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Yes, she was performing an excellent job of getting out of her own head.
The long weekend, deigned an opportunity to relax and unwind, served the opposite purpose. With the structure of home and work and the girls’ schedule removed, she faced too much time to think, too much time to worry how far she was from who she’d been six short months ago.
The bar proved to be a hole-in-the-wall beach dive of the best sort, pool tables and a small dance floor, an open deck that flowed from the dim interior and still offered a complete experience.
He flicked a finger toward the deck and dropped his arm to reach for his wallet. “Grab us a table, and I’ll start a tab. What do you want?”
“Sparkling water is fine.” He lifted a brow, and she shrugged. She could have a drink if she wanted, express and discard the milk, but alcohol in her current mindset did not define a good idea. “Pineapple juice and ginger ale.”
Lifting a hand in acknowledgment, he strode away, and she wound through the tables, letting the low level noise wash over her. The place was popular, few empty tables remaining, but she snagged a small one for two near the railing.
Sinking into a chair, she turned toward the street and the ocean beyond, barely visible through the houses crowded along the beachfront. Salt tickled her nose, though, the breeze playing with her hair. The small trio wasn’t awful, currently covering a soulful Whitney Houston ballad. A layer of tension drained from her body.
He was right. Forever had passed since they’d been out together, and—
A burst of newly familiar laughter disrupted her thoughts. Their girls-weekend neighbors who thought her husband was hot and fantasy-worthy, one table over, all frilly drinks and private giggles and patterned resort wear.
Excellent.
She released a breath, shifting her attention back to the distant glitter of pier lights on the ocean, working to still her tumbled thoughts.
“There you go.” He set a tall glass bearing a neon-pink straw and a paper umbrella before her. A sealed San Pellegrino hit the table with a quiet thunk before he dragged the other chair next to hers and slumped into it, Sam Adams in hand.
“Thank you.” She traced a bead of condensation on the glass.
“Know what this makes me think of?” He plucked the umbrella free and sucked the stem clean before tucking it behind her ear. “That girly drink you had the night we met at Sharky’s.”
Her stomach knotted, and she touched a finger to the thin paper. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be that girl, trapped and so unsure of herself, and suddenly, here she was, feeling hemmed in by her own emotions.
She sought safety in the familiar. “When we get home, I need to begin helping the girls pack for—”
“Nope.” His index finger against her lips stopped the words. “The kids, work, our home routine . . . all off limits tonight.”
Then what are we going to talk about? She swallowed the reply. Instead, she reached for her drink, burying the off-balance moment in a sip of sweet juice and ginger.
His arm hooked around the back of her chair, he seemed content to sit in a music-and-chatter laden silence, beer balanced on his thigh. Quiet and space stretched around her, and even the boneless slump of his posture itched under her skin. A senseless desire to scream built in her throat.
All right, so she was anxious and emotional. She smoothed the hem of her shorts, ignoring the slight tremble in her fingers. She must get this under control.
“So we should play this like it’s date number three, maybe four.” He took a sip then leaned forward to set his bottle on the table. With his other hand, he played with the edges of her hair. “You know, past the awkwardness of the first date, but we’re not sleeping together yet, although a hot kiss goodnight is a given.”
“You know I’m a terrible date.” Not in the mood for his role-playing games, she grimaced over her sparkling juice. That had been a bad idea as well, too much juice and not enough ginger ale, sweet and cloying.
“Are we back to that again?” He stretched his legs, unperturbed. “It was the guys you were going out with.”
“I think you forget I was the commonality in all those scenarios.” She turned her face toward the ocean, piqued at herself more than she was him. The destructive urge to pick a lowkey fight with him frustrated her, but tugged with seductive allure.
“I’m not entertaining this with you, precious.” From the corner of her vision, she caught his lazy movement as he snagged his beer off the table. The calm patience in his voice sizzled along her nerves, and she curved her nails under her hem. She would not strike out at him.
He deserved better.
A sparkling wave of laughter, like fireworks against a night sky, rose from their neighbors’ table. She clenched her hem and released it. At least they hadn’t brought Callie and Vince along. Or Faith and Sutton. Her friend and sister carried that same sense of carefree joy with them, and that was all she needed coupled with his calm patience.
The trio segued into a slow vintage Madonna cover, and one corner of his mouth quirked. “I’m getting the theme here . . . eighties love ballads. What Gene calls baby-making music.”
She slanted a don’t-get-any-ideas-Lamar look at him, and he rolled his eyes.
“It wasn’t a suggestion.” He snorted over a swallow of beer. “Three is a nice, solid number, and I’m a little worried about the younger two when we hit their teens. Hell, I’m a little worried about the youngest when he turns two.”
