Summer at Seaside Cove (30 page)

No, it didn't. But as pleasure built in her once again courtesy of Nick's clever hands and mouth caressing her, it occurred to Jamie that maybe she should be scared. Scared that this encounter, which was supposed to be nothing more than lighthearted sex, might turn into something more. And that this man, who resided hundreds of miles from where she lived, might come to mean something more than a summer fling.

But then his talented fingers touched her
ooooh
, right
there
, and with a sigh of pleasure, she arched into Nick's hand, shoving aside the admonishing voice. She hadn't planned on a summer fling, but why not? She'd enjoy herself, enjoy his company while she was here, then in a few weeks, at the end of the summer, when she returned to New York, it would end.

Easy and simple. No strings. And unlike so many things in her life lately, absolutely perfect. Nothing could go wrong.

Absolutely nothing.

N
ick normally awoke to the sound of Godiva's
I've Gotta Pee!
morning whine accompanied by a pelting of hot doggie breath, tempered by a few dozen canine kisses to his jaw. This morning he was greeted by a swatch of warm sunshine slanting through his open bedroom window, the cheerful chirping of birds, and the tantalizing aroma of bacon and freshly brewed coffee.

He opened his eyes and took in the dented pillow beside him and the badly rumpled sheets. Images of the previous night flashed through his mind like a slow-motion slideshow. Jamie under him. Over him. Her mouth on him. His mouth on her. Discovering she smelled like cookies—everywhere. Raiding his kitchen for a much-needed middle-of-the-night snack. Feeding each other bits of cheese and crackers in his bed. Talking. Laughing. Learning.

And damned if he hadn't liked everything he'd learned. She enjoyed action movies, mystery novels, and bike riding. She was a lifelong Yankees fan, couldn't ice skate to save her life but was deadly in a snowball fight, was a horrible singer but loved to sing anyway, enjoyed dancing, and played a mean game of Scrabble. She'd never been snow skiing, had broken her arm when she was eight, and loved visiting the Central Park zoo, and her favorite way to while away her infrequent afternoons off was to wander through the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where she'd been a member since childhood. In keeping with their sudden spate of agreeing, he'd discovered that they shared many similar views on politics and world events.

And then there was the fact that she blew his mind in bed.

She'd proven to be just as generous, playful, exciting, bossy, and demanding inside the bedroom as she was outside the bedroom. Hell, he had no problem with a gorgeous, naked woman telling him exactly what she wanted him to do to her, and exactly what she planned to do to him in return. Which was exactly what had happened after their snack. Several times. He wasn't sure if they'd fallen asleep or passed out from exhaustion. All he knew was that he wasn't exhausted any longer. In fact, he was wide awake. And starving. And for a hell of a lot more than bacon.

After a quick stop in the bathroom, he pulled on a clean pair of boxer briefs, then opened the door leading to the living area. And halted. At the sight of Jamie, wearing the white T-shirt she'd ripped off him last night—and from what he could tell, nothing else—looking deliciously flushed and tousled and wielding his new spatula and frying pan like Julia Child herself. She looked completely at home in his kitchen, and Godiva appeared perfectly content sprawled out on the new hardwood floor, chewing on a piece of rawhide.

Nick leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and watched Jamie slide an omelet that looked perfect enough to grace a magazine cover from the pan onto a plate that she then slid into the oven. Then she turned and caught sight of him.

For several seconds they simply stared at each other. Looking into those golden brown eyes, his insides performed some sort of crazy swooping maneuver—like when he was a kid and would jump off the high diving board. She blinked, breaking the odd spell that had seemed to hypnotize him.

And then she smiled.

It wasn't the first time he'd awakened to the sight of a barely dressed woman in his kitchen after a night of great sex. But it definitely was the first time one had ever cooked him breakfast—normally they just lounged around, waiting for their morning meal to be delivered and served.

It was also definitely the first time he'd so greatly anticipated seeing the previous night's lover the morning after. And the first time in a very long while he'd enjoyed a woman's company so much—not just the sex, but the conversation and laughter. Certainly it was the first time he could recall going from amusement to blinding, raw need in a nanosecond. And it was really definitely the first time he'd ever felt knocked flat on his ass by a simple smile.

“Good morning,” she said.

He pushed off from the doorjamb and walked toward her, drawn to her and that smile like steel to a magnet, not stopping until his body was pressed against hers from chest to knee and he'd backed her into the countertop. He tangled his hands in her shiny tumble of curls and gave her a long, slow, deep, tongue-mating kiss. When he raised his head, smug satisfaction filled him at her dazed expression. “Good morning,” he said. “It smells great in here.”

She looped her arms loosely around his neck. “In spite of the meager offerings in your fridge, breakfast is ready. I let Godiva out and fed her, too, although she told me she'd much rather eat bacon and eggs than dog chow.”

“Who wouldn't?”

She laughed. “So . . . I guess this is where we have that awkward morning-after conversation.”

“I guess.” He rolled his hips, pressing his erection tighter against her belly. “Except awkward isn't exactly what I'm feeling.”

A combination of humor and arousal glittered in her eyes. “It would appear not.”

He leaned in to touch his tongue to the delicious curve where her neck and shoulder met. “There's a surefire way we could avoid any chance of awkward conversation.”

“By not speaking?” she suggested.

He skimmed his hands beneath the T-shirt she wore and filled his palms with her gorgeous ass—which, he was gratified to discover, was gorgeously bare. “By having sex again.”

She moaned and tunneled her fingers through his hair. “Okay.”

“I've lost count of how many times we've agreed.”

“That's because you've been saying some really agreeable things. But we can't constantly keep having sex.”

He moved one hand up to cup her warm, soft breast. “Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, we'll eventually get hungry,” she said, arching into his palm.

“I'm already hungry.” To prove his point, he lightly bit her earlobe. “And it's a true testament to your ridiculous sexiness that I think you smell better than that bacon and I want to taste you more than that scrumptious egg concoction you put in the oven.”

“Thanks. Um, Nick . . . I need to tell you something.”

A tiny sliver of his lust-fogged brain noted her suddenly serious tone, but it was hard to pay attention when she just felt so damn incredibly good pressed against him, and that tempting bit of skin behind her ear felt so damn velvety soft. “What's that?”

She planted her palms on his chest and leaned back. When he straightened, he realized she was regarding him through very serious eyes. “I'm in love.”

For several seconds everything in him froze. Heart. Lungs. Pulse. Then they coughed back to life, his heart pounding so hard he could actually hear the beats echoing in his ears. A warm, dizzying sensation filled him, one he couldn't name because he'd never experienced anything like it before. It wasn't panic—he knew what that felt like. Nor was it fear—he was familiar with that one, too.

The words
holy shit
rippled through his brain, but shockingly not in a “holy shit I need to get her the hell out of my house and away from me” way. No, it somehow seemed to be more in a “holy shit . . . that's pretty amazing, and I think maybe I might like it” way.

Nah. Couldn't be.

But then what the hell was it?

Before he could decide, she continued, “With your All-Clad.”

He blinked. Then frowned. “Huh?”

“I'm in love with your frying pan. Given the condition of the pots and pans at Paradise Lost, I may have to steal it from you.”

Surely that was relief, rather than disappointment, washing through him. Jesus, of course it was. Whew! Dodged a bullet there. Last thing he needed was his temporary neighbor falling in love with him.

He cleared his throat to loosen the inexplicable tightness there. “No need to steal. Feel free to borrow it. It's not like I know how to use it.” He brushed his thumb over her hard nipple. “Of course, I
will
demand some sort of payment.”

“Name your price.”

He decided right then and there that the ridiculous amount he'd paid for pots and pans he'd rarely use had been worth every penny. He feathered his mouth over hers. “It's gonna cost you.”

She heaved a put-upon sigh. “I'll force myself to suffer through the torture.”

“Excellent.”

He traced her plump bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, debating whether to lift her onto the counter, which would be more expedient, or carry her back to his bedroom, which would be more comfortable. Plus, that's where the condoms were.

The bedroom it was.

Making a mental note to start always keeping a condom within easy reach, he scooped her up in his arms and started walking toward his bedroom.

“What about breakfast?” she asked, pressing very distracting kisses to the side of his neck.

Before he could answer, angry, raised voices floated through the open sliding doors that led to the screened-in porch. Nick paused and listened.

“I
said
I'd be right back with the money,” came an angry female voice followed by a slamming car door.

“Take it easy, little lady. All I said was I'd walk you to the door.”

“Do
not
tell me to take it easy,
quit
calling me little lady, and you are
not
walking me to the door,” yelled the female voice.

“Now look here, there's no need to holler—”

“OMG, yes there is because you are so not
listening
to me! My aunt will give me the cab fare and I'll be right back.”

“Oh, God,” Jamie whispered. “It can't be.” She pushed against his chest and wriggled like a fish on a hook. “Put me down.”

Nick set her on her feet and she ran into the screened-in porch and looked down at the street below. “Heather!” she called, waving her arms. “I'm here . . . up here. Stay there. I'll be right down.”

Jamie then dashed back inside, muttering, “Shit, shit, shit.” She frantically snatched up her underwear from the floor near the door where he'd stripped it off her last night.

“What's going on?”

“That yelling is coming from my fourteen-year-old niece, Heather,” she said, yanking up her panties and then bending to seize her shorts. “She's outside with a huge suitcase, a crapload of attitude, and a very unhappy-looking cab driver who, based on what we just heard, I'm expected to pay. I can only hope she flew here and just took that cab from the local airport and not all the way from New York, otherwise I'll owe the guy my life, a few vital organs, and my first-born child.”

“Why is she here?”

“Don't know. But I need to find out. I can't imagine it's good. If my mother is a drama queen, Heather is the Drama Empress.”

“Can I help?”

“Thanks, but no. I'll handle it. Of course if the cab fare is eighteen thousand dollars, I might need a temporary loan.” She shoved her feet into her flip-flops. “Sorry to leave so abruptly. Breakfast is in the oven. Thanks for last night—it was great. See ya.” She grabbed her purse and then dashed out the door.

The screen door slapped shut behind her and Nick stared at it for several long seconds, wondering what the hell had just happened and what he should do about it.

But he wasn't glad. He was concerned.

Yet there was no denying the protectiveness he felt toward her.

Maybe. But that didn't make it any less real.

Right. A frown burrowed between his brows. Except tossing off a hurried
Thanks for last night—it was great. See ya
didn't exactly smack of clingy, possessive, or filled with expectations. In fact, it felt pretty much like a brush-off.

He felt a nudge against his knee and looked down. Godiva shifted her soulful gaze from Nick to the door, then back to Nick, as if asking,
Where'd she go and when's she coming back?

He hunched down and gave Godiva's neck a good scratching, much to her tail-wagging delight. “She went home. But she'll be back.”

He intended to see to that.

But no matter what, he'd see her soon. After all, it was only neighborly that he make certain everything was okay at Paradise Lost.

And besides, she'd taken his T-shirt.

He hoped like hell she was still wearing it when he got it back.

A
fter paying the cab driver eighty-seven dollars, Jamie led Heather, who pulled along a wheeled Louis Vuitton suitcase she recognized as Laurel's, one that undoubtedly cost more than Jamie's entire wardrobe, into the carport. Better they talk there than in the house where her mom and Alex were—clearly sound asleep (hopefully from a night of reconciliation sex) as they hadn't come outside to see what all the commotion was about.