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Dean brushed her fingertips with his. “And?”
“If I recall correctly, he wasn’t in the country at the time. He didn’t protest. We moved off base, I lost my friends.” I lost my security, my place. “I never spent any more time on a military base.” The rare occasions she saw her father, they’d go to the mountains to ski or to the beach to swim. They never went anywhere and worked, lived like a family.
She’d never belonged anywhere again, she thought, staring off into space. Or belonged to anyone. Sometimes it made her so damn mad, and other times—
“Marlys? Angel?”
Blinking, she focused on Dean. He was tossing some bills onto the little black tray that had come with the check, then he tucked his wallet in his back pocket.
Leaning across the table, he rubbed his thumb over her mouth. Her lips tingled. “I don’t like to see you sad.”
“Sad?” The word shocked her out of her reverie. It wasn’t close to mad and sounded too much like serious. “Sad! Marlys Weston doesn’t do sad. Marlys Weston is much too happy for sad.”
“Whatever you say.” He stood, then lifted her out of her chair. His posture was familiar, soldier-straight, and she had a sudden urge to see him in uniform. Crisp, correct, everything in its place. In the military, you knew the rules and you played within the fences.
It might sound weird to other people. Stifling, instead of comforting. But she could see herself in on-base housing again. It was a harmless little fantasy, just more playing, but she could see it. A house, with herself inside of it. The front door opened, and a uniformed man strode inside.
Not her father. Not some anonymous military man.
Dean. And her heart thrilled at the sight of him.
On the sidewalk outside the café in Santa Monica, he was gazing down at her. When he cupped her chin, their gazes met, and just like that, the chemistry experiment bubbling between them blew up in their faces. Ka-boom.
“Jesus,” he said, all of him jerking away from her except for those fingers gripping her jaw. “Jesus, you do something to me.”
Her heart jittered in reaction to the stark truth in his voice. This wasn’t fun, or funny, or playful, or like the prank she’d played when she’d kissed Pharmaceutical Phil in his presence. This was weakness and want and everything she’d sworn that a man would never make her feel.
This was serious.
Juliet drove to Malibu & Ewe, eager to put distance between herself and Noah. He’d left her bedroom shortly after eleven, while she—what a chicken—pretended sleep. After a brief shower during which she acknowledged she could never look at those tiled walls the same again, she’d scampered to her car and instinctively headed for the first person she thought of.
Cassandra.
Her sister.
It was a notion still almost as unfamiliar as a man in her bed. But unlike that idea, it was a comfort to her, a promise of unequivocal support, and all she wanted right now was to sit on one of Cassandra’s couches. In the other woman’s calm, warm presence, she would draw out her needles and her yarn and work on the wrap she was making as a long-term substitute for a man’s arms. In Malibu & Ewe, there would be time and quiet to get her bearings.
The parking lot the shop shared with Gabe’s fish market/café was crowded, but she found a just-vacated spot and strode for Cassandra’s place. It was another incredible day, November now, she realized, but the sun bounced so brightly off the ocean that she was forced to tent her hand over her eyes.
It wasn’t so much easier in Malibu & Ewe, she discovered, as she pushed through the door. Colors came at her, clearer and brighter than she ever recalled, and not just from the bins of yarn around Cassandra’s shop but from the outfits worn by the crowd of customers and in the tones of their upbeat, excited chatter.
By the register, Cassandra looked less calm than harried. A line had formed and she was obviously struggling to be efficient with the transactions while still answering the questions that were thrown her way from about the room. Juliet caught her eye, but she got barely a smile before her sister’s attention was split by yet another request.
The couches were full, and in the chaos, no one but Juliet seemed to notice that ensconced in the middle of the cushions was One of the Most Famous Actresses in America. Oomfaa, her long, lean legs crossed at the knee, appeared to be knitting a red-and-white striped mitten. Juliet had to grin to herself. She wasn’t the only woman who considered Cassandra’s shop a haven. And apparently the paparazzi were as ignorant of Oomfaa’s hobbies as they were of her home address.
A muffled, frustrated curse directed Juliet’s attention back to Cassandra. She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Out of register tape,” she muttered.
