That was a weak dodge. I know perfectly well what scene he is talking about: the one where Meg Ryan pretends to come. It’s possible that I inadvertently acted it out, but in my defense, the sashimi is that good. The perfect blend of sweet, salty, and melt-in-your-mouth softness. Also, I haven’t eaten all day. And he—
“Never mind.” Evan clears his throat, clearly desperate to change the uncomfortable topic. As if coming to his rescue, the cat leaps onto the table, so he hands her a piece of tuna as he asks, “Do you have fur children of your own?”
Does Reagan count? “No,” I reply out loud. Despite the long hair my son has decided to grow out, he’s still not furry enough. “I do, however, want one,” I continue. “Badly.”
“You do?” Evan gestures at his dog. “Why don’t you go to a shelter and rescue one?”
I sigh. “New York landlords like dogs and cats as much as the Grinch likes Christmas. Pets are almost never allowed in rentals.”
“They sound worse than our HOA.”
“That’s a heavy indictment, coming from you.” I grab more sashimi and cover it in wasabi.
A wet nose pokes me in the shin. I look down at Harry, who gives me a lolled-tongue grin.
“Can I give him some fish?” I ask Evan.
“Sure, but without any soy sauce or wasabi,” he says. “And bear in mind, he’ll pester you forever going forward.”
I gleefully hand Harry a piece of squid.
The dog eats it with the same enthusiasm that I had, which is my cue to taste another morsel—and I struggle not to make orgasmic sounds yet again.
“You seem to like animals,” Evan says. He makes it sound like a great compliment.
“I do,” I say. “So much so that I wanted to become a veterinarian when I was a kid. When that didn’t pan out, I became a pet groomer.”
“Why didn’t it pan out?” he asks.
Crap. I walked right into that one. If I want to come out as a mom, here’s my chance. “Life got in the way,” I say vaguely, taking the cowardly route. “What about you? Is managing an Airbnb your life’s dream?”
He considers this over a couple of pieces of fish. “No. I want a farm. By the ocean. I want to grow my own food when I’m not surfing. I want Harry to be able to run free. Sally too. I’m increasingly realizing I want a simple life.”
I smile. “Aside from the horrible chore of having to buy your own food, you seem to have a simple life already. Surf. Take care of the Airbnb. Play with fur kids. Did I miss anything?”
“Japanese food.” He smiles once more, soothing all of my aches better than the Advil.
“That doesn’t sound all that simple,” I say.
His smile goes away, and so do its analgetic effects. Relatedly, the Advil must be wearing off. My cramps are coming back, and my skin is beginning to seriously burn. Sometime soon, I’ll have to excuse myself and run to the car to get some more.
“What could be simpler?” He lifts a piece of yellowtail with his chopsticks, his strong forearms distracting me for a second. “I can go fishing and then have a meal without having to cook anything.”
Why, oh why did I think about the stupid sunburn? It’s like it was waiting for me to do so before getting worse. “What about internet?” I ask Evan, doing my best to distract myself. “Would you have that on your hypothetical farm?”
He considers my question carefully. “I guess so, mainly to listen to music and watch movies.”
I arch an eyebrow—which makes me realize my forehead is burned too. “What kind of movies and music?”
“Music by The Doors.” He seems to inwardly smile. “And any movie with Faye Dunaway.”
“Faye Dunaway?” I exclaim. “She was in my favorite movie of all time.”
I also know about The Doors, mostly because my late grandmother had this to say about their lead singer, and I quote: “Jim Morrison was the most perfect human male to have ever walked this Earth.”
“Which movie?” The blue-green specks in his eyes gleam.
“Don Juan DeMarco,” I say, flushing. There was a time when I felt about young Johnny Depp the way Grandma did about The Doors’ singer.
“I saw that once,” Evan says. “With my mom.”
There I go again, reminding him about the tragedy in his life. Thankfully, he seems okay, so I carry on. Grabbing a piece of mackerel with my chopsticks, I say, “So, did you have a crush on Faye Dunaway as a kid or something?”
He flashes a grin. “Guilty. When I was fifteen, I saw her face on the cover of an old VHS tape and became obsessed for a while.”
“Which film?”
“The Thomas Crown Affair,” he says.
“Oh.” I resist the urge to scratch the burns on my back. “I’ve never seen that one. Only the version with Pierce Brosnan.”
Evan smirks with disdain—a neat trick I’ll need to practice in front of a mirror. “I don’t understand why Hollywood is so obsessed with remaking movies that are perfectly fine as they are.”
I shrug. “Sometimes they end up better than the original. For example, Scarface with Al Pacino was a remake.”
He scoffs. “That’s probably the only example in existence.”
I cock my head. “There were many versions of Dracula, but Francis Ford Coppola’s version from the early nineties is my favorite.”
“That’s not a remake,” he says. “It’s a screen adaptation, and if I ran the world, there’d be no movies based on books, period. They always suck.”
My eyes widen. “If you ran the world, there wouldn’t be The Godfather. Or The Silence of The Lambs. Or Fight Club.”
He waves it off. “Lucky breaks.”
“Then what about the recent Dune movie?” I say triumphantly. “It was awesome, even though it was both a book adaptation and a remake.”
He sighs. “Are you sure you’re not secretly a lawyer?”
“Are you sure you’re not secretly a member of an HOA in Hollywood?”
“That’s insulting,” he says.
“And being called a lawyer is a compliment?”
He shakes his head. “I give up.”
“Good.” I grab more sashimi. “I accept your defeat.”
He huffs. “There’s a difference between losing an argument and not wanting to waste more time on it.”
I roll my eyes. “‘I don’t want to waste more time on an argument’ is what someone who’s lost said argument usually says.”
“Anyway,” he says pointedly. “Am I still taking you to the beach tomorrow? The one without waves. Or are you too traumatized after today? If so, we can start with Sealand. Or—”
“No, I can’t.” Why does it pain me to say the words so much? Could it be the quickly multiplying physical pains that I’m feeling?
He frowns. “Why not?”
“You’re a busy homeowner. You can’t use up so much of your valuable time on a renter.”
Of course, if I’m honest, the bigger problem is that going on relaxing outings with Evan would feel too much like going on dates. In fact, this dinner feels like a date—or if looked at from a different angle, an imposition upon his Southern hospitality.
Yeah. I shouldn’t have accepted this dinner. Jolene and Dorothy are my best friends, and I barely let myself accept this vacation from them. In Evan’s case, I was the opposite of a friend when we met.
“I’ve already done all I needed to do for the rental,” he says with a smile. “In terms of my other commitments, I don’t plan to skip my volunteering gig tomorrow morning, but since you’re on vacation, I’ll probably be free by the time you wake up.”
“You’re a volunteer?” I ask.
“Lifeguard and surfing lessons,” he replies. “But don’t change the subject.”
I purse my lips. “I don’t need to change anything because the subject was already closed. You saved my life, not the other way around. If anyone should be doing any favors, it should be me doing something for you.”
I drop my gaze to my plate, flushing again as I realize that I made that last bit sound like I was offering sexual favors. And… maybe I should?
No. At least not for a couple more days. Aunt Flo is still torturing me.
Wait. Period or no period, the answer is no, period.
Realizing I’m still staring down at an empty plate, I sneak a peek at my gracious host.
He looks more perplexed than intrigued, so he probably didn’t take my words as an indecent proposal. Or he might be perplexed as to why I think he’d want said sexual favors.
“What if I were going to that beach anyway?” he asks. “What would be the big deal if you joined me?”
Before I can reply, my phone rings.
I snatch it out of my pocket immediately, in case it’s the camp calling about Reagan.
Shit. The area code is local, so it just might be that.
“Hello?” I say, my heartbeat skyrocketing.
“Ms. Marquez,” a familiar voice says. “This is Dr. Hugo.”
My whole body relaxes, and I lean back into my chair—which causes the skin on my back to scream out in agony. “Hi, Doctor,” I say with a wince.
My words seem to piss off Evan for some reason—that or he just put too much wasabi on his tuna.
“Please,” the doc says. “Call me Vic.”
I smile. “You call me Ms. Marquez, but I have to call you Vic?”
“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll call you Brooklyn from now on.”
“That’s a deal, Vic,” I say. “Now, what’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says with a slight pause. “I just wanted to check how you’re feeling.”
“Wow,” I say. “Back home, there are too many people around for the doctors to check on you once you leave their sight.”
Vic chuckles. “Small towns do have their advantages.”
“Seems like. But to get back to your original question, when it comes to any after-effects of the near drowning, I’m completely fine.”
“Why does it sound like there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere?” Vic asks.
I look at Evan guiltily. “I’m sunburned.”
Just as I was afraid, Evan’s already-glowery expression gets glowery-er.
“I’m sorry,” Vic says. “But on the bright side, that’s a common malady for tourists, and all seem to survive. My medical advice would be to stay out of the sun for a few days and take ibuprofen as needed.”
I sigh. “A few days?”
Sun is one of the major selling points of Florida. That and crazy stories about its denizens.
“Sorry. I’m sure you’ll recover soon,” Vic says.
“Thanks. I’ve got to run.”
If I don’t, Evan might start to breathe fire. He must be one of those people who hate cell phones at the dinner table.
“Ah, right,” Vic says. “Later.”
I hang up and meet Evan’s surly gaze. “That was your friend.”
“Vic and I are not that close,” Evan grits out. “Not anymore.”
Jeesh. Didn’t he call him his buddy back at the hospital? “Is there a problem?”
“Vic is being rude,” he says.
“How?”
“He saw us together, but he’s hitting on you anyway.”
Ah. So this is some male territoriality? “Vic was just being nice. Checking on my health.”
“No,” Evan says. “He was trying to ask you on a date.”
He was? “I don’t think so. Doctors aren’t allowed to date patients.”
Evan scoffs. “If Vic didn’t date his patients, he’d never get a date in his life.”
I roll my eyes. “You did tell him, ‘We’re not dating.’” And was almost insultingly adamant about that.
“Oh.” Evan frowns. “I forgot.”
“It’s all moot anyway. If he asks me, I’ll say no. I’m not into flings, which is the only thing possible when you’re on vacation.”
“That makes sense,” Evan says and stuffs a large piece of sashimi into his mouth. As he chews, his expression grows calmer. Once he swallows, he asks, “Did you refuse my offer to take you places because you thought that I was asking you on a date? Because I wasn’t. Unlike Vic, I never date tourists.”
How flattering. “I refused for the exact reason I stated. I don’t want to impose on your time. That’s all.” I don’t even bother explaining that if he did deign to break his “no-tourists” rule, I’d say no anyway.
“Fine.” His features soften. “How bad is your sunburn?”
I shrug, which ironically causes pain. “It’s not fun.”
“I’ll make you my grandfather’s sunburn poultice,” he states. “It performs miracles.”
I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’ve got Advil in the car. It will suffice.”
“Is this the imposition business again?”
I stuff fish into my mouth to avoid replying.
Evan jumps to his feet. “I’m feeling a little sunburned myself,” he says to no one in particular. “Excuse me while I make some poultice for myself.”
Before I can object, he grabs a blender and rummages in his fridge and pantry.
Is that honey he’s putting into the cup? Baking soda? Apple cider vinegar?
“Are you sure that’s a poultice that you’re making? And not, say, a cake?”
Ignoring my question, he walks over to an aloe plant that’s sitting on a windowsill and clips a piece of it.
“Okay,” I say. “That one makes sense.”
He keeps adding ingredients: yogurt from the fridge, some dry leaves from a bag that says “Chamomile,” and something green that—given his love of all things Japanese—is probably matcha.
“I’m going to taste delicious,” I say without thinking. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wince and pray that Evan either didn’t hear me or doesn’t have as dirty of a mind as I do.
Crap.
He halts his work and gives me an evaluating stare.
Or is it a hungry stare?
I guess he did hear?
Before I can decide, he goes back to his poultice making.
With her human distracted, Sally jumps onto the table and pointedly meows at me.
“Here.” I give her a piece of sashimi.
She licks it and takes a dainty bite.
I feel a wet nose poking my calf. Glancing down at Harry, I give him a piece as well, which he devours like it’s his last meal.
I join the fur kids in eating and soon realize I’m getting full. With a satisfied smile, I put down my chopsticks.
Shit. Smiling hurts the creases in my face, and moving my arms hurts the skin in the crook of my elbow.
Maybe I do need this poultice on top of the Advil. The pain is getting worse.
On the plus side, the cramps have eased, or it seems like they have in comparison to the misery my skin is experiencing.
A deafening roar erupts. It’s the blender. The sound makes it hard to focus on anything for the next few seconds. When it’s over, Evan ladles the finished product into a jar and carries it to me. “Do you want me to help you apply it?”
Would that involve him touching me?
A huge part of me wants to say yes, but the more rational part opens my mouth to refuse—except it’s too late.
Evan dips his finger into the thick liquid and draws a line with it on my forehead.
Holy aloe. This feels amazing, but probably not due to any medicinal properties of the ingredients. Evan’s touch is hot and tingly on my skin, but the poultice he’s left behind is cool and soothing.
“Should I continue?” he murmurs, his blue-green eyes glimmering down at me.
I nod silently. If I open my mouth, I might tell him to stop—or worse, to keep going and never stop.
He spreads the line he made on my forehead so that it covers all the surrounding skin.
I swallow hard. Is my forehead an erogenous zone, or has it turned into a clit? Merely soothing pain shouldn’t feel this good.
Evan dips his finger back into the jar and tenderly applies the poultice to my right cheek.
Correction: my cheek is the erogenous zone. The brush of his fingers is disturbingly like a lover’s caress, and it makes my head spin… and certain lower regions feel like they’ve gotten sunburned too. But in a good way.
Evan spreads the concoction over the rest of my cheek. I try very hard not to moan or let my eyes roll back. I do, however, turn my other cheek to him without being prompted—and more soothing pleasure is my reward.
Okay, my panties are officially wet.
This is not good.
Really not good.
I’m not into flings, and even less into one-night stands, but that is what my treacherous body seems to want.
But no. Even if I wanted to break my rules, there’s the fact that Evan doesn’t want a fling either, particularly with a tourist and doubly so with a breakfast thief like me. On top of that, there are practical considerations, like Aunt Flo and—
“Would you like me to put some on your back?” Evan murmurs.
Is he freaking kidding me? I have a strong will and all, but not that strong.
“I see,” he says, clearly taking my dazed silence for refusal because he puts the lid on the jar of the poultice and hands it to me.
Instead of taking it, I blurt, “Yes.”
Golly. My heart is hammering in my chest so fast I glance at Octothorpe Glorp to make sure I’m not experiencing arrhythmia.
One-twenty? It appears Evan’s touch can put my body into the fat-burning mode faster than any elliptical machine.
My dear Precious, your body isn’t just a temple, it’s perfection on par with diamonds and Brussel sprouts. You need not gain or lose an ounce of that sweet nectar that is your fat.
Evan cocks his head, the way Harry might. “Yes?”
Sucking in a deep breath, I take off my coverup and thank the gods of propriety that I have bathing suit underneath. “Yes, please put the poultice on my back.”