Rusty Nailed (Cocktail, #2)(59)

“Oh I know how hard that was.” I laughed as he thrust up against me. I turned around, sitting with my back to his chest, and looked out across the bay, the lights from the city sparkling on the water. From this vantage point, I could see the town below, its own light reflecting in the waves. It was so peaceful over here, I’d miss it when we moved back to the city full-time.

A moment of tension crept in, but I shook it away. I breathed deep, inhaling the scent of laurel and pine, the saltiness of the sea air that was always in the background. He pushed my hair off my shoulders, leaving a trail of warm wet kisses behind. Passion was one thing, but that quiet comfort of unhurried touching?

It was really good.

“This is nice.” I sighed, leaning back against him.

“I agree,” he murmured into my skin, his hands beginning to roam across my belly.

“I meant being out here in Sausalito.” I laughed, shivering as his mouth dipped into the hollow between my shoulder and ear.

“I know what you meant, and I agree,” he answered, nibbling me like an ear of corn. “I didn’t think I would, but I really like it over here. It’s homey.”

I squealed, his touch causing me to break out into gooseflesh. “Who you callin’ homey?” I giggled.

“Shush, I’m seducing you,” he instructed, raising my arm and kissing the length of it like a villain in an old-timey cartoon. “You’ll soon be putty in my hands; I’ll be able to have my wicked way with you.”

“Then by all means, continue.” I fell back against him, doing my putty imitation.

“Wow, you’re easy.”

“You’re just now figuring this out?” I laughed, bouncing on his lap, splashing water all around.

His response was dunking me under the water. I came up spitting and sputtering. While I was grumbling and wiping my face off, I felt him tugging at my bikini top.

I feigned a look of surprise. “Now look what you did.”

“I’m looking.” And then he was touching. And then he was doing other things to me. Wanton naked licking loving sucking biting thrusting things.

It was really good.





chapter sixteen


The free time continued into Sunday; I desperately needed a day off. I could have been at the Claremont. I should be approving curtains and rod placement; I should be eyeballing the marble tiles in the bathrooms and whether they should be hung vertically for a touch of whimsy; I should be approving a slab of reclaimed wood for an entryway table that was being custom designed; I should be . . . I should be . . . I should be playing hooky. So I did.

I slept in, I ate eggs sitting down instead of toast on the way out the door, and I was presently on an afternoon stroll with Simon, with absolutely no direction and nowhere to be. Hooky. Doing it.

We’d started off walking down the main drag, stopped to get coffee, and then turned down a hidden pathway through an old garden gate back up into the hills. We chatted as we walked, our hands linked. He was telling me about a call he’d had with Trevor from back east. They’d kept in touch after the reunion, and his wife had indeed sent me an autographed cookbook that had been signed by none other than Ina Garten herself.

She’d touched it. Touched the book that now lived on my nightstand. I wonder if her husband, Jeffrey, had touched it. Perhaps the day she’d been signing countless cookbooks, he’d stopped by her office. Maybe as they’d chatted about rosemary bushes and lobster rolls (as you do), he’d patted her hand, weary from signing her own name. Maybe her hand (and now Jeffrey’s) was resting on the cookbook that became my cookbook! It could have happened.

We stopped at a corner, not quite sure where we were. I could see peekaboo Pacific here and there, but not enough to orient myself.

“Where’s the house?” I asked, looking back up to the hillside. No landmarks I recognized.

“We’re a few blocks away. I think I zigged when I should have zagged. No problem, it shouldn’t be too far,” he said, looking left, then right, then left again. “I think it’s this way,” he said. As we walked, my phone rang. I reached into my pocket and turned it off.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you do that in weeks,” he remarked, and I smiled ruefully.

“I’ll feel guilty Monday, but today I can’t think about anything work related. My head will literally burst.”

He nodded, squeezing my hand as we walked. “Let’s talk about what we should make for dinner tonight—I feel like cooking. How about we stop at that farmers’ market you’re so in love with and see if we can find something fun—”

Still continuing to walk, I didn’t realize he had stopped dead in his tracks. I pulled on his arm. “Hey. Come on, pokey. Hey, Simon.” I snapped my fingers to get his attention. He was staring at a house at the end of the street, partially hidden by trees and a jungle of weeds.

“Babe, look at that.”

“Look at what—that shack? Yeah, it looks pretty abandoned. Let’s head back. Farmers’ market? Dinner?” I answered, pulling on his hand again. He stood fast, peering through the debris.

“No, look at that house. Isn’t it interesting?”

“Interesting isn’t the word I would use—” But he pulled me toward the house. Which had a For Sale sign in the yard.