other woman. “Okay, Pol?”
“Oh, I’m good,” she said, straightening in her seat. A burst of laughter from the head of the table drew their attention in that direction. “Like I said,” Polly reiterated, her gaze resting on Gage, “really, really gorgeous.”
Skye allowed herself a moment to study him. “Yeah.” She took in his rumpled black hair and tanned complexion. His cheekbones were chiseled, his jaw firm and beneath two dark slashes of brow were his incredible eyes. His beard was heavy enough that he had noticeable after-five stubble that only served to draw attention to his mobile mouth and white grin.
“No wonder you broke up with Dalton,” Polly said.
Startled, Skye jerked her head toward her friend. “I didn’t break up with Dalton because of Gage.” She didn’t want to think about why she’d broken up with Dalton. Crossing one leg tightly over the other, she rubbed at her upper arms with her palms.
A husky male laugh drew her attention back to the head of the table where Gage was now engaged in flirtatious banter with their waitress, Tina. As Skye watched, the server toyed with the name tag pinned to her blouse, drawing attention to cleavage she could swear hadn’t been on display when she’d ordered her swordfish and steamed vegetables. Clearly Tina had made a wardrobe adjustment for the man of honor’s benefit.
“See?” she told Polly. “That’s the kind of woman Gage finds appealing.”
Her friend glanced over. “What kind of woman is that?”
Skye made a vague gesture with her hand. The kind who can bear to show some skin.
“You’re twelve times more beautiful than that hussy.”
“I wasn’t fishing for compliments,” Skye said, grimacing.
“I’m not giving any,” Polly said. “Just the facts, ma’am. But if you want an opinion, I suggest you ditch the boy-wear and play with makeup again. I know you have pretty clothes in your closet. I remember when lipstick and mascara still mattered to you.”
Skye did, too, but now peace of mind mattered more. Though it was true that baggy sweatshirts and medicated lip balm hadn’t exactly brought that about. Head down, she ran her fingertip around and around the edge of her water glass.
“Want to dance?” came a voice, close to her ear.
Skye’s head popped up, her eyes widening at Gage’s hovering form. He wanted to dance? He wanted to dance with her? It was then she noticed that the sun had set, leaving the sky a fading orange. The tiki torches plunged in the sand at the corners of the deck were flaming now, and the atmosphere at Captain Crow’s was starting to pump. Customers were two-deep at the bar. People were moving about the small parquet dance area to Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds.” Griffin and Jane were out there, wrapped in each other’s arms. Tess was dragging her husband, David, in their direction, though he was laughing and protesting at the same time.
“Dance?” Gage said again.
He’d probably been sitting too long, Skye thought. He’d always been on the go as a kid and there was good reason his sister labeled him “restless.” She knew for a fact that he only slept six hours a night—one of the personal details he’d shared in his letters.
An amused glint entered Gage’s blue eyes as she continued to hesitate. “Am I speaking the wrong language?”
“You’re asking the wrong girl,” Skye said. “Polly will do it.”
“What?” Polly looked up from the phone cradled in her palms, her thumbs poised over the touch screen. “He didn’t ask me.”
“You like to dance.”
“I’m texting with Teague.” She shook her head. “He’s having an emotional emergency.”
Skye glanced up at Gage again. “Teague White. Remember him? He spent summers here, too.”
He blinked. “Tea— No! Tee-Wee White?”
“Not so tee-wee anymore,” Polly muttered, her thumbs tapping away. “More like big fat idiot.”
Not fat, Skye mouthed to Gage.
He laughed, then bent to grip her elbow and tug her to her feet in one quick move. “Let’s dance, Skye.”
Freezing, she stared at the large, masculine hand circling her cotton-knit-covered arm. Her common sense warred with her fight-or-flight response. Don’t bolt, she told herself. Or punch him. Either option would only bring up embarrassing questions.
“You okay?”
“S-sure.” As sure as someone could be who’d broken up with her boyfriend because she’d developed an aversion to being touched.
Before she could think of how to get away from the situation without sacrificing dignity or courtesy, he was towing her toward the other couples moving to the music. One song ended and another began, ukulele notes and the sweet voice of IZ Kamakawiwo’ole singing “White Sandy Beach of Hawai’i” floating through the air like feathers.
Gage released her arm, and, sensing this was her moment, Skye took a big step back. But he grabbed for her hand, reeling her close.
Scattering her thoughts. Honing her senses.
They focused on him, his large, lean frame, and on the nuances of his skin against hers. His fingers were long, his palm hard and calloused, the rough skin scratching the tender hollow at the center of her hand. She didn’t think she was breathing as his other palm settled at her waist, just the lightest of touches over the material.
It wasn’t a close hold, it was almost impersonal, she knew that, but her blood was shooting through her veins like a comet. Anxiety, she thought, as the heat sizzled her nerve endings. It stole her oxygen along with the words that would get her off the dance floor. Mute, she looked up at him.
Gage returned her gaze, his expression enigmatic but his amazing eyes bright with... Skye didn’t know what. He gave her hand a small squeeze. It felt...reassuring.
Maybe. She was so messed up, she’d been so messed up for months that her brain was unable to interpret normal signals. Behind her eyes came the hot prick of tears. Another flush rose up her neck as she imagined the humiliation of bursting into sobs. Keep it together, she thought, desperate not to look the fool in front of this beautiful man.
He blew out a little sigh as he moved them to the slow beat of the song. His body didn’t brush hers, yet she couldn’t help being aware of the breadth of his chest and the lean strength of his arms and legs. “Dinner was excellent,” he said. “Nothing better than a heaping serving of beach fries along with sixteen ounces of aged beef.”
Skye redirected her gaze to the safer vicinity of his heavy shoulder and told herself to try to relax. “You missed American food.”
“I’ve been dreaming of rare steak for months.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You don’t like your meat bloody.”
“Oh, God, did I confess that to you?” he said, his tone aghast.
“You
