The Love Shack. Christie Ridgway
scrap of fabric. “To cocktail hour.” Then he clacked his bottle against Griffin’s. “Dogs bark but the caravan moves on.”
Griffin ignored that bit of Arabic wisdom and narrowed his gaze at his brother. “You don’t have a camera.”
“As usual, your powers of observation are staggering. No wonder you won that big hairy prize for your reporting.”
“Why don’t you have a camera?” his brother persisted, paying no attention to the teasing.
Gage shrugged. He couldn’t explain to himself his disinterest in having near what for years had been an extension of his own body.
“Something’s wrong,” Griffin said flatly. “Damn it, I knew something was wrong. I’ve known it for weeks.”
Gage took a slow swallow of beer. “Where’s your evidence? I’m here, I’m whole—”
“You’re without a camera—”
“I don’t have one with me all the time.”
“Yes, you do, unless you’re having sex. And that’s only because you told me it inhibits naked women. They worry they might become the subject of your camera’s eye.”
“And I don’t want to waste my time with inhibited women, that’s true. Life’s too short.” He took another swig of his beer, enjoying the warm air, the cool breeze off the ocean, the happy, drinking people around them.
Griffin stayed silent, but Gage could feel his considering stare. “And why are you just sitting there—no drumming fingers, no fidgety knees?” his twin finally asked. “I’ve never seen you sit this still your whole life.”
“Maybe I’ve learned some patience.” Cramped quarters and no way out of them could affect a man. When his brother made a scoffing sound, he pointed his bottle at him. “You’ve changed, too. Good God, you’re engaged.”
Griffin narrowed his eyes. “You’re avoiding my questions.”
“Ask one that makes some sense.”
“Why Crescent Cove?”
Gage blinked. He hadn’t seen that coming. “You’re getting married here at the end of the month.”
“You didn’t know that when you booked No. 9 as Fenton Hardy.”
“Does it really matter?” The notion had been seeded by Griffin, he supposed, when his brother had told him he’d decided to take three months at the cove to write his war memoir. But Gage had to admit that there’d been something else—someone else cementing the deal.
Even before his two weeks in hell, he’d had this itch to visit Skye-with-the-unnecessary-e. He smiled, thinking about her.
Across the table from him, Griffin groaned. “All right, who is she?”
“Who is who?”
“You’re thinking about some girl. You’re thinking about boning some girl.”
Gage frowned. “Don’t say it like that.”
“That’s how you always say it.”
“You want me to talk that way about you making love with your Jane?”
His brother hooted. “You’re calling it ‘making love’ now?” His two fingers put little scare quotes around the term. “And by the way, if you insult Jane in any way, shape or form, I’ll kick your ass. And then she’ll do it all over again, only harder. And with sexier shoes.”
“Whoa,” Gage said, tilting his head. “You’ve really fallen for her.”
Griffin’s expression softened. “Best thing that ever happened to me. I was...messed up when I got back. She helped me find my balance again. She is the balance.”
Gage nodded. Griffin’s yearlong experience embedded with the troops in Afghanistan had been harrowing, he’d known that.
His brother hesitated, took another long swig of beer, hesitated again. “I’ve been seeing a counselor.”
“Finally,” Gage said, faking relief without missing a beat. “Good to know you’re getting some professional assistance for that little premature ejaculation problem you’ve always had.”
Griffin’s grin broke quick, felt sweet. “For PTSD, smart-ass.”
Gage merely nodded, careful not to offer judgment or advice. “Helping?”
“Yeah.” Then he grinned again. “Though regular sex isn’t bad for the cure, either.”
“Which reminds me,” Gage said, frowning. “Did you have to tell Skye about the Gage Gorge? Jesus!”
His brother laughed. “I don’t remember relating that odd little quirk of yours.”
“It’s not a quirk. It’s a...it’s a...” He glared across the table. “You like sex, too.”
“Yeah, and committed sex is the best there is,” his twin said, smug.
“Oh, come on.” It was Gage’s turn to scoff.
“Think about it. You get to know her magic switches and it’s a sure thing time after time after time.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Oh, it can be a fast bump or a slow ride and everything in between. I set up these little challenges for myself. Forty-five minutes of just kissing, say, or using only my index finger to get her off. My ultimate goal is to take her there by hot whispers and above-the-waist touches only.”
“Now, that just sounds like work, bro.” Though he shifted in his chair, finally restless.
“Not when you’re doing it with someone you really care about. It’s the one-night stands that sound like work after that.”
Without Gage’s permission, images formed in his mind—not of Griff and Jane, thank God—but of dark hair and green-and-amber eyes, delicate breasts and a spectacular booty. Then he saw himself closing in for that kiss and the way Skye had leaped away from him—as if he were toxic.
As if she was spooked.
“There were some physical problems.”
She’d said that, and he’d gone all caveman, ready to bust Dagwood’s chops if he’d hurt her—which she’d denied. So why had she said it?
He turned to his brother, in sudden critical need of an answer. “What’s it mean when a woman claims she and a man had some ‘physical problems’?”
And this time it was Griffin who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—reply. And Gage who felt in his gut that something was very, very wrong.
* * *
THE SUN WAS LOW IN THE SKY when Skye stepped outside her cottage to the miniature lemon tree planted in a pot near the side of her house. Fresh citrus slices would keep moist the piece of salmon she was planning to grill on a cedar plank. She wrapped her fingers around one of the ripe fruits, then yelped when a man suddenly came around the corner.
“Dalton!” She clutched the lemon in both hands at chest level, over the startled beat of her heart. “What are you doing here?”
He was handsome, well built if not tall, smooth-looking in a summer-weight suit, white shirt and gold-and-brown diamond-patterned tie that mirrored the dark honey of his hair and eyes. “A man can’t visit the beach on a summer evening?”
She lifted an eyebrow.
His smile was white. A little rueful. “A man can’t visit the woman who unceremoniously dumped him on a summer evening?”
“I didn’t—”
Now he raised a brow.
Skye pressed her lips together, wishing she could honestly deny it.