Jo Leigh - Minute by Minute

He raised his gaze to the beveled mirror. He wasn’t a kid anymore, not by a long shot. He was a professional. Maybe that should be ex-professional, but still. He’d won prizes. So why was he feeling like…Like he was seventeen again?

He was pretty damn sure he hadn’t been a jerk with her. Yeah, he’d kissed her, but she started it.

Oh, yeah. Mature. That was him all over.

They had five days. Five days to talk, to let her feel comfortable with him, to get to know each other. But damn, he wanted her.

She knew things about him that he’d never told anyone. Not even Ellen. And he’d been in love with Ellen. At least, he used to think so.

Now, he wasn’t sure. About Ellen, about his work, about his whole goddamn life. What he was sure about was this. Bringing Meg here. Getting away from everything that screwed with both their heads.

And he’d do whatever it took to make sure that it went perfectly. Even if that meant he’d have to suffer.

He laughed at himself. Loudly. Suffer? Please. He was in paradise with a gorgeous woman who got his jokes. Even if they never…

Ah, bullshit. She wanted him. She just didn’t know it yet.

“What’s so funny?” she asked softly.

He turned, and there she was. He hadn’t even heard her come upstairs. She’d pulled her glorious mane back into a loose ponytail, which made her look, however improbably, more beautiful. She had this flimsy little scarf thing on that couldn’t hide the itsy-bitsy bikini underneath.

Seventeen was generous. He was all the way back at the first day of puberty. “What?”

“You were laughing. I heard you down the stairs.”

“Remembering an old joke,” he said, lame as that was.

“I’d like to hear it,” she persisted.

“You’re too young, and we need to go to the beach,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

“A moral imperative?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Then I suggest you get out of those jeans,” she teased.

Alex blinked. Then kicked the bathroom door shut.

MEG LOOKED AROUND the loft, searching for clues. She ran her hand down her thigh as she wandered to his bed. Actually, the bedside table. There was a book there, facedown, and she had to pick it up, see what he was reading. Up Country by Nelson DeMille. She liked DeMille, but she hadn’t known Alex did.

What she did know was his taste in music. Jazz. Obscure jazz, on vinyl, to be precise. It was how they’d met.

Next to the book was a portable CD player, and when she flipped it open, she smiled. Art Tatum. She had this exact LP, and they’d listened to it together, him in D.C., her in L.A., while they’d typed to each other.

Her father had been a collector. He’d loved the big bands. There were rare days, days when he was actually home, that she’d walk into the living room to find the music blaring on their ancient hi-fi, and her parents doing the Lindy Hop, with wide, bright smiles on their faces.

She’d first learned to dance by standing on her father’s shoes as he’d moved her around the room. Jazz had been her childhood soundtrack, and hearing certain songs, even now, brought her right back to the moments, large and small, of growing up with her slightly nutty folks.

After her father died, leaving her his practice, she’d gone back to that old love. She’d searched for others who shared the passion. That’s where she’d first run into Alex. In a chat room for jazz fans.

He was a collector also, and at first, their conversations had been exclusively jazz-centric. He wasn’t so much into the big bands as he was the singers. Billie Holiday. Cab Calloway. But they’d understood each other, right from the get-go. They had this shared language, which made the conversations flow.

Then they started chatting about other things. He lived such an interesting life. As a columnist for the Washington Post, he was at the cutting edge of politics, and damn, he wasn’t afraid to say what he felt. That was one of the things she liked most about him. She never had to wonder.

Her life seemed so mundane in comparison, but he always wanted to hear her stories. Her practice was more like the veterinarians of old, or at least of small towns. She treated everything from hamsters to llamas. On her mountain, an enclave of ex-hippies and old coots, there was every kind of creature, and she was the only vet. The only one they trusted, at least. Because her beloved father had trusted her, and that was sacrosanct.

She checked Alex’s bathroom door. It was still shut, and she wondered what the hell was taking him so long. All he had to do was put on some trunks. Then she turned back, wondering if she dared open the drawer. It was a pretty nosy thing to do. She wouldn’t care for it one bit if he invaded her space like that. But then, she’d never said she was fair.

She did it. She opened the drawer really carefully, even knowing the door behind her could open the next second. And she burst out laughing.

Condoms. The exact same brand that she’d put in the exact same drawer next to her bed.

She covered her mouth to muffle the sound when the door opened behind her. Spinning around, she shoved the drawer closed with her hip and tried to look innocent.

“What?” he asked.

“What?” she asked back.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m just warm.”

He walked toward her slowly, studying her far too intently. “I think your nose just grew, Pinocchio.”

“I was snooping. Are you happy now?”

He nodded, but his scrutiny didn’t end. “And what did you learn?”

“That you like DeMille. And Tatum.”

“Art or O’Neil?”

She laughed, moving away from the drawer. “How about that walk on the beach?”

He smiled back, and although they’d only met that afternoon, she knew without a doubt that he knew she’d peeked in the drawer. Which was only fair, she supposed.

“Did you remember your sunscreen?”

“Yes, in fact, I did,” she said.

“Good. I wouldn’t want that beautiful nose to burn.”

Her fingers went to said nose in a moment of adolescent shyness.

He winked at her, and her hand moved from her nose to her tummy, which had gone all mushy. Then he led her down the stairs, through the bungalow, then onto the incredible white sand.

She hadn’t bothered with shoes, because, why? And the feel of the sand under her feet was unlike anything she’d experienced before. She was used to Southern California beaches, where the water was cold, the sand dirty, and you had to watch every step because you never knew where a pop top was hiding.

This was pristine and soft. The water was perfect, not as warm as the air, but not too chilly. “Oh, man, this is—”

“The farthest thing from Washington, D.C., I could think of.”

“No, I think that would be Antarctica, but hey, this works, too,” she said.

“You’re cute. Anybody ever tell you that?” Alex quipped.

“And yet, somehow, I can’t hear it enough.”

His grin was as warm as the sunshine as they wandered down the beach. There were birds in the distance, and although she couldn’t see them, she imagined exotic plumage and long beaks, all courtesy of the Discovery Channel and, in the distant past, her own studies. She should have been used to palm trees, but these were actual natives, not like the ones in L.A., and she had to fight back the urge to touch every one.

She turned to the other thing she wanted to touch, letting her gaze wander over his chest. Not perfect—no six-pack there—but it was nice. Strong. And so were the thighs beneath his blue trunks. “So why did you really do this?”

“Birthday present,” he said quickly.

“No, that was the excuse. What’s going on?” she asked.

He kicked some sand and increased the distance between them by a hair. “Things have been…interesting with work.”