"Right, of course." I cleared my throat and turned over the ignition. "Are we drowning our sorrows tonight?"
She scraped her fingers through her hair, and that sent a gentle floral scent wafting toward me. "No. Just because alcohol isasolution doesn't mean it'sthesolution," she said.
I barked out a surprised laugh. "Was that a chemistry joke?"
"Atoms, man. They're in everything," she said, and my ribs were now aching from the force of my laughter. "But seriously, that's the extent of my small talk skill. I only know how to talk about the way lava is proof of reincarnation or that the amount of control wielded by tides is mind-boggling. That's it. That's me—no niceties, lots of oddly philosophical science. If you want to get drunk and debate the Pats' spread offense, I'm no good for you. I'm no good for anyone, but specifically in this context, I'm no good for you."
Well,fuuuuuck.
My first thought was of tasting that insouciant smile of hers, yes. But my second thought was of hearing the rest of that lava story. Maybe that was the most appropriate summary of my craving for Miss Walsh. Her beauty was the slap in the face, but her mind was the sucker punch.
"And you know what?" she continued. "Alcohol always tells me I can dance. I cannot, and I shouldn't listen to alcohol. We're not friends anymore."
I glanced over at her. I was melting for her, just fucking melting, and she didn't even know it. "Are you sure you're a Walsh?"
"It's been debated," she murmured. "Head toward Provincetown. We'll find something on the way, but no chains and no tourist traps."
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
"I'm not old enough to be ama'am," she replied, laughing. "Don't do that to me."
"What would you rather be?" I asked as I rolled to a stop near the main road. I bit my tongue—literally bit my tongue—to keep from offering a name more intimate. Butbaby, sweetie, honey, those wouldn't do. Not evencariñoorcorazónwould work.
Mine.That was good.That would work.
"Call me Ishmael," she said, following my gaze toMoby-Dickscrawled across her chest. She was the kind of girl who wore a t-shirt well, and she didn't seem to mind me noticing. "Funny story,Moby-Dick. It's all about chasing down the thing that haunts you, but in that chase, losing everything else."
"Yeah, now that you mention it, I do see the humor," I said, failing to rip my eyes from her shirt. Yes, all right, it wasn't theshirtthat had my attention. It was the woman wearing the shirt, and everything I could infer from the way she wore it. "Death at sea has always been hilarious."
"Well, no," she said, shaking a hand at me. "It's revered as this tale of good versus evil, man versus nature, blah, blah, blah. But it's really just a swan song for the good old days of Nantucket whaling. A sermon to the sea, and all of its machinations. Most people blame the rise of petroleum, the depleted stock of whales, and the seizure of northern ships by the Confederate Navy during the Civil War for the decline of the American whaling industry, specifically the decline here on the Cape, but it was actually the development of more efficient Norwegian ships. Instead of catching up to the Norwegians and furthering the decline of the entire species, American interests turned to railroads, mining, conquering the west."
I blinked at Erin while she studied the dark road before us. "Do you do that often?" I asked, scratching my chin. "Make odd observations about one thing and then drop a maritime history lesson like you had that information on the tip of your tongue?"
She shrugged. "Sometimes."
"Right, yeah. It was kind of amazing," I said, "and a little intimidating."
"I told you," she said. "I don't do small talk." Erin looked away, out her window, but then cut an up-and-down glance back at me. It was quick, but the smile that followed was more than enough to telegraph her interest. Okay. So it wasn't just me. "Take Route 6."
We rode along the far eastern arm of Cape Cod in amicable silence, and found a harborside tavern that screamed local-but-not-tourist. Not that I cared, but Erin knew what she wanted. As far as I was concerned, we could sit on a curb all night, so long as she kept talking and let me bury my face in her hair to find that scent again.
Once seated at the bar, I stole every opportunity to gaze at her. She didn't put much on display, but that didn't matter. When the Lord gave to Erin, he gave with two hands. She was small. Narrow, even. But that t-shirt showed off the curve of her waist in a manner that made my fingers itch. And her tits were a crime. They were that soup ladle shape that was too rare to be real, but there wasn't an ounce of artifice on this woman.
What you see is what you get.
Except it wasn't, not by a mile. I leaned back in my seat and draped my arm over the edge of hers. My fingers were drawn to her shoulder. No, that was bullshit. Complete bullshit. I was drawn to all of her, and touching her shoulder was an entry-level way of sayingI dig you, darlin'.
She glanced at my fingers and then back to me, her eyebrow arching. I didn't respond to her unspoken question, instead staring at her pink lips. She'd be sweet there. Sweet but tart, too.
"What are you running away from tonight, lovely?"
She shook her head. "Nothing new," she said.
Her fingers tangled in the thin chains circling her neck, and she toyed with the small stone that sat in her jugular notch. "What is that?" I asked, pointing to the gem. "Onyx?"
"Carbonado. Black diamond. It's the toughest natural diamond form in existence. I found this one in Brazil."
"I've never heard of those," I said, my gaze drawn to her neck. I wanted to taste her there. I wanted her in nothing but that necklace. I wanted to wrap my fingers around that necklace and feel her pulse thrumming against my skin while I moved in her.
