Hard Compromise (Compromise Me 2)

Something definitely worried her. Money? “Did you get the check I left?”

Her chin came up. “Yes.” The smile returned, but not quite the free and easy one from a moment ago. “Thanks.”

He took a step closer, grappling with the uncomfortable feeling he’d asked the wrong question. “You’re welcome. Anything else on your mind?”

“Just this.” Her smile turned innocent an instant before she flicked her foot across the surface of the water, splashing him.

Yeah, he’d definitely fucked that up, somehow. Now he could either be an asshole and hammer at her—which would only make her less likely to talk—or let it go for now. He let it go. “Jailbait, don’t make me haul you off this beach a second time.” A bigger wave rolled in, pushing her toward him. He took her hand, and then moved their joined hands to the small of her back. Her palm settled against the front of his shirt.

“On what grounds, Sheriff? I don’t have a curfew anymore.”

“I’m imposing one. No swimming after dusk.”

“Ha. How do you plan to enforce this new curfew?”

He lowered his head and kissed her. Cool, salty lips parted for him, but instead of claiming what she offered, he rubbed his lips over hers, warming them, before catching her lower lip between his teeth and licking the salt from her skin. Slowly he drew back, his teeth lightly tugging and scraping the tender flesh trapped between. When it sprang free, her sigh fluttered

away on the breeze.

She blinked her eyes open and gave him another strangely sad smile. “If that’s your idea of a deterrent, I should warn you, you’re going to have people breaking curfew left and right.” Slow, bluesy notes from an acoustic guitar drifted toward them from somewhere down the beach. Her brow lifted. “There’s one now.”

A flex of his arm pulled her closer. He wrapped his other arm around her waist, and swayed her gently in time with the music. “This particular curfew applies only to women who have their way with me in a limo.”

“All right then, I’m busted. Do what you’ve gotta do.” But she leaned into him, and she matched her steps to his. In the distance, a soulful voice joined the serenade, layering on moody lyrics about love with a stranger—the stranger the better.

The moment stretched as they swayed to the music and the rhythm of the waves. Eventually she sighed and looked up at the star-strewn sky. He thought she might start the conversation again, and tell him whatever she’d been about to say before he’d jumped the gun. Instead she whispered, “Jesus, four wineries, and my head’s a mess. We should go. All this romance is wasted on us, Booker.”

His head was suddenly, perfectly clear. She needed the romance, even if she claimed otherwise. And he needed to give it to her, because the bond between them was more than just some undefined connection. It had a name. Sometime between dragging a headstrong teen off this very beach and slow dancing in ankle-deep surf with the beautiful, complicated woman she’d become, he’d fallen in love.

And you can’t say shit to her about it.

“Speak for yourself, Jailbait. I happen to appreciate dancing by starlight every once in awhile.”

“Play that card at the right time, I’ll bet it someday wins you the woman of your dreams.”

He hoped. Ten plus years in law enforcement had taught him how to bide his time and manipulate a situation to his advantage, but when given the choice he preferred a straightforward approach. Lauralie, and circumstances, hadn’t given him that choice, and now the scheme he’d manipulated her into for the sake of helping her prevented him from telling her how he felt. If she said the words first, that would be different, but hell had a better chance of freezing over before Lauralie Peterson left herself emotionally vulnerable to anyone.

Which put it back on him. He understood her well enough to know he meant more to her than she wanted to admit. This was no longer a sport to her. Even so, throwing down an “I love you,” pushed the boundaries of fair play. Love wasn’t part of their deal. If he added it in now, he was unilaterally changing the rules on her while there was money at stake. Money she was counting on. No matter how much a part of him shouted Fuck fairness, he couldn’t do it. Not when waiting a few weeks would level their playing field.

But he could and would keep the game tight. Keep the pressure on. The lights from Las Ventanas twinkled on the bluff like a reminder. “I spoke to my mom today.”

“How’s mom?” She drew back a little, despite her casual response.

“Ambitious.” He kept his hands at her waist and continued their unhurried two-step. “She called to inform me I’m expected to attend the Las Ventanas re-launch party. Apparently she’s got her eye on a business relationship with the St. Sebastian family. I think she’d like to see Best Life products in all the guestrooms. Want to be my date?”

Her steps faltered. “I can’t. I’m already going.”

He stopped, and told himself to remain calm. “With who?”

“With the hired help. I’ll be there as a server. My old boss put out a call for extra hands—at a really good rate, I might add—and I answered.”

“Cancel. I’ve got you covered.” The words were out before he realized how they sounded. Okay, that was why any discussion of their feelings needed to wait until after the wedding.

“I can’t.” She backed away and wrapped her arms around herself. “I can’t afford to piss off one of my best sources for catering jobs with a last minute cancellation. I need real work. What if Chelsea’s bonus falls through? What if the insurance company finds some loophole to justify not paying?”

Then he’d figure out some other way to help her. But he couldn’t tell her that either, and what came out instead was a highly frustrated, “Fine. Forget I asked.”

“Thanks for understanding.” She started toward the limo. He bit back a curse, because he knew damn well he’d just convinced her he didn’t understand.