It's in His Kiss, Page 3

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Were you?”

  He wasn’t going to intimidate her. She no longer let herself get intimidated. But it wasn’t really intimidation she was feeling, not with the interesting heat churning in her belly from his nearness. Then he stepped even closer, and she forgot how to breathe, even more so when he cupped her face and tilted it up so he could study her. With a gentleness that surprised her, he stroked the pad of his thumb beneath her left eye.

  “You’ve got a bruise on your face,” he said.

  She pushed his hand away. “No, I don’t.”

  “You do.” Those intensely green eyes held hers prisoner. “What happened?”

  She reached up and touched the tender spot. “I was reading in bed and smacked myself with my flashlight and e-reader.”

  He stared at her. “Is that your version of I ran into a door?”

  She let out a mirthless laugh, which made his frown deepen. Apparently laughing in the face of an overprotective alpha wasn’t the right move. “Seriously,” she said. “I did this one all on my own.”

  “This one?”

  Well, shit. An overprotective, sharp alpha. “Have you ever tried to read in bed?” she asked, feeling contrary. “You hold the flashlight and e-reader above your head and if you start to fall asleep or relax, it’s smack.”

  He gave one slow blink. “Maybe you should sit up when you read.”

  “Maybe.” But she wouldn’t. She loved to read while lying down in bed. Which meant that she’d be hitting herself in the face again real soon.

  Sexy Grumpy Surfer didn’t move, nary an inch. Then he told her why. “I’m not going anywhere until you go back inside,” he said.

  “Why?”

  He just looked at her, and she realized that he was still in protective mode.

  “Fine,” she said. “Be all silent and mysterious. I’m going in.” She pointed at him. “But not because you told me to.”

  His mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you have a strange sense of humor?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve heard.”

  Chapter 3

  There was still the night’s chill on the air when Becca woke up the next morning. Early sun rays were doing their best to beat back the dark shadows of the night, stabbing through the cloud layer with hints of soft yellow and orange.

  She rolled the kink out of her neck from sleeping on the floor. Today was the day she further depleted her savings by buying furniture.

  And other essentials, such as food.

  Today was also the day that she got her act together. She stared at the portable piano keyboard leaning so deceptively casual-like against one of her suitcases.

  As a jingle writer, all she had to do was write a catchy tune for a given product. That was it. Write a jingle, sell it to the ad agency that had her on retainer, and accept their thanks in the form of a check.

  Except she’d been having trouble for a year now. Her muse had shriveled up on her, and she was eking out only the barest minimum to keep her agency interested. Her latest assignment was simple—come up with something catchy for Cushy toilet paper. A relatively easy and insignificant enough assignment, right?

  Right.

  With a sigh, she grabbed a roll of the toilet paper that the company had sent her, shoved it in her tote bag, and headed out. The first person she came across was the same boy on the bike who’d nearly hit her the other day. “Hey,” she said, flagging him down.

  He slowed. “Sam’s probably in his warehouse—”

  “No, this question’s for you.” She pulled out the roll of toilet paper. “Feel this. What does it make you think of?”

  He blinked.

  “I’m writing a commercial for it,” she told him.

  “That’s weird,” he said, but he reached out and took it. Considered. “I guess it feels nice to squeeze,” he finally said.

  “Good, but unfortunately, that commercial’s already been done,” she said. “Give me something else.”

  “Okay . . .” The kid scratched his head. “It’s . . . soft?”

  “Soft,” she said.

  “Yeah. You know, cushy.”

  She blew out a breath. “Thanks.”

  “I wasn’t any help at all, was I?” the kid asked.

  “You were great,” she told him, and waved as he rode off.

  She walked to the pier for more ranch-flavored popcorn, which she’d bought at the ice cream stand. The same twenty-something-year-old guy was there today.

  “You’re back,” he said.

  “Yep. You give good popcorn.”

  He smiled. “I know. I’m Lance, by the way.”

  “Becca,” she said. “I’m new to town.” Lance was small, painfully thin, and had an odd sound to his voice, like his chest was hollow. She glanced at the jar on the counter, with a DONATE TO CYSTIC FIBROSIS RESEARCH poster taped to it, and felt a pang of worry and empathy for him.

  “So what’ll it be, Becca New to Town?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Ranch-flavored popcorn.” She paused. “And a single chocolate scoop.”

  “Living large,” he said. “I like it.”

  When he brought the popcorn and ice cream to her, she held up the roll of toilet paper. “Question,” she said. “What does this make you think of?”

  He laughed. “That’s going to cost you a double scoop, at least.” But he squeezed the roll of toilet paper. “Tell me why I’m humoring the crazy lady?”

  “Because she writes the songs for commercials,” Becca said. Sometimes. If she’s very lucky. “And I need one for Cushy toilet paper. Only I’m stuck.”

  “So your brain’s . . . plugged?” he asked playfully. “Your brain’s got a big . . . load?”

  She laughed. “Don’t quit your day job.”

  He squeezed the roll again. “You know,” he said casually. “I get sick a lot.”

  Her heart pinched. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. But I use this brand for blowing my nose. It’s softer and more gentle than tissues.”

  She smiled and handed back the ice cream cone she hadn’t yet licked. “Okay, now that’s worth a double.”

  He made it a triple.

  A million calories later, she was back in her place, and she managed to come up with a little—emphasis on little—jingle for Cushy. She sent it off to her agency, fingers crossed.

  Standing up, she moved to the window and took in a most mesmerizing sight.

  Not the ocean, though that was pretty damn fine, too.

  But Sexy Grumpy Surfer—SGS for short, she’d decided—side by side with one of the other guys from last night, the two of them doing pull-ups on some metal bar. Given their easy, economical speed and the way they kept turning to eyeball each other, they were competing and not for the first time. They were shirtless, their toned bodies gleaming with sweat in the early-morning sun, definitely outshining the Pacific Ocean.

  “Wow,” she whispered. She had no idea how long she stood there, or how many impossibly difficult pull-ups the two men did before they both dropped lithely to the ground, straightened, and gave each other a shove.

  Their laughter drifted to her ears and she found herself smiling along with them. A sweaty tie then, she decided, and realized she was a little hot herself.

  Hot and bothered.

  Sexy Grumpy Surfer looked damn good laughing. The other guy moved off, back toward the small building between the street and beach, but SGS remained. Turning only his head, he unerringly met Becca’s gaze.

  Crap. She dropped like a stone to the floor and lay flat. He hadn’t seen her, she thought. He totally hadn’t. The glare on the window had blocked his view. Yeah, for sure he’d missed her . . .

  Slowly, she rose up on her knees to take a quick peek and winced.

  He was still there, hands on hips, looking right at her.

  He’d missed exactly nothing, and she suspected he rarely did.

&nbs
p; Then the clouds shifted, and suddenly the sun was shining right on him, like he was the best of God’s glory. Since the sun was also bright, making seeing details difficult, it was probably—hopefully—her imagination that his mouth quirked in a barely there smile as he shook his head at her.

  Her stomach quivering, she ducked again.

  And then from her position prone on the floor, she forbid herself from looking out the window ever again.

  Ever.

  Crawling to her suitcases in the center of the loft, she sat cross-legged, pulled out her list of Must-Buys, and added curtains. Curtains would keep her from being distracted by her view. Curtains would keep her on task.

  And away from further embarrassment.

  She showered, dressed, and left the warehouse, sending a cautious look down the alley.

  Empty.

  Relieved, she left. Several hours later she was back, followed by Eddie, the kid on the bike, whom she’d paid to help lug her loot. Thankfully he came with an older brother who had a truck, and equally thankfully, Lucky Harbor had a “vintage” shop, a really great one. She’d found everything she’d needed there, including gently used sheets that she bought for curtains.

  In far less time than it’d taken to shop, she had curtains up and the bed made, and she was sitting on it, staring at an email from her ad agency.

  Becca,

  The Cushy jingle works. I’ve sent accounting a request to get you payment. Next up is Diaxsis, the new erectile dysfunction medicine. Details and deadline info attached, if you’re interested.

  Not Great job, Becca. Not You’re back, Becca. Not We’ve put you back on our top tier, Becca.

  But neither was it You’re fired, Becca, so she’d take it. But Diaxsis? She blew out a breath and hit REPLY:

  I’m interested.

  The next morning, Becca opened her eyes and let out a happy breath. She’d actually slept, and if there’d been bad dreams, she didn’t remember them. Turning her head, she stared at the curtains where a weak daylight poked in around the edges.

  The insulation in her building was either poor or nonexistent. She could hear every single time the back door of the building next to hers opened.

  It opened now.

  Don’t do it, she told herself. Don’t go look. You’re stronger than this. You don’t need the distraction. . .

  But like Pavlov’s dog, she got up and peeked through the curtains.

  It was foggy out, but the bigger news was that Sexy Grumpy Surfer was back. It looked chilly, and yet he was in another pair of board shorts and a T-shirt that hugged the width of his shoulders as they flexed enticingly while he dumped the contents of a shop vac into the trash bin.

  Sex on a stick.

  He didn’t look up this time, and Becca forced herself away from the window. She showered, ate the leftover ranch-flavored popcorn—breakfast of champions—and gave her keyboard a long, hard look. “Today,” she told it. “Today, you give me something better than It works.”

  Sitting on the bed, leaning back against the wall, she pulled the keyboard onto her lap.

  A year. A year since she’d composed jingles for the best national brands, and the reasons why were complicated. She’d lost her muse, and her footing. On life. That had to change. Hence the across-the-country move. A new venue, a new beginning. But she still needed to prove herself, if only to the woman in the mirror.

  Her parents wouldn’t ask her to prove herself, she knew this. Growing up, they’d never asked anything of her, other than to take care of her brother while they worked crazy hours in the jazz clubs of New Orleans. Watch Jase, that’s all they’d ever expected her to do.

  Though only two years separated her and her brother, Becca felt far older, always had. She’d done her best to take care of him, succeeding better at some moments than others. But at least the promise of his talent had been fulfilled. He was a wonderful concert pianist.

  Now she wanted, needed, to be wonderful at something, too.

  And yeah, yeah, being worthy shouldn’t be tied up in financial success—or lack thereof—blah blah. But whoever had said that had clearly never had to pay their rent on time.

  Her cell phone vibrated. The screen said Jase calling.

  Until recently, they’d been close, and had talked frequently. Except, just like her early—and short-lived—success with jingle writing, this too had turned out to be an illusion. A glossy veneer shown to the world, while the truth was hidden deep inside them both.

  She stared at the phone until it went to voice mail.

  Two seconds later came a text. You okay?

  Completely okay, she texted back. Liar, liar, pants on fire . . .

  But hell if she’d give anyone she cared about more stress to deal with. She turned her phone off, ignored the guilt, and spent the rest of the day alternating between nesting in her new place and trying to work a jingle about the male erection.

  And maybe, also, looking out her windows a little bit. She told herself it was the ocean that drew her, but mostly her gaze was drawn to the alley. In addition to the pull-ups, she’d now seen Sexy Grumpy Surfer carrying a large duffel bag to the boat moored at the dock, washing down said boat with the same two other guys she’d seen before, and taking a hard, brutally fast run along the beach with yet a third guy.

  Seemed like maybe Lucky Harbor was a hot-guy magnet.

  By the end of the day, Becca needed sustenance and a change of scenery, so she headed into town. She could’ve gone to the diner Eat Me, but instead she walked a block farther, past the pier, to go back to the Love Shack.

  She told herself it was the atmosphere. The place was done up like an Old West saloon, with walls lined with old mining tools, tables made from antique wood doors. Lanterns hung from the exposed beam ceiling, and the air was filled with laughter, talking, and music from the jukebox in the corner.

  She ordered a burger and sat by herself to eyeball the real reason she’d come back here—the baby grand piano in the far corner. It was old, and had clearly been around the block decades ago, but it called to her. She stared at it, torn between wanting to stroke it, and wanting to run like hell.

  Jase might the real talent of the Thorpe family, but there’d been a time when the two of them had been a duo. Maybe she’d never been quite as good as he was—not that her parents had ever said so, they didn’t have to—but she’d been good enough to boost Jase’s talent. The press latched on to them early, and they’d even become pseudo-celebrities.

  Things had been good, until she’d turned seventeen. With that age had come some self-awareness, and a serious case of the awkwards. Besides the headaches and bone aches that had come with a late, fast growth spurt, she’d lost all coordination, including her fingertips. Practically overnight she’d turned into the Graceless Ugly Duckling, exemplified.

  The following month, their manager had gotten them invited to compete at the prestigious Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles. The place had been filled with people—more than two thousand—and all Becca remembered was being struck by sheer, heart-stopping panic.

  She’d tanked, and the press had ripped them to shreds.