It's in His Kiss (15 page)

Clue one that she wasn’t the only one affected. Clue two was currently poking her in the butt. She had one arm tight around his neck and the other hand fisted in his hair, holding on. That was all she could ever do when he got up in her space like this—hold on for dear life.

With one last indiscernible look, he dropped her back into her chair.

“We having fireworks or what?” she managed.

“Shit,” he said, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. We’re having fireworks. More than I realized, apparently.”

With a smile, she picked up the phone. “Yes,” she said to the waiting customer. “We’re having a bash complete with fireworks. If you leave your information, I can make sure you’re in our system, and that way you’ll get our invite.”

Sam shook his head when she’d hung up. “Hope you can pull this off,” he said.

“I can.” With her eyes closed. She was good at organizing
and planning. Really good. “What else do I do?” she asked.

Sam showed her a list of services and prices so that the next time someone called, she’d be prepared to book a trip. “Stick to what we’ve got listed here,” he said. “Don’t add anything new unless you check with one of us. If anyone needs something you can’t answer, Cole or Tanner are on radio.”

“But not you?”

“I don’t typically spend a lot of time in here,” he said.

“Because using your people skills is really hard on you?”

“Yeah,” he said drily, “and because if I’m not out on the water, then I’m in the shop working on the financials, or building a boat.” He stood up. “Another thing you’ll do is check out our rental equipment. Snorkel gear, paddleboards, kayaks. . .” He moved to a door behind her and opened it up to a back room.

Sam led her in there and flicked on the light. There were no windows here. The place was tight quarters and filled to the gills with gear and equipment on racks that looked well taken care of and perfectly organized. One wall was lined with a huge industrial sink.

“The cleaning tank,” he said. “We bleach the rental gear between uses to hotel standard code.”

She nodded but took in the dark, closed-in feel of the room. The claustrophobia was relatively new, as far as her neuroses went, and even as she thought it and remembered what had caused it, the air was sucked from her lungs. “You need a bigger hut,” she whispered.

“Undoubtedly,” he said, his back to her as he eyed the shelves. “You ever snorkel? Paddleboard? Kayak?”

She swallowed hard. “Not a lot of that where I came from.”

He laughed quietly, and she might have reveled in the deep, masculine sound, but she was starting to sweat. The walls were closing in on her; she could feel them. “Um, I need to. . .” She gestured to the door, and practically leapt back to the front room.

She thought she’d covered her tracks pretty well as she leaned casually against the front counter and managed to stay still while sucking in big gulps of air, but when she looked up, Sam was standing close watching her.

He didn’t try to touch her, for which she was grateful. Touching her in the midst of a burgeoning anxiety attack only made it worse. “Whew,” she said with a fake smile. “It’s hot back there, right?”

He walked to the glass-fronted fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, which he uncapped and then handed to her.

She gulped it down, grateful he was going to let her have her little freak-out. “I’ll learn all this stuff real fast,” she promised.

He met her gaze. “You have nothing to prove here, you know that, right?”

Uncomfortable with the straightforward, brutally honest words that conflicted with his oddly gentle voice, she just nodded. “I know.”

“But if the guys and I are out on the boat and you get a customer, you’ve got to be able to go in there,” he said quietly.

“I know. I get it. I’ll be fine.” She held her breath, thinking he was either going to fire her on the spot, or push for details.

He did neither. “All right,” he said, apparently trusting her. He could have no idea how much that meant to her, and it took her a moment to swallow the lump in her throat.

He didn’t miss that, either. He simply gave her the moment she needed, watching her closely but not interfering as she got her shit together. “Hang on a second,” he said, and vanished into the equipment room for a moment. He came back with a tote slung over one broad shoulder.

He held out a hand, which she took without even thinking, and let him lead her down to the dock. The boat was gone, but he opened the tote and spread out some gear. “Consider this lesson number one,” he said.

“For what?”

“Life.”

She laughed. “What does snorkeling have to do with real life?”

“Teaches you how to live in the here and now, for one thing.” He looked up at her in the early dawn light to see if she got him.

She got him.

“Plus you need to know how this stuff works,” he said. “If you stick, we’ll have more lessons.”

“I’m sticking.”

He didn’t respond to this. Instead, he stripped out of his ball cap and T-shirt, rendering her mute.

He slid into the water and showed her how to work the snorkel gear.

She nodded a lot, and said “uh-huh” a lot, and tried not to drool. When he was done, he effortlessly hoisted himself out of the water and back onto the dock. He shook like a big, shaggy dog, spraying her with water.

“Hey,” she said.

He surprised her with a quick grin that short-circuited a few brain cells. Then he gathered the gear and carried it back to the hut and into the equipment room, dumping it into the sink to be cleaned. She watched from the doorway while he returned everything to its place and then moved aside for him to pass.

Instead, he stopped with her in the small space. “You okay?”

“Yes.” Even with him near, she was okay. Actually, she was more okay than usual—and she had no idea what to make of that.

His mouth smiled, but his eyes remained serious. And possibly a little bit sympathetic, which she didn’t want to see, so she moved into the front room. And because her knees were a little weak, she sank to the couch.

“Is it tight spaces?” he asked quietly, “or being in tight spaces with a man?”

She stilled, hating that she’d been so transparent. She studied her feet, and then picked at a nonexistent piece of lint on her sweatshirt.

“I see,” he said.

But he didn’t see. He couldn’t possibly see . . .

He pulled on his shirt again, and then his hat, and crouched in front of her, balancing with ease on the balls of his feet. “Customers aren’t allowed back there, period,” he said. “Now that you’re on board, none of the three of us needs to get into it, either. It’s all your domain during the hours you’re here. Got me?”

He was saying that she had no reason to feel anxious here. A warm feeling filled her stomach and started to spread. She smiled, and this time it was real again. “Got you.”

He studied her for a moment, and his mouth quirked. “You’re going to be good for us,” he said. “You smile like that at any of our customers, and they’ll be lining up for our services. Ready for more training?”

“Ready.”

Once again he moved behind the counter with her. They stood close and remained that way while he showed her how to check the equipment in and out. In doing so, they kept brushing against each other, and she began to heat up again. She pulled off yet another of her layers, leaving her in just the tank top that was now sticking to her like a second skin.

Sam closed his eyes, took off his baseball cap, shoved his fingers through his hair, and then replaced the cap. Everything about him said big, bad, frustrated testosterone overload. She met his gaze.

“You’re right,” he said. “We need a bigger hut.”

That day Becca went to the rec center after work. Lucille had called and said they’d be waiting for her. Assuming she was going in for an interview, she changed into a cute sundress from Olivia’s store, added a denim jacket and wedge sandals, and made her way over there.

She was met by a really great-looking guy in navy-blue cargoes and a polo shirt with a firehouse insignia on the pec.

“Jack Harper,” he said, offering her a hand. “Fire marshal. How you doing?”

“Great.” She pulled her résumé from her bag. She’d doctored it up some. Okay, a lot. “I know I don’t have teaching experience, Mr. Harper, but I do have a four-year degree in music and—”

“Jack,” he said, and took her résumé, which he promptly scanned and then rolled up and shoved in his back pocket. “And you’re hired.” He gently nudged her
down the hall and to a classroom, filled with at least twenty kids, all in the neighborhood of . . . young. “You’ve got an hour and a half with them. Good luck.”

“Wait.” She grabbed his arm. “Are you telling me I start now?”

“Actually,” he said, looking at his watch. “Five minutes ago. And between you and me, I wouldn’t dally. They’re good kids—until they get bored.”

Indeed, the natives were restless. She could see two girls, twins by the look of their matching wild red hair and toothless grins, climbing up on their desks to do God knew what. A couple of boys were throwing balled-up paper at each other. Two more were crawling beneath the desks on some mysterious errand.

Jack swore beneath his breath, leaned into the classroom, and gave a sharp whistle.

Everyone froze.

“Good,” Jack told them. “More of that. Pink and Kendra, get down. Alex, Tray, Jose, and Carlos, don’t make me come in there.” He paused while everyone got into their seats like little angels. “Now stay just like that,” he commanded, “until Ms. Thorpe says otherwise. She’s the boss, and what the boss says goes.”

“Impressive,” Becca muttered to him.

“Trust me, that’ll only work for a minute tops,” Jack said. “If all else fails, there’s a bag of candy in the teacher’s desk. Use sparingly. Sugar’s their crack.”

“But. . .” She stared at the kids. “I didn’t realize I’d be starting today. I don’t have a curriculum. Or instruments. Or—”

“We have some stuff that was donated.” He fished a key out of his pocket and set it in her palm. “In the storage
closet.” He gave her a quick heart-fluttering smile. “Good luck.”

He’d handled the kids with a few quiet, authoritative words, no problem, and she hoped to do the same. Heart pounding, she walked into the room. “Hey, kids. So who likes music?”

Everyone’s hands shot straight up into the air like rockets.

Becca smiled in relief, walked over to the storage closet, and unlocked it. There was a pile of flutes and a string bass that had seen better days. There was also some percussion—and by that she meant two beat-up snare drums, a set of crash cymbals, and a xylophone. It all gave her a bad flashback to middle school band practice.

Turning from the closet, she pulled her iPad mini from her purse and brought up her keyboard app.

Immediately six of the twenty kids were able to do the same on their phones. “Look at that,” she said. “We’re halfway to a band already.”

The kids cheered. Laughing, Becca pushed her desk back, sat on the floor, gathered everyone around her, and did the only thing she knew how to do.

Plowed her way through.

The next day, Sam was at work in his warehouse. He’d sheathed the wood hull with a layer of fiberglass cloth for durability, both topsides and bottom. Now he was applying resin, making the weave of the cloth virtually transparent, bringing out the wood’s natural tone. The result was a stiff, strong, stable, watertight composite wood/epoxy/fiberglass hull that was virtually impervious to the effects of moisture. He was concentrating, his every
muscle aching from the strain, so that he almost didn’t hear the door open and close.

Almost. Because here, in his shop, he heard and saw everything. He never invited anyone in here. Even Cole and Tanner rarely ventured in.

It was his place, his zone.

He didn’t turn to look at the door; he didn’t have to. He recognized the footsteps as Becca’s. Soft but not hesitant, her spontaneity and easy joy showing in every step despite whatever life had handed her—which clearly hadn’t been all rainbows and kittens. Boggling, And a little bit scary.

“Hey,” she said, coming up behind him. “Is it okay for me to enter the Man Cave or do I need to perform the secret handshake or something?”

He laughed. “Smart-ass.”

“Sorry,” she said, not looking sorry at all. “My mouth’s always been a problem.”

Yeah, a
big
problem. He remembered that mouth, and exactly what it felt like traveling the length of his body. Even now, in the light of day, her lips were full and shiny with gloss, and he had a hard time looking away from them. And then there was the fact that she smelled like peaches and cream.

He wanted to eat her alive.

“I’ve got a few messages for you.” She stepped to his side, taking in his work. “Pretty,” she said. “Is there a good profit in making boats?”

“Not really.”

She ran a hand over the sleek wood. “So you do it because . . . you’re good at it?”

“No.”

She looked up at him. “Okay, man of mystery. If not for the profit, or to show it off, then why do you build boats?”

“For myself.”