Perched on the edge of her chair, Chloe swallowed a big gulp of sweet slush. “Who?” she rasped.
“The woman who was over here. The one who’s taking your picture right now.”
Christ on a cracker. Chloe tried not to look in the woman’s direction, then realized that would be a singularly strange reaction and snapped around to look.
“Her? Oh, she was asking about my hair. I guess she likes it.”
The dilemma Max faced wrote itself in broad strokes across his features as his gaze flicked over her hair. Yes, her hair looked like a twiggy nest that had been ground into his pillow for a good hour. But could he say that to a woman he’d just started sleeping with? No, he could not.
He cleared his throat. “Also, you look upset.”
/> “Nope!”
“Chloe, you’re pale as a ghost.”
Shit, shit, shit. They should’ve stayed at his cabin. They had food and drink there, but he’d looked so boneless and relaxed that she hadn’t wanted to subject him to the dangers of the old stove. She’d been the one to suggest that they skip cooking and come to the bar for a burger. What an idiotic idea.
Now she couldn’t very well backtrack and ask for the steaks instead, not when he suspected that something strange was going on. “I’m just really hungry all of a sudden. Low blood sugar.”
His eyes went round, as if she’d just smacked a sensitive part of his body. “Low blood sugar? Why didn’t you say something?” He snatched her drink from her hand and shoved the menu at her. “Let’s get you some food. They’ve got bowls of pretzels at the bar, I’ll grab one of those, all right?”
“Sure,” she answered his empty chair. Max was back and banging the bowl of pretzels on the table before she could even sneak another sip of her drink.
“What do you want to eat?”
“Guacamole burger,” she answered after popping a pretzel obediently into her mouth. “Will that pair well with a piña colada, though?”
“Not funny,” he muttered, then took off for the bar at a jog. This anxiety issue of his could really pay off under the right circumstances.
Still pretty damn anxious herself, Chloe stole a glance toward the evil grandmother. She was gone. The sight of the vacant table should’ve capped the fear bubbling inside Chloe’s chest, but somehow everything just solidified in the space behind her heart.
This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. This was a small community. The woman would talk to a friend. The friend would call the girl she used to babysit who now just happened to work at the front desk of the resort. The room was registered under Jenn’s name, but a quick Internet search would reveal that Jenn Castellan was a name that showed up in interviews about Chloe Turner. Someone would call a gossip rag for the excitement or for the $500 tip-off prize. Either way, this vacation was over. Island Chloe was going home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MAX STRETCHED HARD before collapsing back into the pillows. He didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t. Whatever time it was, it was way too damn early. Chloe had spent the night, and between talking and making love over and over again, he was so exhausted he felt slightly beat up. In fact, his back still stung faintly with the evidence she’d left with her nails. Hell, yeah.
That memory perked him up, and Max dared to open his eyes against the glare of sunshine pouring through the white curtains. White curtains. A complete waste of material.
At first he could see nothing but brightness. Then he registered the pillow mounded about two inches from his face. A slight shift of his head revealed the rumpled sheets next to his arm. There was no naked woman curled into them. Damn.
A few minutes later he summoned the energy to turn his head the other way to check the time. No wonder the sun was so darn bright. It was almost eleven o’clock. He watched the second hand make a few sweeps around the face of the old-fashioned alarm clock and then he pushed up and forced his feet to the floor. He stretched until his spine popped in all the places he was starting to feel his age.
Sure, he was only thirty-five, but he’d spent a lot of those years on the sea lifting heavy tanks and being banged around by storms.
Another reason he needed to get off that damn ship. With a groan, he launched himself from the bed and grabbed a T-shirt and shorts from the floor.
Elliott glanced up from his paper, but wisely only raised an eyebrow in greeting as Max headed for the coffeepot.
“Thank God,” Max muttered when he saw the steam rising from the pot. He poured a cup and collapsed into a chair at the table.
Half the cup was empty by the time Elliott folded the paper and cleared his throat. “So, you and Chloe?”
“Yeah?”
Elliott shrugged. “You seem to be hitting it off.”
“I guess we are. What about you and Jenn?”