Chapter Sixteen
JULES
As I placedmy key in the front door lock, my brain still buzzed from the wild afternoon. My skin felt tight and warm.
Alive.
The door clicked open, and a rush of cool air washed over us. Eli stepped inside behind me, his presence impossible to ignore. It was a new awareness that everything was different now. I turned and was caught up by the smile on his face—so easy, so charming, like he owned the room.
We were both sweaty and massively satiated after our encounter in the dive shack, so we’d quickly dressed and headed toward the dive shop. The building contained two private shower suites, but somehow, we both ended up in one. The result being that this time, we were not so sweaty but still satiated afterward. Part of me was shocked at my willingness—hell, it was damn near uncontrollable—to let go with Eli.
Shocked? Yes.
Regretful? Not in the slightest.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” I said as I surveyed the small space. The cozy living room was filled with beachy decor, soft blues and greens that mirrored the distant ocean. Framed watercolors of sunrise skies over Driftwood Beach hung on the walls, each picture a reminder of why I loved this island.
“Nice place,” Eli said, leaning against the end table near the door with a casual confidence. He looked around, taking it all in like he was assessing a dive site—eyes scanning, evaluating, appreciating. “I like it. Very organized.” Smile growing, his gaze took in the neatly arranged throw pillows on the couch. Then he pointed at my bookcase in the corner. “Do you alphabetize your books or arrange them by color?”
“Alphabetize.” I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the smile creeping onto my lips. The lightness between us was unexpected, yet so very right. “And you should be more supportive of that, considering your sister owns a bookshop.”
“I am supportive. That’s why I noticed it right off the bat.”
“Glad to hear it. Let’s cook dinner instead of chatting about my impeccable taste in decor.” I led him into the kitchen, the heart of my home.
“Perfect! I do believe we’ve managed to work up an appetite, haven’t we?” He waggled his eyebrows, which made me laugh out loud.
“I think that’s a given.”
“What are we making? Please tell me it involves something fried.” He opened the fridge and started poking around.
“Don’t know about fried, but how about fish tacos? They’re tasty and simple,” I suggested, nudging him asideso I could grab suitable ingredients from the fridge. I set two bell peppers on the counter next to a cutting board.
“Fish tacos? You’re speaking my language!” Eli turned around to lean against the counter, his eyes lighting up. Then his smile fell, and he shook his head. “I made fish tacos a few days ago, but it didn’t go well. They just swam away.”
Unable to help it, I burst out laughing and bent over the counter. “Oh my God, Eli! That’s the most awful joke I’ve ever heard.”
His face was adorably smug. “Then why are you laughing so hard?”
Getting control of myself again, I bumped his shoulder with mine as I opened the white paper surrounding the fish. “I bought some nice dorado at the market yesterday, and I need to cook it. Just don’t expect gourmet Michelin-star stuff.”
I could feel his gaze on me, and it made my skin tingle. I reached for a knife, trying to focus on the task at hand, a light lemon herb fish, while my mind buzzed with remnants of our earlier encounter.
“All right, chef.” Eli rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscular, suntanned forearms, and grabbed a knife and a second cutting board. “What do you need me to chop? Or should I just start throwing things in the pan?”
“How about you stick to the chopping?” I replied, unable to suppress a smile. “And no throwing.”
“Hey, I could have been a culinary artist in another life.” He picked up a pepper, inspecting it closely. “But fine, let’s keep it civilized. What’s next?”
“Just slice those peppers into even pieces.” I glanced sideways as he brandished the knife with exaggerated flair. “And try not to lose a finger while you’re at it.”
“Please, the only thing I’m likely to injure is yourdinner,” he shot back. As he began chopping the peppers, I couldn’t help but notice how well he maneuvered the blade.
“Are you always this competitive in the kitchen?” I grabbed a bottle of pinot gris from the fridge and poured us each a glass.
“Only when I have a worthy opponent.” He winked, tossing another piece of pepper into the bowl before accepting his wine.
I turned on the gas burner and laid the fish on the counter next to it, smiling at our easy familiarity. And what a change it was. I wanted to know more. “So what’s your story with diving? When did you start?”
