Page 107 of Story of My Life
“He used bigger words, but yes.”
“So he was dismissive of your books,” I said, nudging her along.
“Not exactly dismissive,” she started, then shook her head. “Okay. Yes. Exactly that. He made me feel like what I wrote wasn’t nearly as important or interesting or brave as his authors.”
Men who made themselves feel bigger by making their partners feel smaller were a special brand of dirtbag. “That’s shitty.”
“Can we please change the subject?” She looked down at her unfinished hoagie.
I reached out and nudged her chin up. Her cheeks flushed pink in the moonlight.
“I just don’t like talking about it. It makes me feel bad, and when I’m writing, I like to feel…the opposite of bad. I need to focus on heroines at the beginning of their HEAs, not me at the end of mine.”
“HEAs?”
“Happily ever afters,” she explained.
“Understood. Are you happy you’re here?” I didn’t know where the question came from or what answer I wanted out of her.
“I am. I mean, I’d be happier if we weren’t in a stolen boat.”
Our faces were close in the moonlight. I was hyperaware of every breath she took. Every direction her eyes moved as the boat rocked gently.
“It’s Levi’s,” I said, taking pity on her. “He bought it off an estate when we were teenagers and restored it.”
“Your brother did this?” She ran a hand over the glossy teak.
“Yeah. He’s annoyingly talented. But as long as he’s not pissed at me for something, he probably won’t press charges.”
“He didn’t look very happy about you guys nominating him for chief of police,” she reminded me.
“Forgot about that.” He was most definitely still pissed about that.
We continued to stare at each other in the moonlight. After a few decades of practice, I knew when a woman was open for a kiss. The way Hazel’s gaze kept flicking to my mouth made it hard to think about anything else. Hell, I’d been thinking about it since she opened her door to me barefoot and out of breath.
It wasn’t the smart move.
Nothing good would come of me kissing this woman. There wouldn’t be anything easy or simple about it. There wasn’t anything easy or simple about her. For some idiotic, male reason, I liked that. But I wasn’t here to start things with a new,complicated client. I was here to get my family back on track. I didn’t need any distractions.
“We should get back,” I said abruptly and dragged my gaze away from her. I regretted it instantly, viscerally.
“You’re right. It’s getting late. And I have some writing to do.”
“Tonight?” I glanced back at her, but she was looking toward the dark horizon.
“When the muse strikes.”
I almost asked her if the muse was inspiring her to write a good date or a bad date but decided I really didn’t want the answer. Instead, I steered us back to the dock in silence, trying not to think about all the things we’d be doing if this were a real date.
“Mind taking the wheel so I can get the fenders?” I asked as we approached the dock.
She shot me a bland look. “You’ve seen me drive a car.”
“Good point. Can you toss a couple of those fenders over the side and get ready to throw that line around a post?”
“If by ‘fenders’ you mean these inflatable bumper things and by ‘line’ you mean this wet rope, sure,” she said, climbing into the runabout’s back seat.
Long legs, dark hair, and that mysteriously female perfume all cast their spells on me in the moonlight, making me almost forget to cut the engine as I nosed into the slip.
