Chapter
eleven
Now that she, Willow, and Nora had hauled the Zander wants to date you possibility out of the shadowy back closet of their sisterhood, Britt was finding it hard to concentrate on anything else while in Zander’s presence.
They’d left Ricardo’s, driven halfway home, then pulled off the freeway in Gig Harbor for lunch. They were now polishing off their meal from a picnic table at Sunrise Beach Park. A view of Puget Sound, Vashon Island, and majestic Mount Rainier preened before them.
Britt kept her focus affixed to the setting, because each time she’d looked at Zander today—while driving to Maple Valley, while talking with Ricardo—she’d wondered whether her sisters’ theories could be true.
I mean, they could be true. But were they?
Willow and Nora had made an outstanding case, after all. They’d pointed to behavior of Zander’s that supported their argument.
It’s just that every time she began to think they might be right about Zander, she started to feel dizzy . . . as if nothing about her world was quite as she’d trusted it to be. As she’d wanted it to be. As she’d set it up to be.
If Willow and Nora were right about Zander, that meant she’d been wrong.
She knew Zander much, much better than her sisters did. Before he’d left on his Grand Tour, she’d hung out with him constantly. She’d texted with him endlessly. She’d shared her truest self—all of her hopes and frustrations and weaknesses—with him. She’d been on the receiving end of his words and body language a hundred times more often than Willow and Nora had.
She’d concluded that his feelings for her were the same as her feelings for him.
It was true that he’d sacrificed for her in a million ways. But she’d sacrificed for him, too. That’s what friends did. Her motives hadn’t been romantic, so why did his motives have to be romantic? Couldn’t he have done what he’d done for her in the name of friendship?
Yes.
But had he?
It’s possible—and this is what had been keeping her awake the last two nights—that she’d concluded that his feelings mirrored hers because that conclusion had been the most convenient for her.
The idea that Zander loved her: scary and thorny.
The idea that Zander felt friendship toward her: easy and safe.
She had the sinking sensation that she’d been willfully wrong about him. Because that’s what had made her comfortable.
Inwardly, she groaned. She certainly wasn’t comfortable anymore. She didn’t know what to think about Zander. Nor did she know what to think about her new preoccupation with thoughts of kissing him.
She took another bite of the cold rice, chicken, and curry salad she’d made early this morning. Britt wasn’t one for picnic lunches stored in decorative wicker baskets. She was one, however, for power lunches stored in her oft-utilized hiking backpack. In addition to the salad, she’d packed sliced fruit, a baguette and butter, and bottled waters for the two of them. For dessert, she’d included her latest attempt at the troublesome peppermint truffle recipe.
She chewed critically. The next time she made this chicken curry salad, she’d add a pinch more curry and extra green olives. And what was it about the flavors of baguette and butter that paired so deliciously? The taste of both were simple on their own. Bland bread—springy on the inside and crispy on the outside. Bland butter—creamy and salty. Together? Perfection.
“I believed Ricardo.” Zander scooted his plastic dish and fork away from him, indicating he’d finished eating.
“So did I.” Smoke wisped from the chimney of one of the homes on the far side of the water. “When we came up to him and explained that we were friends of James he reacted exactly the way I imagine someone who’d lost touch with an old friend would.”
“I agree.”
“And despite the fact that Ricardo was released from prison recently, I don’t think he had anything to do with Frank’s death.”
“My gut’s telling me the same thing,” Zander said. “But in this case I don’t want to trust my gut because thieves like Ricardo are probably good at playing a part, at putting themselves in the shoes of the person they want you to believe they are, then responding and speaking the way that person would.”
She steeled herself to meet his eyes. Could he? Her Zander? Have loved her all these years? “When I was talking to Ricardo, I didn’t feel as if I were talking to an experienced actor playing a part. I felt like I was having a normal conversation with a normal person.”
“We never did see Ricardo’s wife,” Zander pointed out.
“You think he lied about having a wife?” Britt asked with surprise.
“I don’t think he did. I’m just saying he could have.”
“Why would he do that?”
“To make himself seem less threatening.”
“To what end?”
“To get us inside his house?”
“Under the guise of having coffee with his wife?”
“Yep.”
“So that, in actuality, he could slash us to pieces?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Slashing to pieces sounds a little extreme.”
“Over the top,” Britt said.
“He’d probably just shoot us.”
“Naturally.” Britt considered Zander’s hypothesis. “I think his wife is real. He wouldn’t lie about that because it’s too easy for us to verify her existence, or lack thereof. I’ll ask Nora to check into Ricardo’s personal history just to be sure. She’s already planning on doing more research into his criminal history.” Britt opened the container bearing her truffles and extended it to Zander.
He took one. “Ricardo’s rich enough to afford to pay someone like Nick to follow me.”
“True.”
“And he lives close enough to Merryweather to have met with Frank the day he left the jobsite and never returned.”
“Also true. However, I’m not convinced that Ricardo would have wanted to meet with Frank, because I’m not convinced that Ricardo was one of the Triple Play robbers. If he was, then wouldn’t it make sense that both he and Frank would have changed their identities? Or both he and Frank would have kept their original identities?”
“That would make sense, yes.”
“Instead, Frank changed his identity and Ricardo kept his the same.” Britt gestured from Zander’s truffle to Zander. “Eat.” They both bit into their chocolate.
The recipe had so much promise. It offered layers of flavor—complicated, innovative flavor. She could taste in this truffle the thing that made her heart beat faster, the promise of greatness.
It wasn’t great yet, though. The consistency wasn’t quite right, and this batch possessed too much rum and not enough of . . . something elusive that she hadn’t figured out yet. “I’d like to hear your feedback, chocolate sous savant.”
The rich green backdrop of pine trees sharply outlined his masculine profile. “Perhaps a little too much rum.”
“Yes.” Earlier today, he’d told her he’d educated himself on chocolate because she loved it. That was something a person might do for a friend. Right? “I may try adding a hint of ginger to the white chocolate.”
“Will that be bright enough to contrast with the peppermint?”
She knit her forehead. “I’m not sure.” She’d created enough recipes over the years to have reason to believe that she’d uncover this particular truffle’s secrets eventually. Even so, the uncertainty of the current creative phase didn’t sit well with her. At the moment, this truffle was eighty percent chocolate and twenty percent doubt. Doubt—about Zander, about chocolate—had never coexisted well with her.
Her attention flowed to the touch football game beginning to take shape on the stretch of beach below them. She motioned her chin toward the players. It looked like a large group of college-aged friends. Guys and girls both. “Want to join them?”
Zander considered her with a small, uneven smile.
Something other than chocolate greatness had the ability to make her heart beat faster. He did. There was power in that particular smile on the face of her friend—the quiet, brilliant man.
“Yes,” he said. “But only if we’re on opposing teams.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
They talked smack to each other while stashing the backpack in the car and making their way to the beach.
The players were glad to welcome two more. Zander gave their names.
“Wait,” said a beautiful blonde dressed head to toe in Lululemon. “Are you Zander Ford, the author?”
“Yes!” Britt answered before Zander had a chance to. This person recognized Zander! Pride sunburst within her more strongly than it would have if she’d been the one recognized. “Have you read Geniuses?”
“I have,” the blonde chirped. “Oh my gosh, it was amazing.”
“It really was,” Britt said.
“Thanks.” Zander appeared both pleased and sheepish.
“I couldn’t put it down.” The girl eyed Zander, as if deciding whether he’d fit into the tuxedo she had picked out for her future groom.
This female stranger had fallen prey to Zander’s unattainable vibe and fantastic book, which wasn’t at all uncommon. The unattainable vibe had attracted women even before the release of the book.
What was uncommon? The emotion that overtook Britt in response to the girl’s interest.
Possessiveness.
A few seconds ago, she’d liked the girl. Now she wanted to step in front of Zander and tell her in no uncertain terms not to get her hopes up.
Britt was losing her marbles. Honestly, it was almost frightening. These newfound feelings for Zander were just too . . . fraught. Too unsettling.
The girl asked Zander questions about his writing process, which he fielded good-naturedly.
“Shall we start?” Britt asked the group at large, interrupting the girl halfway through a question.
“Sure,” one of the guys answered, and the two teams coalesced.
Just empty your head, Britt. Simply enjoy a Sunday afternoon game of touch football.
For the next hour, they played. The teams progressed up and down a “field” they’d marked off with pieces of driftwood. Cool breeze coursed through Britt’s hair. She ran. She caught passes and dodged to stop the opposing team’s plays.
A hazy blue sky watched over them, the water of the Sound glimmered, sun kissed Britt’s cheeks, and she and Zander bantered. They behaved as they always had when competing—ribbing each other, making predictions of grandeur, and laying down outrageous boasts.
In the end, Britt’s team won.
She approached Zander, flushed with victory. “Everything’s right with the world when the worthiest team wins.”
“Funny. I was just going to say that everything’s wrong with the world when the worthiest team loses.” Exertion and sea air had dampened his sable hair.
“Thank goodness that’s not what occurred here today.” She scooped up an aqua piece of sea glass and brandished it. “I’m going to take this home as a trophy to remind me of today’s game. Every time I see it, I’ll have an excellent reason to gloat.”
He attempted to jab upward on the bottom of the glass so that it would spring from her grip.
She jerked it out of range just in time and, laughing, turned and ran.
He chased her. “Hand the sea glass over, and no one will get hurt.”
“Never!” She raced along the beach away from civilization. Her tired legs responded to the test, obediently drawing from her stores of stamina. It was hard to sprint on sand, but she was doing it, a fact that filled her with a heady sense of strength.
She could hear Zander close behind her. She wanted to believe she was faster. It was probably closer to the truth to assume he was humoring her. She followed the shore’s long curve, then slanted up the beach, away from the water.
She glanced over her shoulder, tendrils of hair streaming in front of her eyes. He was gaining. She shrieked and tried to increase her speed just as one of her feet sank into a wet patch of sand. Her balance pitched forward, and in the next instant she landed with a giggling oomph. One of her feet tangled between Zander’s legs and he fell, too. She rolled partway onto her back and found him above her. He’d braced the weight of his upper body on one of his arms.
“I warned you,” he said with a huff of amusement.
She grinned. “I’m the winner of today’s very important touch football game, and I’m dead set on keeping my trophy at any cost.” Pleasantly cool sand supported her overheated limbs.
“At any cost?” he asked.
“Any.”
They were both breathing hard.
His face was near and their position . . . oh. Their position was very intimate.
Adrenaline shot down her body to her toes.
Her sense of caution reared awake and began issuing warnings.
She waited for Zander to move away.
He didn’t. By slow degrees, seriousness overtook his features. Then raw need flared in his dark blue irises, followed immediately by conflict. His focus flicked to her nose, her lips, then down toward her knees.
What should she do? Her thoughts split apart like a firecracker. Her body clamored to kiss him. Her emotions were drawing her to him—
“What’s this?” he asked in a tight voice.
“Hmm?”
He was looking at her waist. With effort, she recovered enough from her daze to lift her head. She saw that her shirt had flipped up at the hem when she’d landed, exposing a few inches of her abdomen above her jeans. A portion of the raised pink scar she’d received during her kayaking accident was fully visible.
Her heart seemed to spiral into the cold, dark depths of a well.
Fiasco. He’d seen the scar, and it was too late to hide it from him. Shoot, shoot, shoot.
“It’s just a scar,” she said. “No big deal.”
“No big deal?”
She levered her elbows underneath her and edged backward. “It looks worse than it is.”
“It looks worse than it is.” His gaze seared hers.
She sat, then rolled forward onto her feet and straightened tall because she couldn’t bear to talk to him about this from a position of weakness.
He, too, rose to standing. Color stained his cheeks. He’d shed his sweat shirt early in their football game and was wearing a black T-shirt that revealed his tattooed arms. His hands hung at his sides, but they didn’t look relaxed. Tension arced along every tendon. “When did you get that scar?” he asked.
She pressed her back teeth together and resisted the urge to cross her arms defensively. She double-checked to make sure her shirt had fallen back into place. It had. “I got it early last summer—”
“The end of June.”
“How?”
She pressed two fingertips against her temple.
“Britt.” He gestured angrily. “Don’t make me drag it out of you. I need—I need to know what happened, so tell me. Please. Everything.”
She dropped her hand. “I was paddling the gorge—”
“Alone?”
“Yes. As you know, I sometimes go out alone when my paddling friends aren’t available.”
“Water conditions?”
“High,” she admitted, chin lifted. “There’d been a good deal of rain.”
“Britt,” he growled, infusing her name with censure.
“That section of the river is only class two.”
“Class two plus,” he corrected, “when it hasn’t rained. The run-off makes the gorge unpredictable—”
“—and dangerous,” she snapped. “Yes. I’m aware.” She’d already received this sermon from her doctors, parents, sisters, friends. She’d even heard it from Mike, the guy that sold adventure sports equipment to her. Their sermons had been unnecessary because she’d lived the lesson. The river and her painful recovery had been excellent teachers.
Thick clouds swept in front of the sun. “What happened?” he asked.
“I went wide around the bend at the basalt wall.”
He acknowledged that he knew the place with a nod.
“That area has always been clear before. But this time, a tree had fallen into the water. It was mostly submerged, and by the time I saw it, I couldn’t avoid it.”
His mouth tightened.
“My efforts to free myself only made it worse, and before I knew it, the current had pushed me underwater and against the branches.”
“Yes. I managed to grab hold of my kayak. I yanked it hard, and it swung out. The river pulled it down river and dragged me out.”
“And?”
“I hung on until the water slowed, then kicked over to that spit of land in the center of the river.” She didn’t mention that crawling onto the island had been agonizing. “I had my life vest on and my phone was in its waterproof case, but there was no service at that spot.”
The earlier color in Zander’s cheeks was rapidly leaching to white. “Go on.”
“Maddie was having lunch nearby that day and had offered to pick me up at the take-out point. She waited for an hour past the time when we’d agreed to meet, then called the police. About an hour after that, they found me by helicopter.”
He swore under his breath.
She said nothing. Why was telling him this so brutally difficult? These words, when spoken to him, were coaxing so much shame from her that she felt choked by it.
“The helicopter transported you to the hospital?” he asked tersely.
“It did.”
“And your injuries were . . . ?”
“Broken ribs. Lacerations. The worst one was an abdominal puncture. A sharp branch entered here.” She indicated a spot on her outer back near where her ribs curved toward her waist. “And exited here.” She pointed to the scar he’d seen on her front.
Strain crackled through the silence.
“A branch stabbed through you?” he asked.
“Through my side. Luckily for me it missed everything vital.” The breezy timbre she attempted fell as flat as roadkill.
“Did you have hypothermia from the temperature of the water?” he asked.
“No. It was a hot, sunny day.”
“How much blood did you lose?”
Almost too much. “A good bit.”
“Was the surgery to repair the damage complex?”
Terribly. “Somewhat.”
“Which means it was very complex. How many days were you in the hospital?”
“Only four.”
Radiating restlessness, he interlaced his hands behind his skull. He peered at the water. One breath. Two, three, four. Releasing his arms, he glared at her as if she were a tangle in a book plot he was powerless to unravel. “You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“If a relationship is going to work, then both people have to tell each other things. They have to rely on each other.”
“I . . .”
Rely. Relying on anything and anyone other than herself had never come easy for her. She found it difficult to rely on God, even. And He was all-powerful.
As far as she was concerned, reliance was way overrated. But she could tell by the set of Zander’s jaw that he didn’t want to hear that.
Just once—just once!—she’d love for someone to congratulate her on her self-sufficiency. No one ever said, Hey, thanks for not being needy, Britt. Or, Props for taking care of yourself. Way to behave like an adult, Ms. Bradford. You get an A+ in girl power. Or, in Zander’s case, Gee, thanks, Britt, for keeping quiet about your accident for the sake of my Grand Tour.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.
“Because I didn’t want to ruin your trip. And I definitely didn’t want you feeling like you needed to leave whatever fabulous place you were touring last June in order to come home.” She was painting herself to be more honorable than she was because she refused to admit the rest to him. Namely, that she’d been embarrassed. That she hadn’t wanted his perception of her to change. “If you’d returned for that reason, at that time,” she said, “it would have been terrible.”
“Why?” he challenged. “Why so terrible?”
“Because the trip was important to you.”
“There are things that are more important to me.”
She held her breath against the waves of pleasure and fear that broke over her at his statement. This conversation was leading either to paradise . . . or disaster.
“I arrived in Merryweather almost a month ago.” His words had a ragged edge. “We’ve had so many conversations since then that I can’t count them all—”
“And I didn’t mention my accident.” She’d rather head him off at the pass. “I know.”
“Nor did your sisters or Maddie mention it to me.”
“I asked them not to.”
“Why?”
“At this point, that’s water under the bridge . . . or water under the fallen tree. I’m better now. Zander, I hate thinking about that day, and I hate talking about that day. Plus . . .” She struggled to pick the right words.
“You knew I’d be mad.”
“Yes. And I didn’t want to make you mad.”
“I’m mad.”
“I see that.”
“You should have told me. All the other people you’re close to knew this information. I’m the only one you excluded.”
“You’re the only one who was on a trip overseas.” Her grip on her temper, and on the fact that she was at fault, began to slip.
“Did you keep it from your parents?” he asked. “They were in Africa.”
“I . . . They—they’re my parents. I had to tell them.”
“And what am I to you?”
“You know what you are to me.”
“I don’t think I do.”
“Of course you do.”
“I don’t. You almost died, and you didn’t contact me.”
She stepped close to him, scowling, her hands balled on her hips. “I didn’t almost die.”
“You could have died, Britt, and I’d have been on the other side of the world.”
“But I didn’t die!”
“But you could have. And I’d have been wrecked.”
“Any of us could die any day, driving our cars or walking down the street—”
He let out a rumble of frustration, stepped forward, and cut off her argument by taking her face in his hands and kissing her.
The shock of his mouth against hers wasn’t cold or dominating. The stunning contact was all glowing, sparkling warmth. Soft, firm lips. His lips. Against hers. Passionate and urgent to communicate something that he’d been unable to communicate with words.
I’m kissing Zander.
ZANDER is kissing me.
He smelled like expensive cologne and heat and ocean. His breath blended with hers so that she couldn’t tell where his exhale ended and her inhale began. Every sensation was packed with miracles and overwhelming surprise and deep commitment. Britt’s pulse thundered.
She’d had no idea, no idea, that kissing him could be like this, that kissing him could set her soul on fire—
Zander pulled back abruptly.
His chest hitched with his breath. He regarded her with smoky, unfocused eyes.
She stared at him, her senses reeling, her mind staggering with the ramifications of what had just happened.
Now was the time to say . . . something that would save this situation. If only she knew what that something was. Every word in her vocabulary had deserted her.
She was acquainted with physical attraction. But she was wholly unacquainted with what had just occurred. What had just occurred was physical attraction woven together with her love for Zander and their long history together—all of which had added up to make the kiss combustible.
She watched Zander’s eyes clear. Watched as intensity tinged with dismay entered them.
She didn’t want his dismay. She wanted to kiss him more so that she could lose herself all over in that delicious oblivion. Oblivion would provide an escape route from the talk they now must have.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.” His voice was roughened by remorse or self-condemnation—she couldn’t tell which one. Did he regret kissing her because of what it might jeopardize? Or did he just plain regret kissing her?
“Let’s sit,” she said weakly. Her legs felt like pudding, and she couldn’t take the apologetic look on his face for another second.
She sat cross-legged, her hands melded in her lap, facing the channel. He sat about a foot away, legs bent up, his forearms on his knees.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“I’m the one who’s sorry, that I didn’t tell you about my accident. I should have. That I didn’t is my fault.”
“The kiss is my fault, though.”
“I kissed you back,” she reminded him.
After several seconds, she could feel his attention on her. “Britt—” he began in an anguished whisper.
“It’s okay,” she said.
“I don’t think it is okay.”
Best to go with cavalier truth. “I liked it, Zander.” She risked a peek at him across her shoulder and almost laughed when his features smoothed with astonishment. Her enjoyment of the kiss had been so complete that she couldn’t fathom how he could doubt it. “Did you like it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The sound of birdsong drifted between them. “Why did you kiss me?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” A pause. “I was frustrated, and I just . . . acted without thinking.”
After the tumult of feeling she’d just been through, his “I don’t know” bumped her back to earth, like a hot air balloon touching down. “I don’t know why I kissed you” was a far cry from “I kissed you because I’ve loved you wildly for years.”
At the same time, she wasn’t ready to hear “I kissed you because I’ve loved you wildly for years.” At this point, “I don’t know” was on par with what she’d truthfully say if he asked her why she’d kissed him back.
The serene setting struck a stark contrast to the alarm screeching within her. She was excruciatingly aware that she needed to protect the thing that she could not lose. Their friendship.
“I don’t think we should let one kiss make things weird between us,” she said, then felt like a sellout because calling what had just happened between them “one kiss” betrayed the kiss’s magnitude.
“I agree,” Zander said.
“I’m all for living in the moment. We were living in the moment just now, and we both liked the kiss and so—good for us—no harm done.” At least, she sincerely hoped that no harm had been done. “I’m sure a lot of male/female friends have kissed each other at least once during their years of friendship.”
The line of his mouth took on a grim cast. “Probably so.”
“And now that we’ve gotten a kiss out of our system, we can add it to the list of things we’ve done together. Which is a very long list.”
“Very.”
“Today we played football on the beach. There’s no reason to give the kiss any more weight than the football.”
A prolonged silence. When he finally spoke, he seemed to be selecting his words carefully. “I’m guessing that while you’d play football with me again, you’d rather not repeat the kiss.”
“More football wouldn’t be risky. But I think you and I both know that more kisses might be.”
She felt more than saw him flinch.
“Ordinarily, I like the adrenaline rush of risks,” she continued. “But our friendship has never been at stake in any of the risks I’ve taken in the past. Our friendship is much too important to me to gamble.”
“So one kiss it is,” she said, striving to project a confidence she didn’t feel.
Zander sat, motionless.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
“Yes.” He rose and reached a hand down for her, then pulled her up. “Let’s head back to Merryweather.” They walked toward his car. “I want to try to get some pages written on my manuscript.”
Relieved, she grasped the olive branch of normal conversation he’d offered. “Are you going to be able to concentrate after the football defeat you suffered?”
“I’ll drown my sorrows in an iced coffee after I drop you off. Then I should be fine.”
They talked in their usual way during the remainder of the drive. But talking in their usual way seemed to require twice as much effort as it had before.
The outcome they’d both agreed they didn’t want had come to fruition. Things had gotten weird between them.
Her pulse tapped out a frightened Morse code to God. Please don’t let this destroy our relationship. Please, God.
When Britt finally entered her house, emotionally wrung out, she realized that she’d forgotten all about the sea glass she’d intended to bring home as a symbol of her victory.
Card from Frank to Carolyn on their tenth anniversary:
Carolyn,
Every day I wake up beside you and every day I can hardly believe how lucky I am. My life is golden because of you. You’ve brought me laughter and a home and two little girls who call me daddy. I love your heart, your gentleness, your strength. And I really love your legs.
Don’t punch me for that last comment. I’m joking.
Actually, I’m not. It’s true. I love your legs.
I love every inch of you and always will. Thank you for marrying me. For being my wife.
Love, Frank