Long Slow Burn

“I don’t know….”

“No?” He tried not to sound hopeful. “Why not?”

“He’s absolutely gorgeous.”

Oh, just effing great. “This is a problem?”

“I don’t like guys like that.”

Nathan managed to unfreeze his face. “Yeah, we absolutely gorgeous guys can be real jerks.”

She laughed, flicking water at him.

“What?” He blinked innocently, scraping up the last of the dough from the bowl. “What about the other one?”

“Dale? He seems pretty great.”

No. Dale was not pretty great. Dale sucked. Nathan was absolutely sure of that. “Yeah? What’s his deal?”

“He’s some kind of consultant. Travels a lot. I wrote to him already. He wrote back right away.” She came over to pick up Nathan’s filled sheet; he could smell her flowery scent under the sugary vanilla aroma in the kitchen and wanted to devour her. “He’s vacationing. In Jamaica.”

Jamaica. This was bad. Nathan couldn’t afford to take Kim to Jamaica. Nathan could barely afford to take Kim to Applebees. “He’s probably there buying drugs.”

“Nathan!” She swept his baking sheet over to the oven.

“Who goes to Jamaica alone for any other reason? Or no, I’ve got it.” He pushed back his chair, turned it to face her. “He’s there with his wife. Or his fourteen-year-old girlfriend. Or both.”

“You are a hopeless cynic.” The timer went off. Kim took out the second cookie sheet and put his batch in.

Yeah, a hopeless cynic, who happened to be struck dumb by his first sight of this woman over ten years earlier. A woman who still hadn’t looked back. “I know how men think because I am one.”

“You’re not all of them.”

He couldn’t argue with that. “I’m going out with Kent and Steve tomorrow tonight. Want to come?”

“Watch you all get shit-faced and try to get laid? No thanks.”

“Kim.” He stood up, wanting some advantage, any advantage, even something that seemed like advantage. The invitation had come out of his mouth in desperation. Because he was desperate. “I haven’t ‘gotten laid’ like that in quite a while.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

“How do you know?”

“I hear from Kent.”

Nathan gestured in frustration. Kent exaggerated. Her brother never used to be so swaggering until he’d come back from New York and started hanging around with Steve, the Master Swaggerer. “That’s not all I’m about. I’ve never tried with you.”

She gave him a withering look. “Like you would.”

“Why not?”

She laughed, then saw he was serious; her laughter died and she glanced at him uneasily. “I’m not exactly your type.”

“No?” They were going to bust at least this part of the myth right now. “What is my type?”

“Bubbly with big boobs and a bent for blow jobs.”

Instinct told him to take the joke further. So instead he caught a stray piece of her hair, stroking its soft length between his thumb and index finger, hoping she’d experience an unexpected and highly sensual shiver. “What if I told you my type was blond and shy with hidden passion waiting to be—”

“Hidden passion?” She yanked her hair back as if he were about to set it on fire.

Crap. She was not experiencing anything like an unexpected sensual shiver. “Someone else said that. There’s no way I would say anything so stupid.”

“Geez, Nathan.” She wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t, either.

“You’re selling me short. There have been many women I’ve dated who aren’t bubbly and who don’t have big boobs. Many.” He gazed at her earnestly. She started looking cornered, folded her arms across her chest and stepped away from him. Oh, no. Scaring her was not what he wanted to do at all. He frowned. “Well … one, anyway. Maybe.”

She laughed in nervous relief and he grinned, cursing under his breath, wishing he had the guts to stay serious with her, wishing he had the nerve to set her straight. But it was still too soon. He needed time to win her. He thought he’d have plenty. But if she was going to start dating, he’d need to regroup, find a way to get her to think differently about him much sooner than planned.

Because otherwise, he could lose even the hope of her, and after ten years of wasted time, he just wasn’t willing to do that.

3

MARIE WENT DOWN THE stairs from Roots Restaurant to the Cellar bar. Quinn Peters would be waiting there for their usual Friday night “meeting.” She’d call it a date, but she’d promised herself to keep any and all romantic thoughts about Quinn firmly under control, under wraps, underground. No point being a masochist by indulging in such fantasies.

She was late tonight. Ten minutes before she was due to leave, her delightful ex-husband, Grant, had called. He rarely did, but whenever his number showed up on caller ID, it was a guarantee Marie had some teeth-clenching time ahead of her. Tonight had been no exception. The louse had the nerve to ask if she’d consider returning the ruby-and-diamond channel-set ring he’d given her for their tenth and final anniversary, the one Marie called the Guilt Ring because Grant had already been having an affair with Lizzy, a woman nearly half his age.

Part of Marie wanted to give the ring back, preferably by jamming it down his throat. She wasn’t, and might never be, at a place where she could happily wear it again, so why not let it shine on someone else’s finger?

Because the other part of her, maybe not the most mature and gracious part, didn’t want to give him anything he wanted. Ever. Because he’d taken from her a good chunk of self-confidence, and though she’d come a long way, she was still struggling to get the rest of it back.

After she’d hung up the phone it had taken her half an hour to calm down to the point where she’d be able to face Quinn calmly and cheerfully.

Her stomach did a little flip. There he was, sitting at the long wooden bar, one empty seat beside him in the otherwise crowded room. Temperatures had flirted with fifty degrees that day; everyone seemed to be emerging from winter hibernation, restless for spring.

“Hi there.” She climbed onto the chair next to him, keeping her smile bright, hoping he couldn’t tell she’d been crying. They’d settled into a comfortable weekly routine of meeting for drinks and dinner. At first she’d been surprised he’d want to spend that much time with her, especially on Fridays, a prime date night. Before they’d become friends, they’d both been casual regulars at the bar, and Marie had been fascinated by his success with women. His relaxed charm hooked ‘em nearly every time. The fact that he looked like George Clooney didn’t hurt.

“Marie.” His welcoming grin always turned her a little giddy. She knew better than to react that way to Quinn, but her inner whatever-it-was insisted on rebelling. Luckily, she’d stopped short of falling seriously since he’d told her how much she reminded him of his sister.

Pop goes the ego …

“What are you drinking tonight?” Not that she needed to ask. “Oh, gin martini, something new and different.”

“Why mess with perfection?” He lifted his glass to toast her. “What’ll you have? My treat tonight.”

“Your treat?” Marie hung her purse on a hook under the bar. “Why, did something good happen?”

“No, actually, something bad.”