Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(50)

Alex gave her a skeptical glance.

“It’s a nice pink,” she said, laughing. “A blush tone. Lucy helped me pick it out. She says pink is a great color for bathrooms because the reflected glow is flattering.”

The image jumped into his mind before he could stop it … Zoë, stepping out of the bath, surrounded by pink walls, tender wet curves gleaming in steam-misted mirrors.

Rising to her feet, Zoë went to check on something in the oven. “Would you like some water?”

He was hot from head to toe. “Yes, thanks.” Picking up his cell phone, he glued his gaze to it, reminding himself desperately to keep his distance from Zoë.

She stopped beside him and set a glass of ice water by his plate. She was close enough that he could breathe in her fragrance, cottony and flowery, with hints of smoke from the chorizo, and all he could think of was how much he wanted to turn and press his face against her, and lock his arms around her hips. He stared at his phone, scrolling blindly through text messages he had already read.

Zoë lingered beside him. “You need a haircut,” she murmured, a smile in her voice. He felt a light touch on the back of his neck … her fingers … sliding softly through the hair at his nape. His hand clamped on the phone until the casing threatened to crack.

He managed a quick, irritable shrug that caused Zoë’s hand to fall away. She went back to the stove, and he heard the sound of something being whisked in a pot. She was speaking casually about her plans to go to the floating fish market attached to the main dock in Friday Harbor, they had just brought in a fresh catch of halibut. Struggling to clear away the haze of lust, Alex did math problems in his head. When that didn’t work, he resorted to gripping his fork so that the tines dug sharply into the heel of his hand. That settled his rampaging desire just enough that he could walk. He pushed back from the table and stood, muttering something about going to work.

“Tomorrow, then,” Zoë said too brightly. “Pumpkin ginger pancakes.”

“I can’t make it tomorrow.” Realizing how brusque he’d sounded, Alex added, “I’ve got to get to work earlier, now that we’re putting up Sheetrock.”

“I’ll make you something to go,” Zoë said. “Stop by, and I’ll hand it through the doorway. You won’t even have to come in.”

“No.” Exasperated, he couldn’t think of any way to soften the refusal.

The ghost entered the kitchen. “Are we leaving?”

“Yes,” Alex said reflexively.

“So you will come by?” Zoë asked in confusion.

“No,” he snapped.

Zoë followed him to the back door, looking tense and miserable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

The ghost looked perplexed and indignant. “What does she mean? What happened? I told you before—”

“Don’t start,” Alex warned him wrathfully. Glancing down at Zoë’s worried face, he amended, “Don’t start jumping to conclusions. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“There’s something to be sorry for,” the ghost insisted. “Because from what I can tell, hormones are flying through the air like a biblical plague.”

Zoë stared up at Alex as if she were trying to read his thoughts. “Then why did you react like that when I touched you?”

Alex shook his head in baffled annoyance.

“Obviously you didn’t like it,” Zoë said, flushing deeply.

“Damn it, Zoë.” The only way he could stop himself from grabbing her was to slam his hands on the counter, on either side of her. She jumped a little, her eyes turning round. “I liked it,” Alex told her gruffly. “If I liked it any more, I’d have you bent over the counter right now, and it wouldn’t be to help you roll out biscuit dough.”

The ghost groaned. “Spare me,” he said, and made a fast exit.

Zoë colored at his deliberate crudity. “Then why—” she began.

“Don’t give me that,” Alex said testily. “You know why. I’m a drinker in the process of drying out. I’ve just been divorced, and I’m a paycheck away from being broke. I don’t know of any more damning combination of qualities a man could have. Except maybe being impotent on top of it.”

“You’re not impotent,” she protested. After a brief hesitation, she asked, “Are you?”

Alex covered his eyes with one hand and began to laugh. “Sweet Jesus,” he said feelingly, “I wish I were.” After a moment, seeing the hurt confusion on her face, he sobered and let out a sigh. “Zoë. I don’t do friendship with women. And the only other possibility is sex, which is not going to happen.” Alex paused, seeing a snowy dusting of flour on the crest of her cheek. Unable to resist, he reached out and brushed it off gently with his thumb. “Thank you for getting me through this past week. I owe you for that. So the best thing I can do for you in return is stay away long enough for you and me to get some distance from this.”

Zoë was quiet, staring at him, weighing his words. An oven timer went off, and a hint of rueful amusement hitched the corners of her mouth into apostrophes. “Every moment of my life is measured by oven timers,” she said. “Please don’t go yet.”