The Love Shack. Christie Ridgway
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little rejection in his life. He didn’t take it very gracefully, that was certain. Though to be fair, her goodbye had come without warning.
“I don’t know what else to say—”
“Maybe it’s time to stop talking,” Dalton said, striding up the pathway toward her. “Maybe it’s time I reminded you of a few things.”
Skye froze, even as an unnatural fear rose like bile in her throat. Dalton won’t hurt me, she told herself. Dalton would never hurt me. But he was still coming toward her, the light of sexual intent in his gaze. Even the briefest contact would be intolerable.
When he reached for her, she let out a strangled cry. The tang of lemon filled the air and then Dalton was leaping back, cursing at the juice that had streamed onto his slacks and shoes.
Looking down, Skye realized she’d throttled the innocent citrus, the skin and pulp crushed in her fingers.
“What the hell, Skye?” Giving her a fulminating look, Dalton stepped forward again.
“Is there a problem?” a new male voice asked.
She whipped her head to the left. Gage was stepping across her side yard, a white sack in hand, dressed in those olive cargo pants he’d had on earlier, and a T-shirt so faded the words on it were undecipherable. “I... Please,” she said.
Please, what? She didn’t know; she didn’t know anything beyond how glad she was for the interruption. Her stomach was queasy again, her brain dizzy from lack of oxygen.
“Gage Lowell,” he said to the other man, one of his big feet coming between her and Dalton. It made her ex step back, though he took the outstretched hand.
“Dalton Bradley.” He grimaced, like maybe Gage’s grip was a little too strong.
But Gage’s smile was easy as he looked back at Skye. “I hope I’m not late.” At her blank stare, he added, “For dinner?” Then he swung the white bag at eye level. “I brought dessert.”
“Oh. Um...”
Gage snaked a long arm around her to turn the knob and open the door. She took an automatic step back and he followed her in, causing her to move farther along the entryway. “Nice to meet you,” he said to Dalton, and then shut the door on his surprised expression.
Next, Gage turned, and his gaze ran over Skye, surveying her face, her hands that were filled with the pulverized lemon, her bare feet, their toes curled into the hardwood floor. “Relax, honey.”
When she just stood there, he rattled the bag again. She blinked. “Breathe, Skye. Breathe, honey.”
And she found she could. Even with a large, masculine presence standing so close. In her house.
“Do you have any wine?”
“You like wine?” she asked, dubious. “Aren’t you more a beer type of guy?”
“I like both.” He shrugged. “But the wine’s for you. You look as if you need a little something to settle you down.”
She couldn’t argue with that, so she led him farther into her home. Once they got to the kitchen, as she disposed of the lemon and washed her hands, he stowed his bag in the freezer. Then he rummaged around for glasses and found the three-quarters-full bottle of chilled sauvignon blanc in her refrigerator. Directing her to sit at one of the two stools pulled up to the breakfast bar, he placed a glass in front of her.
The one he held in his hand was clinked against the rim of hers. “If you deal in camels, ensure that your doorways are high.”
That shook her out of her bemused stupor. Blinking, she tilted her head. “What?”
“It’s an old Afghan proverb.”
“But what does it mean?”
“How the hell do I know?” He grinned, then nudged her wine closer to her hand. “Maybe something about making sure an ex stays out of your life.”
“I didn’t ask him to stay in it,” Skye protested.
“The lemon was a good touch. He didn’t look pleased about having a trip to the dry cleaner’s in his future.”
“He’s harmless.” Except that the confrontation had left her sick and shaking, because of the exaggerated fear she’d experienced for the past few months. Maybe she should have found some way to explain it to Dalton, but her violent dislike of a male touch humiliated her. Shamed her. Made her feel less than a woman.
“So, are we really having sea lettuce salad for dinner?”
She opened her mouth, about to tell Gage she’d been joking about the invitation at the tide pool. But why not let him stay? At least if Dalton took it in his mind to return again this evening, Gage would be available as bodyguard. “I have salmon steaks, too,” she said, “but we’ll need another lemon.”
The aftereffects of the unpleasant encounter with Dalton lasted through dinner. Gage didn’t seem to mind her quiet mood, however. Instead, he kept his distance and moved efficiently about her kitchen, doing his half of the work to throw together the meal.
Afterward, he ushered her into the living room and took one corner of the couch while she took the other. Another glass of wine was in each of their hands. “What did he want?” he asked, his voice casual.
“Can we not talk about him?”
“He’s got you twitchy.”
She didn’t want to tell him every male had her twitchy. “I don’t understand why he seems to want me so much more now that I broke it off.”
“He thinks you’re playing hard to get.”
“Whoa.” Irritation burned off the residual of the day’s disquiet. “Then I’m actually starting to dislike him. He should know me better than that. I’m not into games.”
“I’ll bet he is. That’s why he leaped to that conclusion.”
“Well.” Skye flounced on her cushion. “Now I don’t even feel a little bit bad for breaking up with him.”
Gage grinned. “That’s my girl.”
My girl. She felt herself flush, and then she found herself supremely aware that she was inside her house—door closed, drapes drawn—with the very thing she’d been avoiding all these months. A man, confident, big, oozing testosterone without any effort. Her heartbeat spiked high and that low-belly place clenched.
A strange expression flickered across Gage’s face; then he slowly reached for the remote control sitting on the table at his elbow. “Want to watch some TV?”
She swallowed. “As long as it’s not baseball,” she said.
He found a documentary about the Mayan civilization. Maybe it was the narrator’s deep, soothing voice. Maybe it was the fact that her sleep had been disturbed for months. But she found her lashes heavier than bags of sand and even as she told herself she could never drift off with a strange male in the house...she did.
She roused to a hand on her shoulder. Batting at it, she frowned, still mostly asleep. “Go away, Polly.”
A masculine chuckle tried to thread its way into her consciousness. “I’ll try not to be insulted by that.”
“Good,” she murmured, and turned her cheek in order to get more comfortable.
“You’re going to get a crick in your neck if I let you sleep here all night.”
Her fuzzy mind started to grow more alert. “You’re not Polly,” she said, still not opening her eyes.
“Not unless she’s been hiding her dick.”
Her lashes popped open and she glowered—albeit sleepily—at Gage. “That’s crude.”
“My middle name.” He