Everett blinked. His voice softened. “Agreed.”
“I think that’s it. Anything else?”
“When can we see each other again?”
“Depends on your busy schedule, Suit.”
Amusement tinged his smile. “You have a surf lesson tomorrow, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there to watch. After, I’ll head to the office, have dinner with Kels, and come to you when she heads to bed.”
Rowan nodded. Her stomach danced with nerves and something much headier. “Sounds good.”
His heated gaze held wicked intention. “Oh, I promise. It will be.”
Then he grabbed her hand and led her off the beach.
Chapter Seventeen
Rowan wiped the last ring of condensation from the counter and told herself to breathe. The cottage smelled like lime and salt and the faint, permanent ghost of surf wax. She’d opened the windows so the curtains lifted and settled with the trade winds. Her father’s boards lined one wall—two shortboards, a sun-bleached fish, and one old single-fin with the yellowed glass and dings he’d refused to let anyone fix.
Jack Delaney had called them scars and was proud to wear them, on his board or his body.
Bagel thumped once from under the coffee table like a bouncer signaling last call.
“Don’t be rude.” He managed to glare with unblinking eyes. “You need to make nice with him tonight, okay? Do you know how long it’s been since an actual man stayed over? I need you to stay in your cage and not give me any trouble.”
Bagel now looked disgusted.
She sighed and jumped at the knock that somehow sounded both polite and demanding. Rowan refused to check her appearance again in the mirror. She’d changed twice, which pissed her off, before finally settling on a pair of loose, wide-legged pants and a comfortable yellow crop top. Her feet were bare. She’d left her hair wild and free to hopefully imitate the evening ahead.
If the stupid nerves didn’t get her.
She opened the door. Her breath caught at his appearance.
No suit. An ice-blue short-sleeved shirt opened at the neck and showed off his corded arms. Dark-wash denim jeans hugged his hips and thighs in all the right places. Tennis sneakers clad his feet. His hair looked freshly washed, jaw clean-shaven, and he smelled like expensive cologne. Rowan fought the impulse to take a big inhale so she could soak in the scent of clove and whiskey. The chunky silver watch was still clasped to his wrist.
Her stomach dipped, then steadied. She kept her mouth firmly closed. He didn’t need any added compliments—the man must know he was sex on a stick.
“Hi.”
She curled her fingers into loose fists. “Hi,” she said.
“I brought wine.” He held a paper bag like a presentation. “White and red. And whiskey.”
“Flawless start, Suit.” She stepped back. “Come in.”
He did, careful with his shoes on the woven mat. His gaze moved hungrily around the house, taking in the boards, the assorted photos, the battered side table with a chipped shell bowl. He walked into the tiny kitchen and set the bottles on the high countertop. She imagined him creating a blueprint to base his opinion on, but tonight he emitted a slower energy, where he was usually all angles and sharp motions. As if he was ready to settle in with intention. Her nerve endings tingled.
“This is you,” he said. “All of it.” He began to roam, stopping at shelves to study the portraits. Her on a foam board at seven, missing teeth; Dad grinning with a plumeria behind his ear; a shot from her first junior final where she looked wild-eyed and inevitable. Everett picked up a picture of her dad catching a wave. Hair clipped back in a pony, body stout and muscled, gritting his teeth in focused fury to tackle the oncoming barrel. “What was his name?”
“Jack.” Her voice came out a bit throaty, so she moved toward the kitchen and fished around for a corkscrew. Bagel slid out like a shadow, stopped a foot from Everett’s canvas shoes, and stared up, unblinking.
Everett stared back. “I’m being evaluated,” he murmured.
“He’s protective.”
