Page 45 of Enemies to Lobsters
“Is this okay?” he says against my mouth. His free hand finds my waist, pulling me closer. His hand is hot and firm, holding me against him.
“More than okay,” is all I manage before his lips cover mine again.
I cling to his arms, desperate to stay upright when I’m afraid I’ll pass out at any moment. Ike is a full-sensory experience, and I don’t want to miss anything. But I forgot how strong his arms are. I shouldn’t be touching them if I’m trying not to faint. They’re practically lethal.
His mouth moves down my jaw. “I owe you a date.”
How can the man think about anything at a time like this? I can’t respond. I’m distracted by the scratch of his beard against my neck.
“Can I get a do-over?” he asks against my throat this time. “Tonight?”
Ike is very good at this. I tip my head back to give him easier access. Let the professional work. “Isn’t it s-sandwich night?” I remind him. See? Parts of my brain are still functional. I’ve got this.
He freezes for a fraction of a second. He breathes in slowly, close to my ear. Is he sniffing my hair now? I don’t have time to worry about the scent of my messy hair. Ike’s lips brush my jaw when he says, “I don’t like having responsibilities.”
“Yeah, you do,” I say with a puff of laughter. His reliability is one of his finest traits.
“Will you join us?”
His question hums through me, making me shiver. My skin prickles with goosebumps. What is happening to me? I’m losing control of myself. Ike and I are married, and it would be too easy to justify letting things get out of hand. My grandparent’s faces flash through my mind—not ideal when I’m finally kissing the man I’ve been swooning over for weeks. My grandparents, who smugly arranged this marriage, are now smugly grinning in my mind. I pull back to get a good look at Ike.
Big mistake. His dark eyes are full of fire. He’s breathing heavily as his thumb makes a slow path up and down my cheek. “Well?”
“Sandwiches with you and Boone?” I twist my lips to the side, like I’m struggling with the decision. I’m not. “Sounds like fun.”
“Good,” he says with one of his trademark crooked, full-face grins. His eyes twinkle. He ducks to press the lightest of kisses to my lips and starts to pull away. “I can’t believe you kissed Tom Selleck.”
I tighten my hold. He’s not going anywhere. “I can’t believe you’re jealous.”
Chapter 22
Ike
Oh crap, there are six dead lobsters in my truck.
After Boone’s play, I forgot the cooler was wedged behind my seat. My mind was fixed on the idea of a goodnight kiss with Diana. I missed my chance, then tossed and turned all night. I made the starry-eyed drive to Marlow’s and back and still didn’t notice or remember the cooler.
Then, I finally kissed her, and Diana’s kiss changed me. I was instantly addicted. Educated. Ruined. Exalted. I can smell her everywhere I go, and I can feel her under my fingers. I haven’t been able to form a coherent thought without the taste of Diana’s lips barging into my mind. I’ve been a walking disaster all day.
I certainly haven’t thought about that cooler. It stayed there all night and for this entire, sweltering August Saturday. Now the sun is shooting its last few streams of gold around the trees, and I’m sweating about that stinky cooler.
Six lobsters is a lot of lobsters for two people, but it’s dumb to arrange a whole lobster bake for only two lobsters. It’s a ton of work. Go big or go home, right? I hate that saying, and now I have half a dozen undoubtedly deceased crustaceans in the back of my cab, and I’m about to open Diana’s door. I gotta go big or go home. I have no choice.
I hesitate. They're in an old, red Igloo cooler that’s had a long life. I can leave it in the parking area. I don’t want to draw attention to it, though. I don’t want Diana to know I murdered innocent sea creatures. What’s starting between us is as fragile as a sandcastle. Six dead lobsters would destroy it, for sure. But I don’t want to give her a ride in a truck that smells like death, either.
What choice do I have?
Go big or go home.
I still hate that saying.
I swing the passenger door wide, hoping to quickly air out any potential stench. Relief flows through me when the cab smells like it always does—leather seats and the peppermint gum I keep stashed in the console. Phew. Bless that old, red Igloo for keeping the stank to itself.
Diana murmurs a “thank you” as I help her up into the truck. She doesn’t ask about the cooler. She’s quiet tonight. She seems nervous.
The hem of her blue dress is brushing the door sill, and I tuck it safely beside her before I close the door. It’d be a shame to mess up that dress. I love Diana in jeans, but I’m dying inside over how that soft fabric looks draped across the bench seat of my truck. Has anything so feminine ever been inside this rig?
I still can’t believe she said yes to tonight.
