttons on his shirt. “He could be a serial killer.”

“I have Mace,” she scoffed. “Plus, the island isn’t big. He could find me if he wanted to.” She picked at one of her nails. “Will you let him in or not?”

He moved reluctantly in the direction of the foyer, and Ginger hurried back up the stairs. After doing all she could for her nails, she dug out a necklace and pair of earrings, and stepped in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of her room. With three deep breaths, her nerves began to settle.

“You can do this,” she urged her reflection. She smoothed her hands down over her hips.

“I don’t get it.”

She jumped at the words. Carter stood at her open door.