It's in His Kiss (5 page)

Sitting on the bed, leaning back against the wall, she pulled the keyboard onto her lap.

A year. A year since she’d composed jingles for the best national brands, and the reasons why were complicated. She’d lost her muse, and her footing. On life. That had to change. Hence the across-the-country move. A new venue, a new beginning. But she still needed to prove herself, if only to the woman in the mirror.

Her parents wouldn’t ask her to prove herself, she knew this. Growing up, they’d never asked anything of her, other than to take care of her brother while they worked crazy hours in the jazz clubs of New Orleans.
Watch Jase
, that’s all they’d ever expected her to do.

Though only two years separated her and her brother, Becca felt far older, always had. She’d done her best to take care of him, succeeding better at some moments than others. But at least the promise of his talent had been fulfilled. He was a wonderful concert pianist.

Now she wanted,
needed
, to be wonderful at something, too.

And yeah, yeah, being worthy shouldn’t be tied up in financial success—or lack thereof—blah blah. But whoever had said that had clearly never had to pay their rent on time.

Her cell phone vibrated. The screen said
Jase calling
.

Until recently, they’d been close, and had talked frequently.
Except, just like her early—and short-lived—success with jingle writing, this too had turned out to be an illusion. A glossy veneer shown to the world, while the truth was hidden deep inside them both.

She stared at the phone until it went to voice mail.

Two seconds later came a text.
You okay?

Completely okay
, she texted back. Liar, liar, pants on fire . . .

But hell if she’d give anyone she cared about more stress to deal with. She turned her phone off, ignored the guilt, and spent the rest of the day alternating between nesting in her new place and trying to work a jingle about the male erection.

And maybe, also, looking out her windows a little bit. She told herself it was the ocean that drew her, but mostly her gaze was drawn to the alley. In addition to the pull-ups, she’d now seen Sexy Grumpy Surfer carrying a large duffel bag to the boat moored at the dock, washing down said boat with the same two other guys she’d seen before, and taking a hard, brutally fast run along the beach with yet a third guy.

Seemed like maybe Lucky Harbor was a hot-guy magnet.

By the end of the day, Becca needed sustenance and a change of scenery, so she headed into town. She could’ve gone to the diner Eat Me, but instead she walked a block farther, past the pier, to go back to the Love Shack.

She told herself it was the atmosphere. The place was done up like an Old West saloon, with walls lined with old mining tools, tables made from antique wood doors. Lanterns hung from the exposed beam ceiling, and the air was filled with laughter, talking, and music from the jukebox in the corner.

She ordered a burger and sat by herself to eyeball the
real
reason she’d come back here—the baby grand piano in the far corner. It was old, and had clearly been around the block decades ago, but it called to her. She stared at it, torn between wanting to stroke it, and wanting to run like hell.

Jase might the real talent of the Thorpe family, but there’d been a time when the two of them had been a duo. Maybe she’d never been quite as good as he was—not that her parents had ever said so, they didn’t have to—but she’d been good enough to boost Jase’s talent. The press latched on to them early, and they’d even become pseudo-celebrities.

Things had been good, until she’d turned seventeen. With that age had come some self-awareness, and a serious case of the awkwards. Besides the headaches and bone aches that had come with a late, fast growth spurt, she’d lost all coordination, including her fingertips. Practically overnight she’d turned into the Graceless Ugly Duckling, exemplified.

The following month, their manager had gotten them invited to compete at the prestigious Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles. The place had been filled with people—more than two thousand—and all Becca remembered was being struck by sheer, heart-stopping panic.

She’d tanked, and the press had ripped them to shreds.

Shaking off the memory, Becca paid for her food at the bar and took in the sign at the register that said:
HELP WANTED
. She glanced at the piano and gnawed her lower lip. Then she gestured for the bartender. “Who do I talk to about the job?”

“Me,” he said with a smile as he set aside the glass he’d
been drying to shake her hand. “I’m Jax Cullen, one of the owners.”

“Is it a hostess position?” she asked hopefully.

“Waitressing,” he said. “You interested?”

Was she? She glanced at the piano and
ached
. And she knew she was
very
interested, skills or not. And there were no skills. None. “I am if you are,” she said.

Jax lost his smile. “Shit. You don’t have any experience.”

“No,” she admitted. “But I’m a real quick learner.”

He studied her, and Becca did her best to look like someone who was one hundred percent capable of doing anything—except, of course, handling her own life. She flashed him her most charming smile, her “showtime” smile, and hoped for the best.

Jax chuckled. “You’re spunky,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”

“I’m more than spunky,” she promised. “I bet you by the end of my first night, you’ll want to keep me.”

He held her gaze a moment, considering. “All right, I’ll take that bet. How about a trial by fire starting now?”

She eyed the room. Not full. Not even close. “Who else is working?”

“Usually on a night like this, two others. But both my girls are out sick tonight and I’m on my own, so you’re looking like good timing to me. If you’re any good.”

The piano in the far corner was still calling to her, making her braver than usual. “I’m in,” she said.

Jax gave her an apron and a quick rundown of what was expected. He told her that here in Lucky Harbor, familiarity was key. Everyone knew everyone, and the trick to good service—and good tips—was friendliness.

Then he threw her to the wolves.

The first half hour remained thankfully slow, but every time she walked by the baby grand, she faltered.

Play me, Becca
. . .

At about the twentieth pass, she paused and glanced around. Not a soul was looking at her. She eyed the piano again, sitting there so innocuously, looking gorgeous. Damn. She’d played on her keyboard, but not a piano. Not since two years ago when she’d quit. She’d had a near miss with going back to playing a year ago, but then things had gone to all sorts of hell, reinforcing her stage fright and giving her a wicked case of claustrophobia to boot.

Play me, Becca
. . .

Fine. Since fighting the urge was like trying not to need air, she sat. Her heart sped up, but she was still breathing. So far so good. She set her fingertips on the cool keys.

Still good.

And almost before she realized it, she’d begun playing a little piece she’d written for Jase years ago. It flowed out of her with shocking ease, and when she finished, she blinked like she was waking from a trance. Then she looked around.

Jax was smiling at her from behind the bar and when he caught her eye, he gave her a thumbs-up. Oh, God. Breaking out in a sweat, she jumped up and raced into the bathroom to stare at herself in the mirror. Flushed. Shaky. She thought about throwing up, but then someone came in to use the facilities and she decided she couldn’t throw up with an audience. So she splashed cold water on her hot face, told herself she was totally fine, and then got back to work to prove it.

Luckily, the dinner crowd hit and she got too busy to think. She worked the friendliness as best she could. But she quickly discovered it wasn’t a substitute for talent. In the first hour, she spilled a pitcher of beer down herself, mixed up two orders—and in doing so nearly poisoned someone when she gave the cashew-allergic customer a cashew chicken salad—and then undercharged a large group by thirty bucks.

Jax stepped in to help her, but by then she was frazzled beyond repair. “Listen,” he said very kindly, considering, “maybe you should stick with playing. You’re amazing on the piano. Can you sing?”

“No,” she said, and grimaced. “Well, yes.” But she
couldn’t
stick with playing, because she couldn’t play in front of an audience without having heart failure. “I really can do this waitressing thing,” she said.

Jax shook his head but kept his voice very gentle. “You’re not cut out for this job, Becca. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

She was beginning to think she wasn’t cut out for her life, but she met his gaze evenly, her own determined. “I bet you, remember? By the end of the night, you’ll see. Please? One more try?”

He looked at her for a long moment and then sighed. “Okay, then. One more try.”

A group of three guys walked in the door and took a table. Fortifying her courage, Becca gathered menus and strode over there with a ready-made smile, which congealed when she saw who it was.

Sexy Grumpy Surfer and his two cohorts.

Bolstering herself, she set the menus on the table. “Welcome, gentlemen.”

SGS was sprawled back in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him crossed at the ankles, his sun-streaked hair unruly as ever, looking like sin personified as he took her in. She did her best to smile, ignoring the butterflies suddenly fluttering low in her belly. “What can I get you to start?”

“Pitcher of beer. And you’re new,” one of them said, the one with the sweetest smile and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. He had short brown hair he’d forgotten to comb, some scruff on a square jaw, and was wearing cargo pants and a polo shirt with a small screwdriver sticking out of the breast pocket. “I’m Cole,” he told her, “and this big lug here . . .” He gestured to the dark-haired, dark-eyed, darkly dangerously good-looking guy next to him. “Tanner.” Then he jerked his chin toward SGS. “You apparently already know this one.”

“Yes,” Becca said. “SGS.”

They all just looked at her.

“Sexy Grumpy Surfer,” she clarified.

Cole and Tanner burst out laughing.

SGS just gave her a long, steady, paybacks-are-a-bitch smile.

“Or Grandpa,” Cole offered. “That’s what we call him because he always seems to know the weirdest shit.”

“And Grandma works, too,” Tanner said. “When he’s being a chick. No offense.”

Sam sent them each a look that would’ve had Becca peeing her pants, but neither man looked particularly worried.

“And your name?” Cole asked Becca.

She opened her mouth, but before she could answer Sam spoke for her. “Peeper,” he said. “Her name is Peeper.”

His steely but amused gaze held hers as he said this, which is how Becca finally saw him smile. It transformed his face, softening it, and though he was already ridiculously attractive, the smile—trouble-filled as it was—only made him all the more so. It gave her a little quiver in her tummy, which, as she couldn’t attribute it to either hunger or nerves, was not a good sign.

“Peeper,” Tanner repeated slowly, testing it on his tongue. “That’s unusual.”

Still holding Becca’s gaze, Sam said, “It’s a nickname, because she—”

“It’s my big eyes,” Becca broke in with before he could tell his friends that she’d been caught red-handed watching them like a . . . well, peeper. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ve bowled him over with my . . . peepers.”

Sam startled her by laughing, and the sound did something odd and wonderful and horrifying deep inside her, all at the same time. Unbelievably, she could feel herself standing on the precipice of a crush on this guy. She’d been attracted before, of course, plenty of times, but it’d been a while since she’d taken the plunge.

A long while.

She hoped the water was nice, because she could feel the pull of it and knew she was going in.

When Becca was called to the bar, Sam watched her go, sass in every step. She was in one of those flimsy, gauzy skirts that flirted with a woman’s thighs, and a stretchy white top. Her hair was piled on top of her head, but strands had escaped, flying around her flushed face and clinging to her neck. She’d clearly had a rough night because she appeared to be wearing both beer and barbecue sauce.

“Cute,” Tanner said, also watching.

“She’s off limits,” Sam said, and when they both looked at him in surprise, he shrugged. “We’re concentrating on business right now.”

Tanner coughed and said “bullshit” at the same time.

“It does feel like Grandma here’s holding out on us,” Cole said, still watching Sam.

Sam didn’t want to get into the real reason, which he told himself was that clearly Becca was trying to get her footing, and yeah, she put off a tough, I’ve-got-this vibe, but there was something about her that told him it was a
facade. “She’s new to town,” he said. “Let her settle before you start sniffing around her.”

“I will if you will,” Tanner said with a smile. It faded when he caught Sam’s long look. “Kidding,” he said. “Jesus. Hands off your Peeper, got it.”