Scratch the Surface

That, of course, would not go over well, but my breath quickened and my pulse was hammering, and I wasn’t sure if it was pain or pleasure or pure panic. I had his name, yes, but what I wanted was his home address so I could go there and camp out. I took a breath, realizing how insane that sounded, even in my own head, but it didn’t make the desire any less. I also wondered how I could stay behind after everyone else finished their meal. Or maybe I could return with them to the hotel and then rent a car and come back. I needed to figure it out.

Excusing myself, under the pretext of using the bathroom, I walked across the recycled barnwood floor, made up of every color of wood imaginable, toward the front of the restaurant. I looked everywhere for him on the way, even leaned into the kitchen and apologized lavishly when I was yelled at by several voices at once. He wasn’t behind the bar or out on the floor, at the hostess stand, or anywhere at all that I could see. And I would have seen him. The man was like a beacon; I wouldn’t have missed him.

I found the restrooms, ducked inside, and went directly into one of the stalls and locked the door behind me. I needed to get it together. I’d been obsessing over the man all day, working myself up, thinking that what we shared had been more than just sex, but what the hell? My life wasn’t a movie, and this was not like me. I was logical, I lived in the real world, and I didn’t lose myself to romance or wishful thinking. It served no purpose.

He’d shaken my hand, but he hadn’t lingered. I’d held on much tighter, and he’d left the second he could get away, which I understood. Why would he want someone who knew about his side hustle? He had his life, and I had mine. What was I even thinking? I’d be driving home tomorrow afternoon, after Doug and I met with the people at Rauch about Axton’s no-deal with the Bowens. I’d be home early enough to have dinner with friends. Friday morning, I’d be back in my office. I’d have my weekend and my usual Sunday dinner with my family. By Monday, back at the grindstone, the encounter with Jeremiah Wolfe would be well out of my system.

Taking a deep breath, feeling everything in me calm and solidify, I was more grounded than I had been all day. I opened the stall door to step out.

“Who is that guy?” Jeremiah asked, glaring at me, standing there in my way, arms crossed like he was ready to fight.

I was suddenly breathless, and my world was a jumble all over again.

“Answer,” he demanded, coming forward, shoving on my shoulder, giving me no choice but to take a step back, my calf hitting the toilet.

“He works at the company I’m a senior manager for,” I answered, breathing in the scent of clothes dried on a line in a beach breeze. I had to wonder why he smelled like my home in Pacifica. How was that even possible? “I’m their accountant.”

He nodded, but the furrow of his brows remained, and there was anger in those beautiful eyes, as well as something else I couldn’t place. “And you what, just hook up with him when you’re in town?”

“I—what? No,” I rushed out, squinting at him. “We’ve never done anything together outside of the office before tonight, and this time it was only to talk to the Bowens about their property.”

“It looked like—the way he put his arm around you…seemed like more.”

“Well, I can assure you it’s not,” I stressed to him. “If I were romantically, or even casually, involved with someone here, I would not have invited you in last night.”

Uncrossing his arms, he put one hand on top of the stall door and the other on the jamb, caging me in. “This is kinda crazy, right?”

“I asked around for you today,” I confessed, coughing softly. “Talked to the bartender, and of course, questioned Doug. I was going to stop and speak to the evening concierge tonight, if Doug didn’t see you.”

He was quiet.

“He’s there now, at the hotel, on the lookout for you. He stayed behind because the drive out here would have been a little too much for him. He’s still queasy. But I had no trouble with covering for him since he was doing me a favor by keeping watch and asking around.”

“That’s flattering,” he replied, gaze holding mine.

“No one had ever seen you there before.”

Quick shrug. “Not surprising; I tend to fly under the radar.”

I scoffed.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I mean”––I gestured at him––“looking like you do, I don’t see how that’s possible.”