Deeper Than The Ocean by Julie Ann Walker

 

 

Chapter 2

 

5:01 PM…

 

Chrissy Szarek was no dummy.

Thanks to her mother’s example—rest her soul—Chrissy recognized the galaxy of warning signs that flashed around Ray “Wolf” Roanhorse.

Not that she hadn’t initially been fooled by him. Wolf quoted religious leaders, famous folks, and philosophers as easily as most people breathed. He practiced Tai-Chi in the mornings. And he liked to walk along the beach collecting seashells.

Seashells for Pete’s sake, like a granny from up North who’d come down on vacation.

Given all that, who could blame her for thinking that, despite his flashing black eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones, and carpenter’s square of a jaw, Wolf might actually be woke. As in, more than a pretty face. As in, so much deeper and more complex than those broad shoulders and six-pack abs implied.

Joke’s on me, she thought, looking at him now and trying not to let his nearness steal her breath away. That night at Schooner Wharf Bar had proved Wolf was no better than her mother’s four husbands and copious boyfriends. A man who was nice to look at, nicer to kiss, and probably even nicer to bounce around on for a few weeks. But not a candidate for anything else. Anything permanent.

And thanks to her recent thirtieth birthday, she was officially on the hunt for something permanent. Gone were the days of fun-for-now-but-not-forever. It was time to get serious about her ultimate goal.

As an only child, she’d spent her youth dreaming of a big, boisterous family that would fight and love and play cards around the kitchen table after Thanksgiving dinner. As a grown woman, that image remained.

Trouble was, she’d been having a hell of a time finding a man who would make that dream a reality.

There were the dating sites, of course. Some folks thought Tinder was like Amazon. You go online and pick what you want. But in her experience, it was less like Amazon and more like eBay. Meaning she’d sorted through her fair share of other peoples’ leftover junk and—

“Didn’t reckon the thought of havin’ dinner with me would require you to do so much ponderin’,” Wolf said in that Oklahoma accent that split the difference between a Southern drawl and a Texas twang. He crossed tattooed arms that were roped with muscle and frowned so hard it made the scar at his temple pull tight and pucker.

The combination made him look incredibly forbidding. Which, for some reason, made her want him all the more.

Seriously, the urge to tackle him onto the sand and forcibly sit on his face was damn near overwhelming.

Tick tock! her eggs screamed up at her.

I hear you! she silently yelled back. But he’s not the one!

“Sorry.” She made a face. “My mind wandered.” She didn’t add that it had wandered to images of her squeezing his ears between her thighs. “Ummm, dinner? No can do. I have plans.”

Something flickered across his face. “Hot date?”

“I wish.” She twisted her lips. “But no. Winston and I have a standing Friday night business dinner to tally up the week’s receipts, go over inventory, and figure out what equipment needs to be serviced or replaced.”

Winston Turner was a childhood friend who’d grown up to become her high school boyfriend. They’d ended their youthful romance, however, when Winston moved to the mainland to get his degree. He’d returned to Key West after graduation, but by that time, they’d decided they were far better as friends and business partners than life partners, and so he’d joined her in opening the dive shop.

“How about meeting me for a drink after?” Wolf’s expression was casual. Yet there was something in his voice that sounded hard-edged.

“What is this?” She cocked her head. “I thought we agreed to be friends?”

“Friends can’t share a drink on a Friday night?”

“Sure. But this feels suspiciously date-ish.”

“Woman, if I was askin’ you out, I’d do it right. I’d get reservations at a nice restaurant with an amazin’ water view and come pick you up with flowers in hand.”

“Boy oh boy. Aren’t you the traditionalist? And would you pull out my chair? Pour my wine? Try to seduce me with your best line?” She fluttered her lashes theatrically.

“I’m thinkin’ the best lines are less about seduction and more about statin’ your offer straight out.”

“Really?” She was intrigued despite herself. “So come on.” She wiggled her fingers in a come-hither motion. “Lay it on me.”

“You sure you can handle it?”

She rolled her eyes. “I think I’ve proved I’m immune to your masculine wiles.”

Liar! her eggs shouted. The little buggers were becoming more annoying by the day.

“If you say so.” He shrugged. Then he…smoldered at her. That was the only word for it. “This face leaves in ten minutes.” He pointed to his intriguing aquiline nose. “I’d like for you to be on it.”

Where is that wheezing sound coming from?

Oh, right. From the depths of her chest because… Hot damn!

When she realized her mouth had slung open, she snapped it shut. “That’s good.” She ignored the blood that had left her brain to race to parts decidedly south. “But it’s not the best I’ve heard.”

“Oh yeah?” One slashing black eyebrow slanted up his forehead. “You think you can do better.”

“I know I can.” She tossed her ponytail over her shoulder and leered at him. “You have a kind face, sir. The kind I’d like to sit on.”

His startled expression was better than she could have hoped for.

Licking a finger, she made an invisible hash mark in the air. “Score one for Chrissy.”

Was it her imagination or was his voice raspy when he said, “Do you ever let anyone get one over on you?”

She looked at him as if a colony of oysters had grown from his ears. “It that a real question?”

“I thought there was a pretty obvious question mark on the end.”

“Why in the world would I let someone get one over on me?” She loved their banter. Too bad that was all they could share. “Where would be the fun in that?”

“Oh…” He shrugged and she was momentarily mesmerized by the way his shoulder muscles bunched. She remembered how unforgiving they felt beneath the tight grip of her fingers. “I don’t know. Sometimes it’s nice to let your opponent take the lead. There’s so much satisfaction in stealin’ it back from them.”

“Is that what we are, Wolf? Opponents?”

“Never,” he swore. “You and me? We’re Lance Bass and Justin Timberlake.” When she tilted her head in confusion, he finished with, “In sync.”

She made a gagging noise. “I think I like you better when you’re walking around sounding like a fortune cookie.” When he opened his mouth, she lifted a finger. “But don’t take that as an invitation to start throwing quotes my way again.”

He faked a pout. “First you tell me I can’t quote folks, and now you’re sayin’ you don’t like my cheesy metaphors either? What’s left to me, woman? Dad jokes?”

“Don’t you technically have to be a dad to tell dad jokes?”

“Not accordin’ to my nieces and nephews.”

The thought of him surrounded by a bunch of kids all clamoring for his attention made her heart ache so much she couldn’t think of a good comeback.

He took pity on her and filled the silence. “So? What do you say?”

“About dad jokes?”

“Drinks.”

“Oh…” She tried to think of a good excuse, but her mind kept seizing on the truth. Which was that she was scared to have drinks with him. Once she got some rum in her blood, she might not be able to resist the urge to strip him naked and pounce on him. And if she stripped him naked and pounced on him, she’d undoubtedly lose a bit of her heart to him. Because as much as she hated to admit it, she’d inherited more than her mother’s wide smile. Josephine had also passed down a penchant for forming emotional attachments to the exact wrong sort of man.

Chrissy realized she’d been quiet for too long when he tilted his head and regarded her thoughtfully. “It isn’t a marriage proposal, Chrissy.”

“Ha!” She shouted too loudly. To cover up her gaffe, she chucked him on the arm. “Okay, buddy. Sure. How about we meet at Schooner Wharf Bar at nine o’clock?”

“You mean the scene of the crime?” Both of his sleek, dark eyebrows reached for the sky.

“Aha!” She pointed to his nose. “So you admit your behavior was criminal.”

His mouth flattened. “It was a figure of speech. And anyway, you said I’m off the hook.”

“You are,” she assured him. “But even if you weren’t, I’d choose Schooner. The Salty Cod Band is playing tonight.”

“They’re the ones who turn hip-hop into lounge tunes?”

“Yes. And it’s hilarious.” She lifted her hand to shield her eyes against the sun at the sound of an approaching aircraft. “My ride’s nearly here.” She hitched her chin toward the seaplane that seemed suspended like a marionette against the blue of the sky. “Better go help my clients get packed up.”

She was half a dozen steps down the beach when he called, “Chrissy?”

She hoped she was far enough away that he didn’t notice how his deep, resonant voice caused goose bumps to erupt over the back of her neck.

“Yeah?” she asked over her shoulder.

“I’m lookin’ forward to tonight. I hope you are too.” His smile was soft and lazy.

Now the chills weren’t only across her neck. They’d migrated to her arms, legs, and belly. The latter of which flopped around like a fish on dry land.

“I always enjoy a night filled with good music and good drinks,” she told him airily. Or at least she hoped she sounded airy.

His response was a wink and a two-finger salute before he turned and ambled toward the beach house.

She noted the bulge of his calf muscles and the economical way he moved along the sand all while thinking, Oh, god. Why do I feel like I’m about to step off the edge of the Marianas Trench with a fifty-pound rock tied to each foot?