“I had to pay a two-hundred-euro cleaning fee when I returned the tux,” Cole told her. “I doubt they ever got the smell of barbecue sauce out of that pocket.”
Georgia looked at him for a long moment and then she burstout laughing. Cole looked surprised, and then he joined her. They stood facing each other, laughing until tears ran down their faces while the bluegrass band wailed and the dancers swirled around them like currents of water.
When they’d laughed themselves out, Georgia straightened and took a deep breath. “So that’s why you were so nasty to me when I got here?” she asked. “Because you thought I’d remember you from that night?”
Cole nodded, looking bashful. “When Star told me about her chef daughter in Paris, I thought it couldn’t possibly be the same person. What were the odds? But then you turned up. I took one look at you and knew it was you. I was worried you would recognize me and figure out who I was and hate me for it, not just for my misguided French compliment but for what came after, for Amy, for all of it.” He fell quiet, his face flushed with shame. “I was ashamed. I’m sorry.”
Georgia sobered. “Cole,” she said gently. “It was a mistake, what happened to Amy. A big, terrible mistake that you have to live with for the rest of your life. But you didn’t mean to do it. And one big mistake doesn’t mean your life is over. You are a kind and loyal person, Cole. And you still deserve goodness and love in your life.”
Cole looked down at the dance floor, scuffing the toe of his boot on the hard surface. “You say it, and I wish I could believe it,” he said quietly.
Georgia nodded. “I know. I hope someday you can.” She tilted her head and looked at him. “Now that your French is better,” she said, trying to lighten the mood, “you could try that compliment again.” She cocked a brow at him playfully, a tacit invitation. “Just don’t ask for help from your frat bro friends this time.”
Cole studied her face and then took a step toward her with anexpression she couldn’t quite read. Slowly, he reached out and circled her waist, gently tugging her to him. Her breath caught in her throat. He didn’t start dancing again, just stood still with her clasped in the circle of his arms. She twined her arms around his neck.
“What did you mean to say to me that night?” she asked him. Her eyes were unexpectedly soft.
He leaned forward until his lips just grazed the shell of her ear, his breath warm against her skin, his hands firm around her waist. “I meant to tell you that you were the pluckiest, prettiest girl I’d ever seen.” He paused. “I still think that.”
She pulled back a little and looked at him with surprise. “Really?”
He nodded. “Georgia May Jackson,” he said, his ice-blue eyes boring into hers with a look of such open longing it made her catch her breath, “I have never met someone like you. I think you hung the moon.”
Georgia stared at him open-mouthed with astonishment for a second, then she bridged the few inches between them, pressing her lips against his. He made a noise of surprise, and then his hand slid up the back of her neck and his other arm pressed her against him. He was kissing her under the lights with the wail of the fiddle and the thrum of the bass. The world fell away as Georgia closed her eyes and let herself sink into the moment. She wasn’t thinking about Paris or Star or the competition. She wasn’t thinking at all. She ran her fingers through the wavy hair at the base of his neck, feeling the rasp of his stubble against her cheek. He knew what to do with that gorgeous mouth of his. He was kissing her with utter concentration, as though it were his sole purpose in life. She felt her knees buckle just a little, but he held her up with one strong arm. He tasted of fried oysters, rich and savory, his mouth warm and insistent against hers. Their kissdeepened. All of a sudden, she gave a little gasp and broke away, stumbling back, putting her hand to her lips.
“I can taste you,” she whispered.
He stared at her, eyes a little unfocused and glazed. “What?”
“I can taste you,” she repeated. “The oysters, the umami flavor. Cole, I can taste it!” She stared at him in wonder for a moment and then she shrieked in glee, hurling herself at him. He caught her and she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, giddy and exuberant and laughing so hard she almost cried. He spun her slowly, laughing with her, as the lights and the music whirled around them in a perfect, dazzling blur.
30
“Now that wasa party,” Georgia declared dreamily. It was almost midnight, and she was a little tipsy from several glasses of sauvignon blanc she’d consumed with a dozen fried oysters during the remainder of the evening. Cole put his hand under her arm to steady her as they wove their way by moonlight away from the remnants of the party and through the evergreen trees to the cottage. Star had gone home some time ago, leaving them to dance the evening away. Behind them, the band was packing up, the dance floor was empty, and the barbecue grill was growing cold. Billy was wandering around with a giant black trash bag, whistling and collecting rubbish from under the picnic tables. The Oyster Shuck was over for another year.
But what a night it had been. Georgia was incandescent with happiness, giddy with the joy of being able to taste another flavor again and the unexpected delight of kissing Cole. Quite a lot of kissing, in fact. Since that moment on the dance floor, there had been many kisses, each one better than the last. She closed her eyes, humming the final tune the band had played. Tonight... tonight had been pure magic. The lights and music, the wine and oysters, and Cole. She glanced up at him and found his eyes on her. Her heart felt like butter gone soft at the edges, starting to melt from the heat between them. Her gaze went to his mouth, that gorgeous mouth. She loved a man who knew how to kiss like he meant it.
Cole’s confession of his feelings for her changed everything. He cared for her, and she cared for him back. But what could they do about it? Would he be open to moving to Paris? It seemed highly unlikely. He loved the islands, the nature and quiet and anonymity. He seemed to belong here. She sensed he would be miserable in Paris. But Paris was her dream, one she could not imagine giving up for anyone or anything, not even someone who kissed like it was his calling in life, not even for Cole. She frowned. There were no easy answers. They walked in silence toward the house, and Georgia determined to think about it all later. Tonight she was giddy and smitten and a little tipsy. It had been the best birthday she’d ever had. She wanted to enjoy it just a little bit longer.
At the back door to the cottage, they paused. She could see through the kitchen door that there was a light on in the living room, although the kitchen was dark. Star must still be awake, or else she’d left a light on for Georgia. “Thank you for tonight,” she said softly. He was standing very close to her, just a dim outline in the midnight blue.
“My pleasure,” he said. She could hear the smile in his voice.
She stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss against his cheek, raspy and warm in the cool night air. “Good night, Cole.”
“Good night, Georgia May,” he replied. For a moment, he pressed his forehead to hers, their noses almost touching. He inhaled once, roughly, then opened the kitchen door. “Can I walk you in?” he asked. She nodded, taking his hand and leading him into the house. She didn’t want the evening to end just yet. She was not ready to say good night.
Holding hands with Cole, she led him through the darkened hallway and into the bright lights of the living room, then stopped in utter shock.
Her father was sitting in the living room.
“Daddy?” Georgia gasped, halting so abruptly that Cole bumped into her from behind.
“Hello, Georgia May.” The tall, rawboned figure of Buck Jackson was seated in the lone armchair in the corner. He had his Stetson balanced on his knee, his arms folded across his barrel chest. His blond hair was cropped close in his signature crew cut, and even in spring he was slightly sunburned. For a wild moment, Georgia wondered if he had come all this way for her birthday. But then she noticed him scowling at Star, who was huddled on the opposite end of the couch, as far as she could get from Buck, still wearing her party outfit and looking equal parts defiant and nervous. Pollen sat at her feet, looking from one to the other and whining uncertainly.
Cole peered around Georgia, saw Buck, and stopped short. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Buck Jackson.” Buck raised an eyebrow. “Georgia’s daddy and Star’s ex-husband. Who are you, son?”
