Page 40 of A Shore Fling
A gentle breeze filters in through the open window, flickering the candle’s flame in the center of the table as we begin to eat.
“You cooked this yourself?” he asks, spearing a roasted carrot.
“Yep. Chicken and veggies are a staple in my life, but I like to experiment with different seasonings.”
He chews thoughtfully. “It’s good.”
My eyebrows lift. “Wait. Did you compliment me?”
He shrugs, sipping his wine. “Don’t get used to it.”
I smile around my fork. “Noted.”
There’s silence as we continue enjoying the meal, but it’s not awkward. I’m surprised at how comfortable this feels, although I probably shouldn’t be. I’ve never minded quiet moments. Especially with the long hours I work—worked.
When both of our plates are almost cleared, I ask the question I’ve been wondering about since he pulled me from the water. “So, do you always throw yourself into the ocean for people you barely know?”
He leans back, studying me. “Only when they’re reckless bookworms with questionable swimming skills.”
“Hey!” I point my fork at him. “I can swim.”
“To quote your friends, ‘not well.’”
“I was engrossed in a great story.”
“You were floating into a shipping lane.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why do you always sound like you’re scolding me when you’re probably trying to be nice?”
He tilts his head, his dark gaze still on my face. “I don’t know. Why do you keep putting yourself in dangerous situations if you don’t want me to rescue you?”
Touché.He has the decency not to outright smirk, but it’s there teasing the corner of his mouth. That same corner I’m trying hard not to imagine kissing.
Lifting my glass, I take a slow sip. “Maybe this summer is all about doing things I’ve never done before, challenging myself.”
His dark eyes pin me in place. “It feels more like you’re challenging me.”
My lips part in a slow smile, and I set my wine glass down. “Well, if that’s true, why do you keep rising to meet each one?”
“I’m not sure,” he says at last. “I guess I need to figure that out.” There’s an almost tangible shift in the air that has him more relaxed and less guarded.
“Would you like some dessert?”
Interest flashes across his face. “What kind?”
“I have lemon bars or nothing. Take your pick.”
A soft chuckle slips from him. “That’s a tough call.”
Standing, I gather the plates, keeping my hands occupied so I can’t reach across the table and see if his hair is as thick as it looks.
He rises too. “I’ll help.”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
But he’s already moving around the table, taking the plates from my hands. Our fingers brush again. This time his touch lingers longer, and when I glance up, he’s watching me. We’re standing close together. Closer than we should be.Is the kitchen shrinking? Why is my heart racing so fast?
“You’re not what I expected,” I say, my voice sounding breathier than usual.
