He glances down at himself, then back at me. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.”
“It’s all that alpha male hotness,” I tell him. “It pours right off you and onto everything you touch, whether it belongs to you or not. And Hotwired is actually yours. How could it not all but scream your name?”
“Alpha male hotness?” he chokes out. Both of his eyebrows are raised now and he’s full-on laughing at me.
“Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“But I don’t know,” he says, downshifting until the car is making a low, growly sound that actually sounds quite a bit like Nic’s voice, as well. “You should explain it to me.”
“Bite me,” I tell him as we pull into a rare parking spot along Prospect.
He laughs again. “Don’t tempt me.” And then he’s out of the car and around to my side before I can even reach for the door handle. He holds out a hand to help me out and I take it. Of course I take it—ever since I kissed his cheek yesterday, I’ve been waiting to feel his skin against mine again.
I expect him to drop my hand as soon as I’m out of the car, but he doesn’t. Instead, he threads his fingers through mine and holds on tight as he tugs me down Prospect—away from the closest beach access.
“Where are we going?” I ask, confused. “I was hoping we were going to the cove.”
“We are. After.”
“After what?” I look around, mystified.
He just waggles his brows at me a couple times and keeps walking. Which means I keep walking. Because he’s holding my hand.
It’s stupid for me to get all hyped up over that—we’re not twelve-year-olds at our first boy-girl party. Yet it’s been so long since I’ve let a man touch me, been even longer since I’ve enjoyed it. And I am enjoying this, enjoying every part of our mysterious walk down Prospect.
The way the morning breeze plays with Nic’s hair, making his dreads dance a little in their ponytail.
The way his fingers are warm and strong and calloused against my own.
The way I don’t know where we’re going yet I feel completely safe letting him take me there.
Yes, I like that most of all. It’s been so long since I’ve felt safe. So long since I’ve felt cared for. I’ve known Nic for two days—and let’s face it, we really didn’t get off to the best start—and still I feel like I can trust him in a way I haven’t trusted anyone in far too long.
I don’t know what that means, don’t even know if it’s justified, but I want to find out. Which puts him miles ahead of any other guy I’ve met in the last three years. Well, the last two years, ten months and fourteen days. Not that I’m counting…
It’s early, so most of the places on Prospect are still closed—even the restaurants, which is why I can’t fathom where we’re going. At least until Nic has us make a left onto one of the small side streets and pulls us to a stop in front of a tiny French bakery.
“They make the best chocolate croissants in San Diego,” he says as he pulls his hand from mine so that he can hold the door for me. I know he’s being a gentleman, but still I miss the warmth of his touch. At least until he puts his other hand on my lower back and gently ushers me inside. Then I just let myself revel in the feel of his palm through the thin material of my blouse and try not to give it away by trembling too much.
Once we’re inside, he leads me to the counter where it seems like a million different pastries are displayed behind the glass baker’s case. I expect him to choose something for us since he seems like that kind of guy, but as we wait our turn he asks me what I’d like.
“Whatever you’re having is fine,” I answer.
“A chocolate croissant?”
“Sure.”
His eyes narrow. “Are you saying that because you actually want one or because it’s what I recommended?”
“I’m saying it because it sounds good and I don’t actually care overly much.”
He looks scandalized. “How can you not care about French pastries? This is very important stuff we’re talking about here!”
“Important?” I tease. “It’s just dough.”
“Just dough? Don’t let Dominique hear you say that,” he tells me, nodding to the petite older woman behind the counter. “Dough is her life. And I strongly suggest you have an opinion on what to order by the time we get to the counter or she will definitely have something to say about it.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. But then I realize he’s laughing, too, and that only makes me laugh harder. Who would have guessed that Nic actually has a bit of the goofball in him? It’s just another facet of him, another dichotomy to his badass cars and even more badass looks. Kind of like the whole gentleman thing he’s got going on. Looking at him, even listening to him talk, you’d never expect the fact that he’s got such impeccable manners. But it’s one of the things I really like about him.
Then again, the more I know him, the more there is to like.
The knowledge makes me nervous, has me pulling back just a little. Because the last time I liked a guy, everything went to hell and I don’t ever want to go through that again. I don’t think I could survive it—
I cut the thought off before it can form. I’m not going to go there. Not now, and not when I’m thinking about Nic. Besides the initial kidnapping—which he’s tried to make up for—he’s done nothing to deserve the comparison.
“It’s our turn,” Nic says from his spot behind me. He’s leaning down as he speaks, his breath hot against my ear and neck. It feels surprisingly good—and surprisingly intimate considering he’s not even touching me. I’m not sure how I feel about that. My body seems to know, though, judging from the way my nipples tighten and my knees turn to jelly. “Have you decided what you want?”
“The choc—” My voice breaks and I clear my throat as I try to force air into my suddenly aching lungs. “The chocolate croissant.”
“Good choice,” he says with a grin. But then he looks concerned. “You’re not just ordering that because you think I want you to, right? I mean—”
“Dough,” I tell him softly but firmly as I point at the display case. “It’s just dough.”
“Blasphemy,” he cries, pretending to put his hands over his ears.
“Nic, mon cher. It’s so good to see you,” Dominique says in heavily accented English as she reaches across the counter for Nic. He takes her hand and I watch, fascinated, as he squeezes it, gentle and sweet. “It’s been too long since you’ve visited me.”
“It’s been two weeks, Dominique.” He brings her hand to his lips and kisses it.
She giggles like a young girl. “Like I said, too long.” She eyes me curiously. “Who have you brought me?”
“This is my friend Jordan. She doesn’t have the proper respect for French pastries, so I thought I’d bring her here and educate her.”
“I’m so glad you did. We will change that, won’t we? So what can I get you today?”
“We’ll start with two chocolate croissants and a couple fruit cups.”
“Good choice, mon chou,” Dominique says as she pulls on gloves and reaches for Nic’s selections. “I’m trying a new chocolate in the croissants this week. They will melt in your mouth.”
“Sounds fabulous,” Nic tells her with a wink.
“Did she just call you her cabbage?” I ask in a whisper.
“It’s a term of endearment in France,” he says with a sniff. “Obviously.”
“Yeah, just keep telling yourself that.”
“It is!” he insists.
“I know,” I admit. “It’s just fun to tease you, mon chou. Or should I say ma pomme de terre?”
“Your potato?” He looks at me incredulously.
“No? How about mon aubergine?”
“Eggplant? Do I look purple to you?”
“Hmmm.” I study him for a second. “How about ma carotte?”
“Excuse me, but I am definitely not a carrot.” He pretends to be of
fended. “A cucumber, maybe. But definitely not a carrot!”
I burst out laughing. “I wasn’t talking about that! I swear, only a guy would go there.”
He waggles his brows ridiculously. “In case you haven’t noticed, I am a guy.”
“Oh, believe me, I noticed.”
“Oh, yeah?” He looks pleased.
“Definitely. One thing about guys. ‘If you’re not thinking with your wiener, then you’re acting directly on its behalf.’ ”
It’s his turn to laugh. “Good Will Hunting! I love that movie.”
“It’s a great movie,” I agree.
“And that was a great scene.”
Nerves skitter down my spine at the look in his eye, along with the sudden low timbre of his voice. It was a good scene—there’s nothing quite as charming as a young Matt Damon and Minnie Driver teasing each other while cuddled together in bed. And nothing quite as scary, and intriguing, as imagining being in that same position with Nic.
Dominique chooses that moment to clear her throat. “Anything else, mon concombre?”
I’m not sure who blushes more when she calls him a cucumber, Nic or me. He recovers first, though, shooting her the most charming grin I’ve ever seen. “Actually, Dominique, I’ve changed my mind. We’ll take one of everything.”
She smiles wickedly. “Planning on working up an appetite on the beach, are you?”
Nic just shakes his head and laughs. “Throw in two coffees, too, will you?”
A few minutes later we’re walking down the stone stairs that lead from the street to La Jolla Cove. It’s a small inlet area of beach surrounded by rocky cliffs on all sides and it’s probably my favorite stretch of beach in all of San Diego. Of course, I’m not the only one. In the early summer, seals and sea lions come and have their babies here because it’s the most sheltered area around. I love coming down here then to see them—seal babies are the most adorable things in the world.
It’s early November now and the babies have moved on to warmer waters. Something I’m wondering if we should have done considering how cold the breeze blowing in off the water is. I shiver despite myself.
Nic notices—of course, he does—and after depositing the three bakery boxes he’s carrying on the sand, he opens the backpack he snagged from the back of his car when we got here. He hands me a soft black hoodie that I shrug into gratefully as he spreads a blanket out on the sand.
“You think of everything, don’t you?” I ask as I sink down on the blanket.
“I try,” he answers, settling down next to me. “Sometimes I miscalculate, though.”
“Oh, yeah? I find that hard to believe.” I reach for the coffees I put down on the bakery boxes and hold one out to him.
“Yeah, well, just wait. You haven’t been around long enough. I don’t screw up often, but when I do, it’s usually pretty epic.”
I like the sound of that—the way he assumes I’m going to be around for a while. It could just be an expression, but something in his eyes makes me think he knew exactly what he was saying when he suggested it.
It’s that knowledge that gives me the courage to say, “Tell me about one of these epic fails.”
He freezes, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. There’s a wariness in the way he holds himself that wasn’t there just a few moments ago. It’s subtle, but I recognize it because I have the same mannerisms, the same self-defense mechanisms. I should tell him that it doesn’t matter, that we can talk about something else. But I don’t. Instead, I wait to see what he’s going to say. How he’s going to handle my request.
He doesn’t handle it. Instead, he just stares at me as too many seconds go by. Finally he says, “You don’t want to hear about any of that shit.”
“I do,” I contradict him, pushing him because something tells me he needs to be pushed right now. “But only if you want to tell me.”
Chapter 10
Nic
Fuck. What am I supposed to say to that?
I have to say something. She’s sitting there watching me with those melted chocolate eyes of hers, all earnest and interested and supportive. How do I just ignore that? I don’t. I can’t.
I know she thinks I’m going to say something about what got me sent to prison, but I don’t want to talk about that. Not now. Not with her. I mean, it’s not like she doesn’t already know the basics, right? Especially considering how we met. That doesn’t mean I want to bring the reality of it here, though, doesn’t mean I want to take a chance at ruining what’s turning out to be one of the best mornings I’ve had in a long, long time.
But because it is a good morning—and because I want the chance to do it again—I have to tell her something real. Something that matters. The problem is, most of the mistakes I’ve made that matter hurt to think about. And since I’m not a masochist, I’ve spent much of the last three years trying not to dwell on them.
I guess I take too long figuring this whole thing out, because Jordan’s face closes up. She doesn’t move away, doesn’t even look away, but still it feels like the space between us grows exponentially larger.
“I’m sorry,” she says into the silence that stretches between us. “I didn’t mean to be pushy. You don’t have to—”
“No, it’s fine. I want to tell you.” It’s a lie, but, somehow, it’s also the truth. Instead of driving myself crazy with the dichotomy of that, I reach out, take her hand. Stroke my thumb over her knuckles.
Her hand is soft and small and delicate, so delicate that there’s a part of me that thinks I should just forget this whole thing right now. That I should just take her to work, hand her one of the bakery boxes, and send her on her way.
She’s too fragile for my world.
Too fragile for me.
But then I remember how she fought like a wild thing in that garage yesterday and I think, maybe. Maybe.
“My mother died very unexpectedly a week after I turned eighteen—which was a fucking nightmare in every way you could possibly imagine. But the timing of it was also a blessing.”
The words come out in a not-very-coherent rush, but Jordan must understand what I’m saying because she reaches for me, grabs on, so that my hand is now sandwiched between both of hers. She’s the one stroking me now, the one giving me comfort with nothing more than her touch.
It works better than I expect it to. Better than it has any right to.
It also gives me the strength to dig deeper into a memory I’ve spent years trying not to think about.
“Because I was eighteen, I was a legal adult and that meant the state gave me the choice of hanging on to Lena and my brother, Joe—you haven’t met him yet but he was seven when my mom died—or letting them go to the state. I chose to keep them, because…because I couldn’t not keep them. They’re my family. My responsibility. I have to take care of them.”
I stop for a minute because the words feel funny in my mouth, on my tongue. Not because they’re untrue, but because of how true they are. How important they are. Even after all this time. Saying them out loud—saying them to Jordan when she’s so serious, so present, like she’s absorbing every fucking word I say—feels a lot like breaking myself open, like laying myself bare.
Which is not something I’m in the habit of doing. I rarely let my friends inside my head, let alone a woman I just met, no matter how badly I want to fuck her.
So instead of looking at Jordan, I turn to stare out at the ocean instead, to watch the waves as they break over each other and then roll slowly, slowly, onto shore. They’re beautiful and I come here a lot just to watch them. But it’s not the beauty that gets to me, not the beauty that brings me here, barefoot, in the middle of the night, to let the cold water cover my feet, my ankles, my calves.
No, it’s the cyclical nature of the whole thing. The way the waves keep crashing no matter what time or what season or from what beach you watch them.
Oh, the height and speed vary depending on a whole lot of things, but the waves never stop coming. The
sand never stops eroding. The tide never stops rolling in.
It’s unstoppable. Inescapable. Inevitable.
Kind of like my life.
“My mom was an amazing woman,” I finally continue, forcing the words out from a place I usually keep hidden. “An amazing mother. My dad fucked off a few months after Joe was born, so for a good part of my life growing up, she was the only parent around. And she was good at it, you know? Like some people just have that magic parent thing where they just seem to get it? Where they just seem to know what to do? She had that. She was a really good mom. We didn’t always have a lot of money, but she always made sure we had what we needed. No matter how many hours she had to work, no matter how many drinks she had to deliver or assholes she had to deal with, she always made sure we were taken care of.
“So when she died coming home from work late one night—innocent bystander in a convenience store robbery—it shook us all up. Dad had taken off, but it never occurred to any of us—even me—that she wouldn’t be around for a long, long time.”
“Oh, Nic.” Jordan scoots closer, bumps her knees against mine even as she puts a hand on my arm. “I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head. “It was a long time ago.”
“Like that matters? Time doesn’t actually heal everything, no matter what the greeting cards say.” She looks at me then, really looks at me, and there’s something in her eyes that warns me I was right in the garage yesterday when I figured that she has a story to tell, too.
“You’re right. It doesn’t.” I think about Joe, about how angry he still is at me, at Mom, at the universe. Time hasn’t healed him at all—and neither have I, no matter how hard I try.
“We were lost without her, you know?” I ignore how hoarse my voice sounds as I force the words out. “Just completely fucking lost.”
“Of course you were. She was your mother—”
“Yeah, but they needed me. Joe and Lena needed me and I spent two weeks a complete mess, barely able to figure out how to get Mom buried, let alone what to do with the two kids I was now solely responsible for.”