was more in control. She was, too, it seemed. Which made sense, considering this PR event could mean the difference between winning and losing.
Nevertheless, he missed how he’d felt yesterday after that group hug. Crazy, teetering on a thin edge of control. He’d never felt that intensely over a woman before.
He glanced at her dress, realizing those weren’t red polka dots, but cherries. Bright red cherries, all over her. A zing of attraction zigzagged through him.
“You look nice.”
“Thank you. I thought I’d wear something appropriate for a surfing ceremony.” She gestured at her dress. “Well, I guess cherries don’t exactly evoke surfing, but it’s better than one of my stuffy business suits.”
He was surprised she described her work image as stuffy. Although that word pretty much nailed it. He’d long ago learned that few people took off their rose-colored glasses when analyzing themselves—everyone seemed to think they knew the best, did the best, were the best. Or maybe that came with the territory when you made a career interviewing sports stars.
Another gust of wind whipped past, and she shivered.
“You should’ve worn something warmer than that sweater.” He knew better than to insult a woman’s choice of clothes. “I mean, it’s pretty, but you’d have been better off wearing a down jacket in this weather.”
“I picked up the outfit at lunchtime when the temperatures were pushing eighty. Never crossed my mind it might get this cold by five.”
So she’d bought the dress especially for today’s event?
Or for him?
“That’s the California coast for you,” he said. “Hot one minute, a fog layer rolling in the next.” The parallel with himself didn’t escape him. He had a reputation for running hot and cold, playing artist one moment, con the next. Juggling people and events in his quest to get ahead, the way he’d been willing a few minutes ago to snatch the photo-op glory for himself only. In his defense, he’d never acted with malice, although that justification suddenly felt thin.
He stopped and shrugged out of his jacket. “Here,” he said, wrapping it around her shoulders. “This will keep you a little warmer.”
“Oh, I can’t. You’ll get cold.”
“Let me take care of you.”
He looped her arm through his again and they continued walking down the pier. And for a moment, he felt like a better man.
FORTY MINUTES LATER, at the end of the pier, the festivities were breaking up. Some people were gathering their belongings, others stood chatting in small groups. Off to the side, several teenage boys and a girl stood with their trophies while Lacey, a Times staff photographer, peered at them through the camera viewfinder.
“Say cheese,” Lacey said.
A wave crashed against the pier. Spray rained on them. “Say shred, dudes!” one of the guys yelled, causing the others to laugh.
Lacey snapped some photos. “Great!”
Straightening, she motioned to Coyote and Kathryn. “You’re next. Stand a few feet in front of the railing over there.”
Kathryn looked past the railing into the mist. Twenty or so feet out, a wave suddenly rose, dark and ghostlike, before crashing against the end of the pier. Some people squealed as its thundering impact exploded in a rain of foam and spray.
“She’s got to be kidding,” Kathryn muttered.
“It’ll make a great picture,” said Coyote, next to her. He slicked his hand through his hair.
“We’ll look ridiculous.”
“No way,” Lacey said, adjusting her equipment for the shot. “It’s a perfect shot for the Crest of the Wave. Readers will eat it up. And maybe more important, Tallant will, too.”
Kathryn grimaced as another wave thundered against the pier, the pilings shuddering from its force.
“I could always do the shot alone,” Coyote said casually.
Women would swoon over a testosterone-and-spray-drenched photo of Coyote Sullivan in the Times. She could just hear the overloaded switchboard as women callers chipped their manicures frantically phoning in their votes.
“Over my dead body,” murmured Kathryn, accepting the challenge.
They stood exactly where Lacey told them to, side by side, taking direction—“Don’t cringe…stand straight…Kathryn, stop frowning…great laugh, Coyote!”—while waves crashed and cold ocean water spewed.
Twenty minutes later, Coyote and Kathryn hurried back down Ocean Beach Pier. Along the way fishermen lined the railing, diehards who cast their luck rain or shine, scents of French fries and hamburgers wafted from vendors’ stands, and the ever-present seagulls circled and squawked.
When they were almost at the end, a kid sporting a pink Mohawk clattered toward them on a skateboard. Kathryn jumped out of the way and dropped her purse, the contents spilling on the deck.
“Sorry, dude!” the boy called out as he rattled on down the pier.
Kathryn muttered a few choice words.
“You’re full of surprises,” teased Coyote, bending to pick up some of the spilled items.
“Shocked that I cuss?”
“Pleasantly so.” He held up a large jackknife. “Maybe more shocked at this.”
“That was a gift from my dad.” She took it, dropped it into her purse. “He thought it’d be good protection.”
Coyote did a double take. “Have you? I mean, used it for protection?”
Picking up a tube of lipstick, Kathryn laughed. “No. I mostly use it to cut up food. Before he died, he gave me other things I’ve never used—a wrench set, a power drill. What can I say—he always wanted a boy.”
Coyote moved closer. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded, not really wanting to discuss the family she’d lost. So many things in her past she wanted to keep that way. Locked-up memories in a box, best left unopened.
“For the record,” he murmured, “I’m glad you’re not a boy.”
For a still moment, they looked at each other, neither pretending that what was happening between them wasn’t.
Coyote broke the spell when he looked away and picked up a small bottle. “What’s this?”
Kathryn shrugged. “Nothing. I should toss it, but I keep forgetting to.”
“Nothing?” He held it up and examined the liquid. “Perfume?”
“No.”
It was clear, and yet
