Lori Avocato - Nip, Tuck, Dead

As if someone was behind me and had pushed, I lunged forward.

Jagger swung around in time to catch me.

Quickly I righted myself and mumbled, “Shoe caught on carpet,” while Jagger clearly said, “Save head over heels for after dinner, Sherlock.”

Certainly my face couldn’t have been as red as the heat felt zooming through my skin. I grumbled something incoherent, pulled my shoulders straight and walked out the door ahead of him-all the while wishing a gust of sea air would come along and blow me out to sea.

I could just see the headlines in the local paper:

Newport, R.I. Infatuated woman claims “ghost” pushed her into the arms of the delicious guy she’s had the hots for since day one. Guy merely shakes his head-three times.

When I turned toward the parking lot, I paused. There sat Jagger’s black Suburban. Old memories flooded back. Old memories? What the hell was I thinking? The only old memories I had in that thing with Jagger were embarrassing, humiliating, or life saving, and all were related to work.

I felt a hand on my lower back as he pushed me forward. “Forget something?”

I looked straight ahead. “Nope. My memories are clearly accurate.” With that I sped up to move away from his hold, or lose my edge here or at least my sanity. That was for sure.

This time he did come around to my side to open the door, but only because he had to unlock it first. Guess he could have done that from his side, but maybe being away from Hope Valley had unleashed some gentlemanly qualities in old Jag.

I got in and looked at the door. Wide open. I grabbed it, yanked to shut the damn thing, and when it clicked, Jagger was already sitting in the driver’s seat.

He backed out of the driveway without a word and started out down Bellevue, taking a left past the Tennis Hall of Fame, and before I knew it we had parked in some lot near the wharf. He never even asked where I wanted to go, but no great surprise, the place looked fabulous.

Lights dotted the buildings erected side by side in typical New England fashion. Each had its own character architecture, but they were all connected. The pavement was like cobblestones only larger grayish bricks. A gigantic black anchor stood as a decoration in the middle of one walkway, and three little children sat on it while their mom took their pictures.

Tourists and locals, I guessed, hustled and bustled into the shops and restaurants. The neat thing was, it all bordered the water where boats rode the light chop while tethered to the dock and the scent of salty air mixed with various aromas of cooking food. Music floated on the night’s breeze from several of the restaurants and bars while a strong aroma of fish came from the seafood market at the end of the wharf.

“This is a great place, Jagger.”

He walked next to me, doing that hand thing on my lower spine again. A girl could get used to something like that, but a guy like Jagger wasn’t about to become predictable.

“Turn here,” he said when we faced an old white wooden building.

The Black Pearl. Suddenly I felt underdressed. Then again, Jagger had on jeans and a button-down white-and-black-striped shirt. We probably made a decent looking couple-however, I was smart enough to know that term was a long shot.

I paused to look at the menu posted near the door. Hm. Pricey. Good, let him pay big bucks for assuming I’d come to dinner with him. When I started to turn toward the door, he took my arm.

“Over here.”

He led me to the area of tables outside and behind a corral-type fence. WATERSIDE PATIO AND RAW BAR the sign said.

Oh how very Jagger-like.

And here I was worried about my outfit. We sat near the water, which actually was a neat area. Right next to me a sailboat rose up and down in a slight rhythm while moored to the dock, and as dusk approached, little tiny white lights magically flipped on around us.

The waitress came over for drink orders. Jagger got his usual beer and, after giving me the once-over, ordered me a glass of Kendall Jackson chardonnay-without asking. I was about to yell “Hey!” but realized that’s exactly what I wanted and feared if I said anything, I’d end up choking down a martini out of Jagger-spite. Usually I would have joined him for the beer, but this case, this location, this dinner “companion,” had me craving wine.

Newport chic.

Soon our drinks arrived. Without a toast-naturally-I took a sip and leaned back in my chair damn angry that he knew I really didn’t want a beer.

“I’m starved. What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Oh.” I was nearly in a relaxed state of Nirvana but sat forward and looked at the menu. “Clam chowder,” came out first. I figured I’d try it in every restaurant in Newport until I was sick of it. I’d never had better, creamier New England clam chowder than in this town.

“What else?” he asked.

“That seems enough.” I took another sip of wine and watched him scowl at me.

“You do oysters?”

Do oysters? Even that sounded sensual coming from him. “I’ve actually never eaten one. They aren’t cooked are they?”

Jagger chuckled as the waitress came over then ordered a dozen native oysters (which I noted cost more than I’d spent on lunch for Goldie, Ian and myself), my clam chowder and two steamed lobsters.

When the waitress left, he looked at me with those Jagger-eyes. “Don’t tell me you don’t like lobster.”

“Okay. I won’t tell you.” I took a long, big sip. Somehow it gave me more stamina to deal with this guy whose knee occasionally touched mine beneath the table.

Yikes.

“You’ve never had one, have you?” He drank his beer from the bottle, just the way I liked it.

“Actually I have. I love lobster.” I leaned back and smiled. “Nick used to take me to Madeline’s for lobster.”

Jagger remained silent.

Ha! Nick Caruso was Jagger’s nemesis and did occasional freelance work for Fabio. Nick was as handsome as Jagger was hot and as sophisticated as Jagger was…yum.

However, they had a past, not a very jovial one, and really didn’t seem to like each other. Hence the attempt at lobster memories with Nick-whom I’d dated so briefly that I’m sure he would refer to me as “Pauline who?” if anyone mentioned my name.

Jagger drank the rest of his beer, flagged the waitress and ordered another round. I wanted to shout that I was fine, but actually thought I might need two glasses of chardonnay to get through this dinner without embarrassing myself, or antagonizing Jagger-the latter of which was way less of a possibility.

“How’s the case going?”

I looked up to see him staring, with genuine interest in his eyes. Least that’s how I chose to view it.

“Oh, well, good.”

“What’s good about it?”

“You’re not going to let up until I give you all the details. Right?” My glass was successfully empty and my tongue getting looser.

He glared at me.

My insides, warmed by the wine, shivered. So I told him everything about my case including Lydia, Dr. Cook, Ian’s filing system, and the BDD trio, leaving out Dr. Forsyth because, well, I wanted at least one thing kept from Jagger and why not a gorgeous guy?

Especially one who’d asked me out!

Besides, it wouldn’t surprise me if Jagger already knew about Neal.

“So who is Lydia’s aunt?” he asked as the waitress set this tray of jiggling oysters between us.

For several seconds I could only stare until they settled down. “I’m not avoiding your question, but if you think I’m putting one of those jelly thingies into my mouth, you are nuts.”

“You’ll try one.”

The words almost had me grabbing a stupid oyster and sucking it down as the guy at the next table was doing. He actually looked as if he was enjoying it. But on principle I waved my hands at Jagger. “Nope. My clam chowder will fill me up, and I won’t be able to see if Newport lobsters are better than the ones at Madeline’s.”