Page 49 of Second Tide's the Charm
“Because we’re just colleagues?” I hate that it comes out as a question.
“What else would we be?” His words are flat, a double-edged blade, and the idea of answering,Friendsis so ludicrous, I don’t know how I ever considered Zuri’s suggestion.
“Nothing.” We can’t be anything to each other, not if I want to keep my heart intact.
With a swiftness that rocks the boat, he passes by, leaving me alone in the fading dusk, the word a hollow echo in my chest.Nothing.But he used to mean everything to me.
twenty
adrian
Gabe offered to pick me up for dinner, but I took my time getting ready, partly because kissing Hope is replaying on a loop in my mind—the gentle yielding of her mouth, the needy pressure of her hips against mine, and how the pleasure is destined to end with the pain of separation—but also because I was hoping he’d get impatient and head to the restaurant without me.
No luck. I emerged from my room to find he’d let himself in and was waiting in my kitchen, dressed for a night out in a short-sleeved chambray button-down and jeans, with his laptop, tablet, and phone spread out across the table. He must’ve sensed my mood, because he kept quiet the entire drive, unusual for him. As we pull into the restaurant parking lot, I suppress the urge to open the passenger door and tuck and roll, making a break for it.
The moment I step out of the car, though, I’m grateful I didn’t stay home. The tantalizing aroma of barbecued meat and fresh-baked rolls wafts from the tin-roofed restaurant. Horizon Line Grill is tucked under live oaks and loblolly pines, flanked by a porch lined with wooden benches for nights when the dinner rush line spills outside. Sunset comes early to this pocket of town, and shadows stretch long across the ground, our feet crunching on the gravel walkway.
Gabe halts at the bottom of the porch steps and blocks my way. The hum of laughter and conversation from inside is muted out here. Not too late to go back home, except he’s my ride. Plus, tonight’s about celebrating a great day at work, and I promised Hope I’d keep things professional.And then you went and kissed each other.Twice.
A topic I can’t broach with Gabe, not without exposing Hope in the process.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on or do I need to guess?” He holds up a hand. “Disclaimer: I’d go with the former. It’s healthy to talk things out, and it’ll satisfy my craving for juicy gossip.”
Despite my tumultuous emotions, I grin. I really am lucky to have him. Friends have come and gone my whole life, but I hope this friendship lasts beyondShark Science Crew, wherever life takes us. Still, I can’t level with him. Hope deserves discretion. Besides, what happened between us is nothing more than chemistry that keeps getting the better of us.
“Nothing’s going on.” It’s the same line we fed Marissa earlier, and without waiting to see if he accepts it, I move to step past him, but he’s nimble despite his flip-flops, and cuts me off.
“Okay, a guessing game it is.” He taps his clean-shaven chin. “We just spent a lovely day taking pictures of actual baby sharks, so your sour mood can’t be work-related.”
“Sonograms,” I say, even though I know he’s baiting me. “And they’re fetal sharks.”
He merely raises his brows. “People are already watching the heck out of the teaser video—”
“You got that up already?”
“What do you think I was doing while I was waiting for you to finish getting presentable?” He ticks off his fingers. “You helped out some fellow scientists, broadened the public’s perception of shark research, and managed to do it all with a minimal awkwardness with your ex-girlfriend.”
My smile evaporates.
“Oh.” His eyebrows bounce above his frames. “It’s the girlfriend part, isn’t it?”
“Ex.” My jaw clacks shut, biting out the word.
“Just to clarify, we’re talking about the ex-girlfriend you hugged today?”
My mouth twists. “Habit.”
“Right, right.” He leans against the banister, and I calculate my odds of getting around him and making a break for it. He must notice, because he straightens up, arms crossed. “So you got swept up in the moment?”
“Exactly.”
His eyes narrow. “But you full-on airport-reunion hugged your ex-girlfriend. You picked her up by the waist and swung her around like you’d just made it home after an unplanned sixteen-hour layover and she didn’t freak out about it.”
“Would you quit calling her that?”
“What, your ex-girlfriend?”
The term is accurate, but feels so detached, not at all like my messy, deep feelings for Hope. “She’s our colleague.”
