“So, what was your thought right before you hit the wall in that car?”
“My dad’s gonna kill me.”
“He was furious,” she acknowledged. “The language was colorful, I can tell you.”
He glanced at her. “How did you screw up?”
“Let it go, Deuce.” Please.
“Was there a guy involved?”
“Yes.” The truth.
“Did you love him?”
“Yes.” More truth.
“Do you still?”
Oh Lord. “Once in a while, I think about him,” she managed to say, despite the real estate her heart was taking up in her throat.
“Did he…hurt you?”
She thought of the blood and the pain and the insane trip to the hospital. All the guilt and disappointment, and, the worst part, the relief. “They were dark days.” She’d lost the baby, Harvard and Deuce. “But I survived.”
She pulled the seatbelt away from her chest, sucked in a breath of sea-salted air and smiled at him, aware that for the whole conversation, his hand had stayed firmly planted on her leg. “So what kind of pizza oven did you want to get?”
He shot her another disbelieving look at her sudden segue.
“You know, the more I think about it,” she added before he could answer, “the more I think pizza would be a big hit at the café. I did a little research and Baker’s Pride, Blodgett and Lincoln seem to be the best options.” They stopped at a light, but she let the words roll out and fill the air. “The best price would be Blodgett, which is truly commercial grade, and I think we might even be able to get a refurbished—”
His fingers squeezed her thigh. “We were talking about your love life.”
She put her hand over his, instantly loving the power she felt in those fingers, the hint of masculine hair tickling her skin, the sinewy muscles that baseball had formed. “Now we’re talking about pizza ovens. Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“One of the reasons,” he said, turning his hand so they were palm to palm and threading his fingers through hers. “The other reason is because I’ve been trying to get you alone for a week and it’s impossible.”
“I’m busy.” She congratulated herself on yet another half truth that could not technically be called a lie. Why didn’t she extricate her hand from his?
Because she couldn’t. Any more than she could look away as he leaned closer to her face. His mouth was a breath away. His eyes locked on hers and his lips parted as he closed the remaining space between them.
The kiss was hotter than the sun that burned leather seats, and sweeter than anything Kendra could remember. At least, since the last time he’d kissed her.
A horn honked and startled them apart.
He held up his hand in apology to the car behind them, but didn’t take his gaze from hers. “I’m not even close to done with talking about your love life.” He shoved the gearshift into first. “Or kissing you.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
DEUCE SAW THE LOOK of shock on Kendra’s face when he’d introduced himself as Seamus Monroe to Buddy McCrosson, owner of Fall River Restaurant Supplies. Either Buddy didn’t put two and two together with the names, or he wasn’t a baseball fan. Either way, Deuce and Kendra spent nearly two hours with the man and no one mentioned the Snake Eyes or their former pitcher.
Watching Kendra in action was definitely the best part of the meeting. Although she never lost that feminine, sexy aura that surrounded her, she pounded out a tough deal, negotiated for way more than he’d have even thought of, and managed to let poor Buddy think it was all his idea.
All the while, Deuce studied her long, capable fingers as she examined a refurbished oven and imagined them on him. He listened to her soft laugh and fantasized about hearing it as he slowly undressed her. And, of course, he took any excuse to brush her silky skin or touch her slender shoulder.
He hadn’t been kidding when he told her he wasn’t done kissing her. He wasn’t.
While she’d gotten Buddy to knock off two percentage points of interest on a short-term loan and throw in an $800 fryer—surprising him completely with her willingness to add more unhealthy food to her café menu—Deuce had started planning where and how and when he’d get back to kissing her.
The minute they said goodbye to Buddy, he launched his plan into action.
“I’m starved,” he told her as they climbed back into the 450 SL.
“Anything but pizza,” she agreed, buckling her seatbelt. “There are tons of places between here and home.”
“I know exactly where we’re going.” But he had no intention of telling her. “It’ll be a little while before we eat, but I promise, it’s worth the wait.”
She gave him a curious look, but didn’t argue. She slid the paperwork from their meeting into the side pocket of her door, then dropped her head back and closed her eyes, letting the sun light her face. As he turned to back out of the parking spot, his gaze lingered on her face, her long throat, her sweet lips.
He wanted to kiss her right then. Why wait? Because, as any good pitcher knew, timing was the key to success.
They listened to jazz and barely spoke as he drove toward Rockingham. When they finally stopped at a deli in West Dennis, she looked surprised.
“Barnstable Bagel?” She half laughed. “You in the mood for a Reuben?”
“Great deli sandwiches here, if I recall correctly.” If he told her he was going for atmosphere instead of cuisine, she’d fight him. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
When he returned, she took the bag of food and drinks that he handed her and tucked it into the space behind their seats. “We’re eating in the car?”
“I believe it’s called a picnic.”
She lowered her sunglasses enough to look hard at him. “A picnic?”
“Chill out, Ken-doll. You’ll like it.” He hoped.
When he pulled up to the dunes at West Rock Beach, he practically felt her whole body tense. He shut off the engine and turned for the bag in the back. “I’ve always liked this beach.”
She backed away to avoid contact. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
“No,” he said slowly, pulling up the deli bag. “This is my idea of a picnic.”
“This is… We don’t have a blanket,” she said quickly.
“We can sit on the benches.”
