* * *
Shaving my legs for the third time, I sat on the edge of the tub and thought about my clothing options for the night. It was such a cliché, but I always felt more confident in my stilettos. I bought the cutest pair of brown leather ones with red patent-leather Mary Jane straps across the ankles last year.
My red chiffon dress had been begging to be worn since the day I bought it on sale at American Eagle with Mariska. She, by contrast, had picked out a circle-skirt in an amazing southwest-Indian print and worn it a dozen times already. Mine had been hanging in my closet untouched. It was short, flirty, and perfect.
Glancing at the clock, it was two hours until seven. Why hadn’t we set a time? I didn’t know what to do, so I decided to play with my hair. Sectioning it off into quarters, I took the top portion and teased it into an Amy Winehouse-style beehive. Okay, it wasn’t that big—more like one of those lumps Patrick would say were in Lane’s oatmeal. Still I felt a little of my edge restored with my bombshell hair, a small dose of confidence.
With a sigh, I saw it was still an hour until seven. Pulling out the curling iron, I sat on the sink and made loops in the length hanging down my back. After I had a nice cascade of curls, I put it aside and pulled out my black eyeliner. My knees were practically at my ears as I leaned forward and drew a dramatic line over my eyes. A little tweak at the corners, and I sat back. My blue eyes shone like crazy with all the drama, but it was too much. I reached down and pulled out my brush. A few swipes and the bulk of my mini-beehive was gone. My eyes were still drama, but I looked less like a hooker and more like a vixen.
It was seven. I didn’t know if that was the right time or not, but clearly I couldn’t stay in this apartment anymore. No telling what I’d look like when I met him.
Swinging my feet out of the sink and into my shoes, I leaned down and buckled the straps then I headed for the door. I hadn’t thought to slurp down a glass of wine in all my preparations—why hadn’t I done that? Now I was all nerves.
I was heading out into the night, moments away from facing the most gorgeous guy I’d ever seen possibly ever... okay, Patrick was pretty damn hot, but that was doomed from the start. This situation, on the other hand...
My insides were quaking when I pulled up to the pier. I couldn’t get out like this. I put the car in drive and headed to the nearest gas station. It was too well-lit, and a few tweens were hanging out on the curb holding skateboards and acting like punks. God, that used to be me.
Charging inside, I went straight to the refrigerated area and pulled out a four-pack of Woodbridge. It was fast and dirty, and I paid the cashier and charged back to my car. Not having a set meeting time, I felt slightly better about parking near the pier and twisting the top off a little bottle.
Trembling, I lifted it and slugged the whole thing at once. It was enough—I didn’t want to be juiced when I met up with him. I didn’t feel it just yet, but I hopped out, hit the automatic lock and threw my keys in my bag.
With every step, my limbs felt a little warmer, a little looser. He wasn’t at the pier, but at least I wasn’t shaking now. The pier posts extended above the wooden planks, and I leaned my cheek against one thinking about what had brought me here. All the events leading up to this moment, from my drive to Wilmington to my disastrous night with Mariska to meeting Slayde in the gym to last night to this morning...
“Hey.” His low voice snapped me out of my reflections. I turned and stood straight to face him, energy surging through my stomach.
He exhaled a low, “Wow.”
Suddenly self-conscious, I looked down, taking in the filmy red dress, my tall shoes. I was pretty fancy compared to him in the same faded jeans and a navy tee.
“I’ve been waiting for a reason to wear this,” I said, apologetically. “It’s been hanging in my closet forever.”
He was barefoot in the sand, but he stepped up onto the pier and quickly took both my hands. His eyes shone, and I could hardly look at them.
“Why do you do that?” He caught my chin and turned my face back to his. I could’ve gazed all night at his dark hair moving in the constant breeze, his square jaw shaded by the faint scruff of a beard, and that sexy line down his chin—if it hadn’t been for those ice-blue eyes.
My voice was quiet. “People always say I have beautiful eyes.”
“You do.” His answer was quick.
“But so do you. I look in them, and I feel like I can’t breathe.”
He stepped forward and cupped my cheek in one hand before closing his lips against mine. It was a gentle kiss. No tongue, but full of warmth. I felt his breath whisper across my cheek when he leaned back and looked straight into my soul.
“I’m so glad this dress was hanging in your closet forever. You’re beautiful.”
“You keep saying that,” I laughed, turning my face to the side. “You’re the beautiful one.”
“Come with me.” He pulled, and I stumbled after him. At the edge of the pier he stopped. “Sit.”
I followed orders, and his large, warm hands circled my ankles. “I love these shoes.” He turned my foot side to side. “God, I hate to do this.” In one quick motion, he slid the ankle strap down, and it was off. Then he did the same with the other. “Walk on the beach with me, but hang onto those. We might put them back on later.”
A little charge raced through my core at the prospect of how that might go. I didn’t have time to dwell on it because he pulled me to his side, and his muscled arm wrapped around me, holding me close as we walked north along the shoreline.
He looked forward into the breeze. “How is it possible I came here thinking I’d fade away, and I found you?”
Entranced by the sight of him holding me so close, I was sure he felt my heartbeat, and I found myself being utterly truthful. “I was so messed up. Everything about me was wrong until you appeared.”