Chay had just entered the room.
Sweat glistened on his skin. His muscles stood out in sharp relief, and his gym shorts hung low on his hips. He was a walking advertisement for sex, and the look he gave Bianca left her breathless.
“I have to go, Marilyn,” she said, even as she pressed the button that ended the call. Slowly, she opened the blanket that hid her from him.
Chay flashed a hot, wicked smile.
“Baby,” he said huskily, and then they were in each other’s arms.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For most of the rest of that day, they did what they could to forget what had brought them together, what had brought them to this little piece of paradise.
They needed a break, Chay said, from everything.
Bianca knew the break was for her, not for him, but she didn’t argue. Surely, nothing would change if they spent a handful of hours away from the nightmare that had taken over her life.
Hand in hand, they walked along the beach. Bianca oohed and aahed over the seashells given up by the sea to the sand, and after she’d filled the pockets of her shorts—Chay’s shorts, really, and they were enormous on her—Chay said okay, he’d keep the overflow for her, but she’d have to tuck the shells into his pockets herself.
Dipping her hands in his pockets turned out to be a lovely price to pay, and ended with them racing for his cottage, laughing until they reached it—and then, once they were inside, the laughter turned to sighs.
The next day, they rode his Harley up the coast to a little café that almost overhung the sea. It turned out he had a couple of other leather jackets, but he offered to take the truck, if she preferred it.
Bianca batted her lashes. “I’m going to let you in on a secret, Lieutenant. The second best thing that happened to me the night we went to that Italian restaurant was riding your big, bad motorcycle.”
“It’s a good thing that came in second best,” Chay said, laughing as he dipped her back over his arm for a kiss.
At the café, he ordered a huge platter of Santa Barbara Channel ridgeback shrimp.
She said they’d never finish so much food… But they did.
“Mmm,” she said. “That was delicious.”
“Wait until you taste spiny lobster.”
She groaned. “Chayton. I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“Actually,” he said, laughing, “you couldn’t. Spiny lobster season doesn’t start until October. You’ll just have to dream about it until…”
He fell silent.
She looked at him.
Was he really talking about the future? She wanted to ask, but how did you do that? How did you say I’d like another glass of sangria and by the way, are you asking me to—to—
“Ice cream,” he said, and he said it so briskly that she knew he was trying to fill the uncomfortable silence, and maybe hoping she wouldn’t misinterpret what he’d said. After all, telling her she’d have to wait to eat spiny lobster in the fall wasn’t the same as saying they’d be together in the fall.
How could they be?
She lived in New York. He lived in California.
And, really, that was the least of it.
Her lieutenant wasn’t a forever kind of man. You didn’t need a degree in psychology to know that.
“Honey? You up for ice cream? Because there’s a place in town that dishes up the most incredible orange-ginger stuff—”
“Orange-ginger,” Bianca said brightly. “Don’t be silly. Everybody knows the only flavor that matters is vanilla.”