The Love Shack. Christie Ridgway
starting to pump. Customers were two-deep at the bar. People were moving about the small parquet dance area to Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds.” Griffin and Jane were out there, wrapped in each other’s arms. Tess was dragging her husband, David, in their direction, though he was laughing and protesting at the same time.
“Dance?” Gage said again.
He’d probably been sitting too long, Skye thought. He’d always been on the go as a kid and there was good reason his sister labeled him “restless.” She knew for a fact that he only slept six hours a night—one of the personal details he’d shared in his letters.
An amused glint entered Gage’s blue eyes as she continued to hesitate. “Am I speaking the wrong language?”
“You’re asking the wrong girl,” Skye said. “Polly will do it.”
“What?” Polly looked up from the phone cradled in her palms, her thumbs poised over the touch screen. “He didn’t ask me.”
“You like to dance.”
“I’m texting with Teague.” She shook her head. “He’s having an emotional emergency.”
Skye glanced up at Gage again. “Teague White. Remember him? He spent summers here, too.”
He blinked. “Tea— No! Tee-Wee White?”
“Not so tee-wee anymore,” Polly muttered, her thumbs tapping away. “More like big fat idiot.”
Not fat, Skye mouthed to Gage.
He laughed, then bent to grip her elbow and tug her to her feet in one quick move. “Let’s dance, Skye.”
Freezing, she stared at the large, masculine hand circling her cotton-knit-covered arm. Her common sense warred with her fight-or-flight response. Don’t bolt, she told herself. Or punch him. Either option would only bring up embarrassing questions.
“You okay?”
“S-sure.” As sure as someone could be who’d broken up with her boyfriend because she’d developed an aversion to being touched.
Before she could think of how to get away from the situation without sacrificing dignity or courtesy, he was towing her toward the other couples moving to the music. One song ended and another began, ukulele notes and the sweet voice of IZ Kamakawiwo’ole singing “White Sandy Beach of Hawai’i” floating through the air like feathers.
Gage released her arm, and, sensing this was her moment, Skye took a big step back. But he grabbed for her hand, reeling her close.
Scattering her thoughts. Honing her senses.
They focused on him, his large, lean frame, and on the nuances of his skin against hers. His fingers were long, his palm hard and calloused, the rough skin scratching the tender hollow at the center of her hand. She didn’t think she was breathing as his other palm settled at her waist, just the lightest of touches over the material.
It wasn’t a close hold, it was almost impersonal, she knew that, but her blood was shooting through her veins like a comet. Anxiety, she thought, as the heat sizzled her nerve endings. It stole her oxygen along with the words that would get her off the dance floor. Mute, she looked up at him.
Gage returned her gaze, his expression enigmatic but his amazing eyes bright with... Skye didn’t know what. He gave her hand a small squeeze. It felt...reassuring.
Maybe. She was so messed up, she’d been so messed up for months that her brain was unable to interpret normal signals. Behind her eyes came the hot prick of tears. Another flush rose up her neck as she imagined the humiliation of bursting into sobs. Keep it together, she thought, desperate not to look the fool in front of this beautiful man.
He blew out a little sigh as he moved them to the slow beat of the song. His body didn’t brush hers, yet she couldn’t help being aware of the breadth of his chest and the lean strength of his arms and legs. “Dinner was excellent,” he said. “Nothing better than a heaping serving of beach fries along with sixteen ounces of aged beef.”
Skye redirected her gaze to the safer vicinity of his heavy shoulder and told herself to try to relax. “You missed American food.”
“I’ve been dreaming of rare steak for months.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You don’t like your meat bloody.”
“Oh, God, did I confess that to you?” he said, his tone aghast.
“You did.” She felt a little smile break through her tension.
“What’ll it take for you to keep that to yourself?” he demanded. “In most circles it’s considered unmanly to like meat well-done.”
She smiled again. “You’re plenty manly.” Without thinking, she glanced up.
He was grinning, his expression amused, but as their gazes held, his smile died away.
Skye felt another surge of that breathless, uncomfortable anxiety, and a rush of goose bumps shivered across her skin.
The song ended. Gage dropped his hands. The loss of contact didn’t calm her jangling nerves and they continued to stand on the dance floor, staring at each other.
A long moment passed, and then Gage shook his head with a wry laugh. “I suppose it’s past time to regret that you know so many of my secrets.”
Skye didn’t answer either way, though she understood his concern. To her mind, it was imperative he stay ignorant of hers.
CHAPTER TWO
GAGE GOT A GOOD NIGHT’S sleep, despite or perhaps because of the jet lag brought on by seventy-nine hundred miles of travel. Upon waking to a sun-bright room, he leaned over and clicked off the bedside lamp. It was his new habit to sleep with a light on like a three-year-old, but he wasn’t going to try weaning himself for a while.
After dressing in cargo pants and a T-shirt that was probably older than his own thirty-one years, he rummaged through the groceries he’d stashed in the kitchen. Finding an apple, he polished it against his thigh and then took it with him as he stepped through the sliding glass door that led from the living room onto the deck facing the ocean.
No. 9 was the best beach house in the cove. At least he’d always thought so. They’d come here for a decade of summers, and it didn’t appear as if much—or anything—about it had changed. Dark brown shingles covered the two-story structure, and the trim around the doors and windows was still painted a bluish-green. It was situated at the southern end of the cove, cozied up to a bluff that pushed into the ocean. The trails snaking up the cliff’s rocky side told Gage that daredevils likely still used it as a jumping-off place, just as he and Griffin had when they were kids.
The ocean called to him, so he crossed the deck and jogged down the steps leading to the sand. The stuff under his bare feet was the consistency of cornmeal, and he continued through it until the grains were wet and moisture sucked at his soles. Then, with his apple held in the grip of his teeth, he bent to roll his pant legs above the ankle.
Even prepared as he was, he cursed as the first rush of water reached his naked toes. Shit! It was cold, at least initially, even during high summer in Southern California. Another small wave folded over his feet and he flinched, just like one of the out-of-state tourists who came to California with only images of Baywatch reruns or old Gidget movies in mind. Hollywood magic hid the goose bumps, so they were startled by their first experience with Pacific temperatures.
As his toes went numb, Gage continued strolling up the deserted beach, sloshing through the shallow outreach of the surf, breathing in the fresh, wet-smelling air as he munched on his Granny Smith. He had no particular purpose in mind, no intent beyond enjoying the sun on the top of his head and his shoulders, the endless sound of the waves, the precious sense of freedom. There’d been times he’d doubted whether he’d get the chance to experience them again.
Though it