Page 14 of A Shore Fling

He sets the bottle down before plucking some mini bruschetta from the tray. He pops the small piece in his mouth, enthusiastically nodding as he chews. “That’s delicious.”

“Thanks. It’s easy to make, so it meets my cooking criteria.”

“Do you do a lot of home cooking, or do you usually get takeout?” he asks.

“Back in the city, when I’m working, I eat a lot of takeout during the week. On the weekends, I try to cook my meals. What about you?”

“I try to cook as often as possible, but I end up grabbing pizza at least once a week.”

“Don’t you know, pizza doesn’t count,” I say with a conspiratorial smile.

He nods slowly. “That’s true.”

“Go ahead and sit down. I’ll be right with you.” My hand brushes across his back as I pass by on my way to the stove. I scoop chicken, rice, and vegetables onto our plates and then deliver them to the table.

“Wow. This looks amazing,” he says, placing his napkin on his lap. Taking the seat across from him, I do the same, trying not to think about how small this table is. Or how close our knees are underneath it.

A gentle breeze filters in through the open window, flickering the candle’s flame in the center of the table as we begin to eat.

“You cooked this yourself?” he asks, spearing a roasted carrot.

“Yep. Chicken and veggies are a staple in my life, but I like to experiment with different seasonings.”

He chews thoughtfully. “It’s good.”

My eyebrows lift. “Wait. Did you compliment me?”

He shrugs, sipping his wine. “Don’t get used to it.”

I smile around my fork. “Noted.”

There’s silence as we continue enjoying the meal, but it’s not awkward. I’m surprised at how comfortable this feels, although I probably shouldn’t be. I’ve never minded quiet moments. Especially with the long hours I work—worked.

When both of our plates are almost cleared, I ask the question I’ve been wondering about since he pulled me from the water. “So, do you always throw yourself into the ocean for people you barely know?”

He leans back, studying me. “Only when they’re reckless bookworms with questionable swimming skills.”

“Hey!” I point my fork at him. “I can swim.”

“To quote your friends, ‘not well.’”

“I was engrossed in a great story.”

“You were floating into a shipping lane.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why do you always sound like you’re scolding me when you’re probably trying to be nice?”

He tilts his head, his dark gaze still on my face. “I don’t know. Why do you keep putting yourself in dangerous situations if you don’t want me to rescue you?”

Touché. He has the decency not to outright smirk, but it’s there teasing the corner of his mouth. That same corner I’m trying hard not to imagine kissing.

Lifting my glass, I take a slow sip. “Maybe this summer is all about doing things I’ve never done before, challenging myself.”

His dark eyes pin me in place. “It feels more like you’re challenging me.”

My lips part in a slow smile, and I set my wine glass down. “Well, if that’s true, why do you keep rising to meet each one?”

“I’m not sure,” he says at last. “I guess I need to figure that out.” There’s an almost tangible shift in the air that has him more relaxed and less guarded.

“Would you like some dessert?”

Interest flashes across his face. “What kind?”

“I have lemon bars or nothing. Take your pick.”

A soft chuckle slips from him. “That’s a tough call.”

Standing, I gather the plates, keeping my hands occupied so I can’t reach across the table and see if his hair is as thick as it looks.

He rises too. “I’ll help.”

“No, that’s not necessary.”

But he’s already moving around the table, taking the plates from my hands. Our fingers brush again. This time his touch lingers longer, and when I glance up, he’s watching me. We’re standing close together. Closer than we should be. Is the kitchen shrinking? Why is my heart racing so fast?

“You’re not what I expected,” I say, my voice sounding breathier than usual.

“Neither are you,” he replies, his voice deep and gravelly. The dishes are still in his hands as we stare at each other. Inhale. Exhale. Neither of us moves. Inhale. Exhale. Just as I’m summoning the courage to do something I shouldn’t, his phone buzzes.

We both break free of whatever spell’s holding us captive. He sets the dishes in the sink, then reaches into his pocket, muttering, “Sorry,” as he pulls out his phone.

I try to cut the lemon bars into perfect squares, but the heightened awareness I feel from being in such close proximity to my handsome guest makes my fingers clumsy. When I’m done, the bars look like a kindergartner cut them.

Travis comes over beside me, his phone still gripped in his hand.

“Everything okay?” I ask, setting the knife down on the edge of the pan. I gesture for him to help himself to dessert.

“Yeah. One of my brothers always needs something, and I seem to be their go-to for whatever it is.” He uses the knife to remove a square and then takes a bite.

“That’s the oldest-sibling curse,” I say. “My brother is lucky to have sisters. Neither of us contacts him when we need something.”

He licks a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Then who do you turn to?”

“Irene and I are always there for each other. She’s my best friend, and the only person who knows where I am right now.”

“For real? You didn’t tell anyone else? Not even a… boyfriend?” He takes another bite of lemon square.

“Is that your way of asking if I’m single?”

His lips curve slightly as he finishes chewing. “Maybe.”

“Well, I am. And I’m serious about no one else knowing I’m here. Working for my family’s company is great, but my vacation time always gets put on hold. So I decided to take the remainder of the summer off and not tell them how to reach me.”

“Damn. I can’t imagine what would happen if I took an unexpected vacation. My brothers wouldn’t know what to do without me.” He shakes his head. “Has your phone been blowing up with calls and texts?”

“At first it was, but my brother’s smart. He realized I’m not giving in this time.”

He takes another bite, pausing mid-chew.

“What? Are they too tart?”

He chews slowly, then lifts his hand to touch his mouth. “No, it’s delicious, but my mouth feels weird.”

I frown. “Weird how?”

He sets the half-eaten bar down. “Tingly.”

My eyes widen. “Tingly like it’s too sour, or tingly like?—”

“My lips are going numb.”

“Oh no!” I move closer to get a better look. His lips are visibly fuller. “No. No. No. Are you allergic to something?”

“I don’t know.” He licks his swollen lips and then frowns. “What’s in those bars?”

“Sugar, lemon zest, almond flour.”

He groans. “I’m allergic to almonds.”

“Oh my God! I was trying to make them healthier.” I grab my bag by the door. “Do we need to go to the hospital? I can drive you in your vehicle.”

“No,” he says calmly. “It’s a mild allergy, but I should probably take something before I look like I got lip injections in some back alley.”

“Now he’s got jokes?” I mumble, rummaging through my bag for the Benadryl I purchased when I first got here.

I planned to take a couple at night if I couldn’t sleep, but the salt air has been knocking me out as soon as my head hits the pillow.

I hand him two tablets and then fill a glass of water for him.

He swallows them, then extends his hand toward me.

“Better give me one more.”

“The box says to take two.”

“I know. However, I’m a big guy, and three works better. Trust me. I’ve done this before.”

“Okay, but this is your idea,” I remind him.

“Yep. You’ll only be held responsible for trying to off me with almond flour.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, guilt washing over me. “I was trying to impress you, not poison you.”

“It’s okay. Just don’t take any pictures.”

Pressing my lips together, I stifle my laugh. “But you look like a model. A very pouty one.”

He shoots me a flat look, which would be more effective if his mouth didn’t look like an octopus tentacle has been suctioned to it for hours.

“I feel ridiculous,” he growls out.

“Here. Let me make it better.” Leaning in, I gently kiss his soft, swollen lips. He stills, and I pull back. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I… couldn’t help myself.”

He leans forward, and my pulse races. He’s going to kiss me. But instead, he swipes his hand over his forehead. “Meds are kicking in now.”

I grab hold of his arm and lead him to the living room couch. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thanks.” He lowers to the cushion and then lies down.

I grab a blanket from the closet and drape it over him. “Sleep tight, harbormaster.”

His breathing soon evens out, but I remain standing next to the couch, taking advantage of the opportunity to study him unguardedly. With his face softened by sleep, he looks younger. This wasn’t the night I imagined, but despite the almond flour fiasco, it turned out better than I expected.