Christie Ridgway - The Love Shack

His brother hooted. “You’re calling it ‘making love’ now?” His two fingers put little scare quotes around the term. “And by the way, if you insult Jane in any way, shape or form, I’ll kick your ass. And then she’ll do it all over again, only harder. And with sexier shoes.”

“Whoa,” Gage said, tilting his head. “You’ve really fallen for her.”

Griffin’s expression softened. “Best thing that ever happened to me. I was...messed up when I got back. She helped me find my balance again. She is the balance.”

Gage nodded. Griffin’s yearlong experience embedded with the troops in Afghanistan had been harrowing, he’d known that.

His brother hesitated, took another long swig of beer, hesitated again. “I’ve been seeing a counselor.”

“Finally,” Gage said, faking relief without missing a beat. “Good to know you’re getting some professional assistance for that little premature ejaculation problem you’ve always had.”

Griffin’s grin broke quick, felt sweet. “For PTSD, smart-ass.”

Gage merely nodded, careful not to offer judgment or advice. “Helping?”

“Yeah.” Then he grinned again. “Though regular sex isn’t bad for the cure, either.”

“Which reminds me,” Gage said, frowning. “Did you have to tell Skye about the Gage Gorge? Jesus!”

His brother laughed. “I don’t remember relating that odd little quirk of yours.”

“It’s not a quirk. It’s a...it’s a...” He glared across the table. “You like sex, too.”

“Yeah, and committed sex is the best there is,” his twin said, smug.

“Oh, come on.” It was Gage’s turn to scoff.

“Think about it. You get to know her magic switches and it’s a sure thing time after time after time.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Oh, it can be a fast bump or a slow ride and everything in between. I set up these little challenges for myself. Forty-five minutes of just kissing, say, or using only my index finger to get her off. My ultimate goal is to take her there by hot whispers and above-the-waist touches only.”

“Now, that just sounds like work, bro.” Though he shifted in his chair, finally restless.

“Not when you’re doing it with someone you really care about. It’s the one-night stands that sound like work after that.”

Without Gage’s permission, images formed in his mind—not of Griff and Jane, thank God—but of dark hair and green-and-amber eyes, delicate breasts and a spectacular booty. Then he saw himself closing in for that kiss and the way Skye had leaped away from him—as if he were toxic.

As if she was spooked.

“There were some physical problems.”

She’d said that, and he’d gone all caveman, ready to bust Dagwood’s chops if he’d hurt her—which she’d denied. So why had she said it?

He turned to his brother, in sudden critical need of an answer. “What’s it mean when a woman claims she and a man had some ‘physical problems’?”

And this time it was Griffin who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—reply. And Gage who felt in his gut that something was very, very wrong.

* * *

THE SUN WAS LOW IN THE SKY when Skye stepped outside her cottage to the miniature lemon tree planted in a pot near the side of her house. Fresh citrus slices would keep moist the piece of salmon she was planning to grill on a cedar plank. She wrapped her fingers around one of the ripe fruits, then yelped when a man suddenly came around the corner.

“Dalton!” She clutched the lemon in both hands at chest level, over the startled beat of her heart. “What are you doing here?”

He was handsome, well built if not tall, smooth-looking in a summer-weight suit, white shirt and gold-and-brown diamond-patterned tie that mirrored the dark honey of his hair and eyes. “A man can’t visit the beach on a summer evening?”

She lifted an eyebrow.

His smile was white. A little rueful. “A man can’t visit the woman who unceremoniously dumped him on a summer evening?”

“I didn’t—”

Now he raised a brow.

Skye pressed her lips together, wishing she could honestly deny it. Still, their relationship had been more of the casual dating kind, as opposed to steady and heading for something more. At least to her mind. It was only after she’d said she wouldn’t see him any longer that he’d appeared so seriously interested.

He put a foot on the pathway to her front door, even as she pressed her shoulders against its pink-painted wood surface. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asked.

She’d not willingly allowed any man into her place in months. “I’m just getting ready to fix dinner,” she said.

He waited as if he thought she’d extend an invitation, then shrugged. “I’ll take you out. We can go to that place in Laguna—”

“Dalton, we’ve been through this.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense!” Frustration puckered his forehead. “We were going along just fine, seeing each other a couple of times a week. We were even talking about catching some spring season training games in Arizona.”

Dalton took his Dodgers baseball very seriously.

“I know. And I’m sorry that it seemed so...abrupt. You’re a very nice man—”

“Then how come you gave me the big heave-ho?”

Apparently Dalton had run across little rejection in his life. He didn’t take it very gracefully, that was certain. Though to be fair, her goodbye had come without warning.

“I don’t know what else to say—”

“Maybe it’s time to stop talking,” Dalton said, striding up the pathway toward her. “Maybe it’s time I reminded you of a few things.”

Skye froze, even as an unnatural fear rose like bile in her throat. Dalton won’t hurt me, she told herself. Dalton would never hurt me. But he was still coming toward her, the light of sexual intent in his gaze. Even the briefest contact would be intolerable.

When he reached for her, she let out a strangled cry. The tang of lemon filled the air and then Dalton was leaping back, cursing at the juice that had streamed onto his slacks and shoes.

Looking down, Skye realized she’d throttled the innocent citrus, the skin and pulp crushed in her fingers.

“What the hell, Skye?” Giving her a fulminating look, Dalton stepped forward again.

“Is there a problem?” a new male voice asked.

She whipped her head to the left. Gage was stepping across her side yard, a white sack in hand, dressed in those olive cargo pants he’d had on earlier, and a T-shirt so faded the words on it were undecipherable. “I... Please,” she said.

Please, what? She didn’t know; she didn’t know anything beyond how glad she was for the interruption. Her stomach was queasy again, her brain dizzy from lack of oxygen.

“Gage Lowell,” he said to the other man, one of his big feet coming between her and Dalton. It made her ex step back, though he took the outstretched hand.

“Dalton Bradley.” He grimaced, like maybe Gage’s grip was a little too strong.

But Gage’s smile was easy as he looked back at Skye. “I hope I’m not late.” At her blank stare, he added, “For dinner?” Then he swung the white bag at eye level. “I brought dessert.”

“Oh. Um...”

Gage snaked a long arm around her to turn the knob and open the door. She took an automatic step back and he followed her in, causing her to move farther along the entryway. “Nice to meet you,” he said to Dalton, and then shut the door on his surprised expression.

Next, Gage turned, and his gaze ran over Skye, surveying her face, her hands that were filled with the pulverized lemon, her bare feet, their toes curled into the hardwood floor. “Relax, honey.”

When she just stood there, he rattled the bag again. She blinked. “Breathe, Skye. Breathe, honey.”