Page 64 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

Enough said!

His message back was short and sweet:

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He’d deliberately used the term “Dad” just to annoy the old man. And, yeah, he’d mentioned shipwreck salvaging as a continuing middle finger of rebellion. Being a Navy SEAL was bad enough, in his family’s opinion. Being a treasure hunter had to be another notch down the prestige pole. As a final “insult,” he’d signed off with “Love” at the end because, dammit, despite everything, he still loved his father.

There was a slight scratching on the door. Probably K-4 returning from his night on the town. Even though he tried hard to get on with his life, K-4 still mourned the wife he’d lost to cancer some years back. Before he had a chance to call out something like, “No hot belles in Bell Cove tonight?” the door opened. But it wasn’t K-4.

Delilah stood in the open doorway, wearing a thigh-length sleep shirt with a Beach Bunny logo featuring a sexy, bikini-clad rabbit, and flip-flops, both of which she’d probably purchased at some thrift shop, as per her usual habit. Not that she didn’t look as hot and attractive in her relatively demure outfit as any Victoria’s Secret model, if they even had models with curves these days. Her hair was wet from a recent shower and pulled off her face into a neat braid. Her face had been scrubbed clean. As innocent in appearance as a teenager—a teenager with an adult woman’s body.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“Are you kidding?” he replied, closing his laptop and tucking it under the bed. Folding his hands behind his nape, he stretched his legs out. He wore only boxer briefs. He’d turned the AC off and opened the sliding doors out to the patio. Thunder and lightning promised a storm yet to come. It was still hot, but there was a pleasant breeze off the sound.

Delilah closed the door behind her and shifted from foot to foot, as if unsure of herself.

“I’m sorry I ran off like that before,” she said.

“I’m sorry I made you cry.”

“I do not cry.”

“I forgot. Sorry I made you not cry then.”

“Fool!” she muttered. “Listen, I owe you an explanation.”

“No, Delilah, you don’t owe me anything, and if you mention that fucking money, I’m gonna spank your sweet ass.”

Her eyes went wide.

“Oops. I didn’t really mean that the way it sounded.”

She arched her brows at him, in a way that was teasing, rather than offended. Note to self: A spank or two might be added to my repertoire.

Leaning back against the closed door, which caused her breasts to be outlined by the tautened shirt—and, yes, I am noticing nipples, so shoot me—she said, “No one has ever been so nice to me before, and that’s why I overreacted.”

“Oh, crap! You’re not going to start the ‘nice’ business, are you? If there’s anything a man hates, it’s to be called nice by a woman he wants in his bed. It’s the kiss of death for the prospect of sex.”

“Really? And what half-assed, clueless man sex manual did you learn that from?”

Bad language from Delilah and the mention of sex without blushing . . . man, I am on a roll! Or maybe not. Maybe this is just the preamble to the big kiss-off!

“You’ve already gone overboard in helping me with the salary advance, and, yes, I know you don’t want to hear about that now. But that was just the beginning. You’ve treated me with respect and been patient with me on the boat. I was already attracted to you before, I admit that, even before we went out to dinner, but the way in which you behaved with Maggie . . . well, it touched me deeply.”

“Even when she called me a poopyhead?”

“Even then. Believe me, I had a talk with the little imp about that kind of language,” she said. “But, Merrill, for you to have offered to bring her on the salvage boat, that went above and beyond. You didn’t care about the inconvenience, or what other people might think. You have a good heart. And I was touched.”

He knew what Delilah was saying, even if she didn’t say the words, or even recognize what was happening. Delilah was falling in love with him, just like he was falling in love with her.

He motioned her toward him with a forefinger.

She just blinked at him. Stubborn to the last, even when she was the one who’d come to him.

“Delilah, honey,” he said huskily, then cleared his throat, “lock the door and come here. I’m not nearly done . . . ‘touching’ you.”