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"Hey," I say, my face getting warm. "How was your day? Want a drink?"
"My day just got infinitely better, and I'll have water, thanks."
I pass him a bottle of spring water, fighting the urge to come around the bar and give him a kiss. The idea of him wrapping those thick arms around me already has me flashing hot. No, I need to play it a little cool, so I grin coyly.
"I'm going to clean up; I've got about a half hour."
"Take your time, girlie. We've got all night together."
His words make my belly tighten with desire, and I'm back to being giddy. While he makes small talk with one of the regulars—a guy who owns a hot dog cart that's usually parked on the sidewalk near the beach—I flit around, preparing to close up the hut.
The half-hour flies by, regulars stumble out, and now it's only Damien and me. I'm straightening the chairs at a table when he swivels his stool in my direction.
"C'mere," he calls out.
I look up, feeling the sexual tension in the air crackle and pop. Of course, I obey. By the time I get to his stool, he's standing, and he roughly cups my face in his hands.
"Thought about this all day," he murmurs then lowers his head to kiss me.
Ohh yes, please."I did, too."
He breaks away, and I study his face. I take his chin in my fingers and turn his head gently, one way, then the other.
"What?" He grins.
"I'm glad you didn't shave."
He presses a softer kiss to my lips and slides his tongue toward mine.
"I want you," he whispers against my mouth.
God,yes. Clearly, it's been too long since I've been with a man, since I'm practically ready to do it right here. I pull away and inhale. "I think the past couple weeks of making out have scrambled my brain."
He chuckles. "Wanna get out of here? I was thinking we could go to my house after all. I told my parents I might bring you over to watch a movie."
"Oh, isn't that what the kids call it these days? Netflix and chill?" I glance at him, unsure. It's a little awkward, actually, since we're both adults. But under the circumstances, I get that it's the best we can do.
While it might be hot to have a quickie here at the bar, I'd kinda prefer something more comfortable. And he'd been insistent the other night that we didn't screw each other in the car like monkeys—something I was actually grateful for because my calf had cramped up something fierce while we were contorted around each other.
We walk outside. Like he did last night, he helps me pull down the heavy plastic tarps, then offers to drive.
"I'll bring you back to your car later tonight or whenever you want."
"I need to—" my voice fades away. I was almost going to say,need to be home in a few hours because I have to take my medicine before I go to sleep,but I refrain. There's no use in telling him about my medical problems. That's like an instant erection-killer,discussing physical maladies.
But he's probably also not expecting me to stay the night at his parents' house. Duh.
"You need to what?"
"Make sure my car's locked." I make a show of taking keys out of my purse and pressing the remote, so the beep of the alarm echoes against the palm trees.
Damien's house isn't far; we probably could've walked. My mom's house is on the other side of the island, in the poorer neighborhood, while the Hastings home is a sprawling, Key West-style, three-story beach home. It's white, with pink shutters, and is a block off the island's historic downtown Main Street. It's not the largest home on the island, but it's one of the most beautifully landscaped, with lush tropical foliage and blooming flowers that pop with color even in the dark.
"You know, I've never actually been inside your house," I say as we walk up the steps to the front door.
Damien frowns. "I guess you didn't come over when we were in high school. Hmm. Not because I didn't want you to, though."
Before I get a chance to explore that statement, the front door swings open. It's his mother, Ginger. She's the closest thing to a celebrity on Paradise Beach, mostly because she's been involved in several charities over the years and because she's like a glamorous boho queen.
