Pamela Browning - Life Is A Beach - Life Is A Beach / A Real-Thing Fling

“Kissing me,” she said. “Becoming unduly familiar.”

“Now wait a minute. I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.”

“If I’m going to find you the wife you want, you can’t sully the process,” Karma said in a reasoning tone.

He didn’t know what to say to that. The kind of wife he wanted had slipped his mind. The sweet, delicate little Southern-belle type didn’t seem so desirable anymore. He knew he should ask when he could view some videos of female Rent-a-Yenta clients. He knew he should be more eager to make contact with other women. He ought to be encouraged by the thought of having a date with Jennifer. And yet when he stole a glance over at Karma walking along beside him, when he took in that curly blond mass of hair and those breasts straining against the cotton of her blouse, when he thought about what had been revealed through those lace panties when her leggings split—well, she was the one he wanted to know more about. She was the one for him.

At least for the short term.

When they reached the boardwalk, he stopped to pull on his boots. As if against her better judgment, she waited for him.

“How about if I pick you up Thursday afternoon at three to scatter your aunt’s ashes?” he asked, taking the bold approach.

She looked down at her bare feet. “I don’t know if I can be ready by three. I have work to do in the office.”

“Three-thirty, then.”

“Well, only if you learn how to motor that boat.”

“I’ll learn.” Slade finished pulling on the boots and stood up. At the moment that he was ready to slide his arms around her, she stepped up on the boardwalk. It was an evasion, but he wasn’t going to let her get away with it.

“Not so fast,” he said, the words coming out more gruffly than he had intended. He grabbed her wrist, the handiest thing to grab, and twisted her around. His heart was thumping against his ribs as he pulled her close. He’d bet his last dollar that her heart was hammering, too.

“Slade,” she said, the word more of an assent than a denial. And then he kissed her thoroughly, liking the way her head was on a parallel with his because of the increased height standing on the boardwalk gave her. If she were tiny, like the woman he’d come here to find, kissing her wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying. As it was, when he opened his eyes they were gazing directly into hers. He liked what he saw there because it wasn’t anger or defiance or anything but a kind of hushed acceptance of what was and maybe could be.

He released her reluctantly and dug a paper out of his back pocket. “I brought you my psychological profile,” he said. “It, um, may give you clues to my emotional identity.” He wasn’t sure what an emotional identity was, exactly, but it was the kind of term Karma would use.

She merely stared at him, then took the sheet of paper from his hand. It quivered a bit, and not entirely from the ocean breeze.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, and then she was off, scampering up the boardwalk like a runaway heifer.

All in all, he thought jubilantly as he headed for the parking lot, the evening had gone tolerably well. Except for yoga class, and even that had had its redeeming features.

Like lace panties that left little to the imagination.

HE KNOCKED ON KARMA’S DOOR at three-thirty on Thursday afternoon. She opened it, clutching a flyswatter in one hand.

“I’m chasing a palmetto bug,” she said, leaving the door open and taking off into the tiny kitchen, which he could see courtesy of a pass-through to the living room.

He closed the door. “I learned how to run the boat,” he called after her. His words were followed by a loud Splat!

“Good,” she said distractedly. “Damn! I missed it.”

“Didn’t I hear something about an exterminator service around here?”

“Yes, which is personified by a guy named Geofredo. He’s tried his best, and now the exterminating is up to me. The thing about palmetto bugs is that you can’t treat them nicely. One becomes two, which become four, and pretty soon you’ve got a bunch. It used to be against my core beliefs to kill anything, but I’ve had a change of heart.” She flicked the flyswatter back and forth.

“Why?”

“Because this particular roach and his kinfolk were waving their feelers at Aunt Sophie’s bucket,” Karma said, angling her head toward it. The bucket sat on top of the refrigerator amid a tangle of dish towels, a blender base, a potato ricer and a tape deck.

“Fear not. Bwana will hunt down palmetto bug. Bwana will kill.”

Karma shook her head. “Thanks, but this is my fight. If he’d only show his face, I’d nail him.”

“I think I see him poking out from under the baseboard.” The palmetto bug—an enormous one—scurried across the kitchen floor, straight toward Karma.

“Eek!” she squealed, backing fast and furiously until the back of her knees hit the couch. She rallied, feinted, and swung the flyswatter down hard.

“Dead,” she pronounced solemnly. She scooted the carcass out the sliding glass door with one foot. “How about some lunch?”

He rocked back on his heels. “It’s not the most appetizing idea at the moment. Anyway, it’s a little late for lunch.”

“Call it an early supper if you like. I haven’t eaten because I’ve been busy trying to balance my checkbook all day.” She went into the kitchen and began shoving pots around on the stove. “I’ve made linguine,” she called over her shoulder. “With shrimp sauce.”

He noticed with bemusement that she had set the table with turquoise-blue place mats and yellow plastic plates. There were napkin rings that looked like carved fish painted red and pink, and she’d stuck a branch laden with white oleander blooms into an old wine jug. The effect was, well, interesting.

He sat down at the table, and she bore a huge platter of pasta into the little dining area. While he was waiting for her to pour iced tea, he had a chance to look around the apartment. Furniture consisted of what appeared to be flea-market finds, but it was a creative mix. An old couch had a fringed silk shawl thrown artistically across the back, and a shelf on one wall held bottles and jars in jeweled colors, which were lit from within by tiny Christmas tree lights. A coir rug was underfoot, and his sharp eyes didn’t miss the fact that the binding was ripped in the corner behind the rocking chair that almost, but not quite, hid the imperfection from view.

“Nice place,” Slade said. He meant it. It looked comfortable and reflected Karma’s personality.

“Thanks. I hit a dozen yard and garage sales when I arrived here. I didn’t move much down from Connecticut with me since I wasn’t sure I’d stay.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged and sat down across from him. “I didn’t know if I could make a go of the business. I still don’t. There’s so much to do that I hardly have time for anything but work.”

She passed him the linguine, and he helped himself. “As busy as you are, you wouldn’t have had to provide food,” he said.

“It’s the least I can do when you’re going to so much trouble for me.”

As she tucked into the food, he studied her. She was wearing a knit short-sleeved polo shirt, yellow, and navy-blue shorts, and her hair was pulled into a ponytail. She looked wholesome, like a camp counselor, but her expression was decidedly businesslike. Taking his cue from her, he concentrated on eating and making small talk, which turned out to be enjoyable enough. He told her that her bike had been retrieved from the bottom of the bay, and she seemed relieved. She was even grateful when he told her that he’d asked the marina manager’s son to make sure it was rideable and to fix it if it was not. They talked about her uncle, who seemed special to her. It occurred to him as he helped her clear the table that he was really enjoying her company.