I get to the restaurant a good ten minutes early. Low and behold, Saint’s truck is sitting in the parking lot. I hurriedly slide out of my Jeep, making sure once again that my skirt doesn’t slide up that back. Maybe I should have re-thought this idea of a Jeep Wrangler with oversized tires. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but my mother was right—what a hassle this vehicle has been.
“Oh, well,” I say out loud, but not loud enough so anyone can hear me. Parking is always limited here, and sometimes, you have to park in the grass, which is where I’m parked now.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Saint’s voice jars me once again.
“Jesus, you need a bell around your neck. For a man your size, you sure are stealthly.” He takes my hand in his.
“Nah, I like sneaking up on you when you’re talking to the wind.” Saint is trying to hold back his laughter. He doesn’t let go of my hand though, and I have to say I really like that.
“It’s a good thing because I think the wind understands me more than I’m understanding everything else.” I nod to our intertwined fingers.
“We’ll be discussing it after the papers are signed and you’re no longer technically working for me. I don’t want anything to get in the way or for you to come at me with some crazy excuse.” We walk to the entrance, Saint opening the door.
“Welcome to Goodrich’s. Hey, Em, how are ya, honey?” Mrs. Kelly has been working here for what seems like ever.
“Doing good, Mrs. Kelly. How are you?” I ask.
“Seems you’re doing more than good. Would y’all like to eat in the dining area or out on the deck?” She doesn’t answer my question, and with the way Saint moves his hand to my lower back, I’ll bet Mrs. Kelly is calling my parents, brother, and sister-in-law.
“On the deck, please,” Saint replies. Mrs. Kelly winks at me, and I swear my ears are on fire from blushing.
“Right this way.” We follow her to the back deck, where picnic-style benches are set up, with umbrellas up to block out some of the sun. Yet it doesn’t block the view of the water. Oyster bars can be seen when the tide is low, but it’s also hell on props if you’re not careful.
“You two know what you want to drink? I’ll get that started before Mary comes to take care of you,” Mrs. Kelly offers.
“I’ll take a Bud Light bottle,” I tell her.
“Make that a bucket, please. We’ll be here for a while,” Saint states. Mrs. Kelly nods her head, and I pull out the paperwork that needs to be taken care of, along with my iPad.
“Ready to get this taken care of?” I ask.
“Yep, whenever you are.” Saint surprised me when we sat down at the table. Instead of sitting across from me, he sat down beside me, our legs touching, his left arm dangling by my lower thigh, and I so desperately want to feel his hands on my body.
We get everything squared away, I send everything out that I can electronically, stowing the papers away, and then we’re both drinking an ice-cold beer, talking about nothing and everything. That’s when Saint drops the bomb in my lap. “Now that the house buying business is out of the way, I want to ask you something.” My stomach clenches, not knowing what he has to say.
I put on a brave face, muster up all the bravado I can, but he does one better. His hand finally lands on my lower thigh, rough to my soft, grounding me in the most carnal way possible all while we’re in public. “What’s that?”
“Breathe, sweetheart.” He takes a sip of his beer, keeping me on pins and needles.
“You stalling is doing nothing for the breathing you’re asking for,” I retort. Now it’s me grabbing my beer, needing some kind of liquid courage.
“I want you to help me decorate the house. I also want to see where this goes. No putting walls up, no excuses. I know you feel it, Emerson.” That’s when my clumsiness comes to town. I’m falling backwards. Damn this picnic bench-style seating. I know this is it. I’ll fall down, hurt myself someway, and Saint will run for the hills.
“Shit,” comes rushing out of my mouth, jaw clenched, bracing for the fall. It doesn’t happen though. Instead, Saint gathers me in his arms, and his voice rumbles in my ear, “I guess you’re really falling for me, huh, sweetheart?” A laugh bubbles up deep inside me, and I almost snort.
“You could say that again.” I turn my head to meet his eyes. Mischief is dancing on his face.
“You going to give me an answer or keep me waiting, Emerson?” I want to sink so deep inside his warmth and never let go, but that might be a bit too soon, too fast. Instead, I respond, “Are you sure you want me to help decorate your place? I mean, I’m not the best of the best. Not when you know people like the Carters, who could refer you to a top-notch designer.”