Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(43)

“Well, I had the most incredible sex the other night,” she purrs.

Me too, I almost say, then chide myself. That was just a fling, Maggie! Stop thinking about him. “Oh. Well. That’s very nice. Good for you.”

“Guess with who?” She leans forward, her beautiful dark eyes mischievous.

There’s a strange sinking feeling in my chest, like I swallowed a rock. “I—I don’t know, Chantal. Who?”

“Take a guess.”

“Malone?” I say, my throat tight.

She leans back in the booth. “Malone? No. Not Malone.”

Oh, thank God. I let out a deep breath. “Um…Dewey?”

She laughs. “No, not Dewey. That was just once, a couple of years ago, before he put on all that weight.” She drums her fingers on the table. “Any more guesses?” she asks.

“It better not be Jonah,” I warn.

“No, no, not your precious baby brother,” she answers. “You suck at guessing, so I’ll just have to tell you. Mickey Tatum.”

“The fire chief?” I blurt.

“Mmm-hmm. You know what they say about firemen,” she smiles. “And it’s true.”

I look away. “Actually, Chantal, I don’t know what they say.”

“Guess.”

“Can we not do this twenty questions thing? I don’t know.”

“Come on!” she implores. “Guess.”

Paul brings Chantal her drink, peeks down her lowcut, lacy blouse, squeezes her shoulder and leaves. She looks at me expectantly, smiling.

“Firemen do it hotter?” I guess resignedly.

“No, honey.”

“Um…firemen have longer hoses?”

“No. But that does seem to be the case.” She takes a sip of her pink drink. “Guess again.”

“I really don’t know, Chantal. Please stop making me guess.”

“They still know how to use a split lay.” Chantal laughs merrily.

“I don’t…I don’t know what that means,” I say, laughing in spite of myself. “And please don’t tell me.”

“Well, okay. But I joined the fire department, so say hello to the newest member of Gideon’s Cove’s bravest.”

Chantal launches into far too much detail about Mickey Tatum, who must be sixty if he’s a day. As he was my CCD teacher the year I made my confirmation, I’m not really comfortable hearing this. But Chantal is entertaining, that’s for sure. The bar grows fuller. Jonah comes in and waves, but he’s with a pretty young woman and can’t be bothered with his sister tonight. Some of his pals are there, Stevie, and Ray, who coowns the boat with Jonah. The regulars.

Chantal and I are discussing a movie we both want to see when Malone walks in, alone. No Zeta-Jones tonight. Good. He hangs up his coat, then glances around, sees me, and gives a little jerk of his chin. My smile turns to stone. That’s it? A chin jerk?

“Oh, Malone just came in,” Chantal says. She’s been documenting the arrival of every man here. “Let’s make him sit with us.” She slides out of her seat.

“No, no! You know what? Let’s not. Let’s just have, you know, girls night. Okay? No guys. Chantal?” But she’s already gone up to the bar. She slides her hand across Malone’s back and says something. I pretend to fumble in my purse for something, hoping he doesn’t think I sent her over. Damn. Malone smiles at her, a little, anyway, and I’m embarrassed at a sudden longing to have him smile at me, then immediately disgusted with myself for feeling that way. This is the guy who slept with you and ignored you, Maggie. The guy who may also be sleeping with someone prettier and younger than you. Ignore him back. Say nothing. I mean it.

“Okay if Malone joins us?” Chantal asks, slipping back into the booth, graceful and lithe as a snake. Malone sits down next to her, his face grim and lined—normal, in other words.

“Sure. I don’t care,” I say. “Sit wherever you like. You can sit anywhere, right? Free country.”

“Malone,” Chantal says in her man-seduction voice, a lower, sexier tone that she saves for the X-Y chromosomers. “Maggie and I were just talking about you the other day.” Damn her. She turns to him to offer him a view of her br**sts, but he’s staring at me. My jaw grows tight and I take a slug of wine. Malone tips his head to the side slightly, and there might be a little upward movement to one corner of his mouth. His knee brushes mine under the table, and a prickle of lust creeps up my thigh.

Chantal puts her hand on Malone’s bicep, and I can just about feel it, too, that solid, bulging, rock-hard—“Maggie was wondering if you’re g*y,” she purrs.

“Jesus! Chantal! I was not!” I look at Malone. The hint of smile is gone. “I wasn’t.”

“So are you, Malone? You don’t seem to like girls. I mean, if you’ve passed over me and Maggie…”

I try to come up with an expression that will hide my embarrassment and advertise my indignation. I fail miserably.

“So, Malone, are you?”

Malone finally decides to speak, a decision not reached lightly. “No.”

“But you don’t like women?” Chantal persists. I psychically—and ineffectually—order her to shut the hell up. “Are you just sort of asexual, Malone?”