Going Deep (Coastal Heat #1) (18 page)

Thrown by the question, Brian throttled his impatience and dredged up the manners his mother drilled into him from the day he spoke his first word. “Yes, sir. Thank you for asking.”

Dr. Bennett circled a massive oak desk and dropped into his leather chair, signaling for Brian to claim the guest chair of his choice. “And you
are
settling in?”

“Yes, sir.”

A knowing smile curved his old professor’s lips. “I forget nuance is lost on you. The question was a subtle way of asking if you’re planning to stay in the area.”

Brian blinked, taking a second to recalibrate, but the rhythm of push and pull they’d established his first day as a Graduate Assistant came right back to him. He smiled, letting the other man know he’d finally caught on. “Yes, sir.”

Dr. Bennett laughed and rocked back in his chair. “Well, good.”

The piercing blue eyes were as penetrating as Brian remembered. Crossing his legs, Brian laid his portfolio on his lap and fought the urge to squirm as he awaited the next salvo.

“I hope you’re looking for a job.”

The folder slid from his lap and dropped to the floor with a
thud
. Lunging from his seat, Brian snatched it up before Brooke’s notes spilled out. His fingers bit into smooth leather. He slipped back into his seat without apology, but heat prickled his neck and cheeks. “Sir?”

He nodded to the case Brian held clutched in both hands. “Do you have a résumé? Not that I need to see one,” he added with a good-natured chuckle, “but I should probably get a copy. I want to look like I did my due diligence.”

A cold, hard knot of apprehension formed in the pit of Brian’s stomach. Now he knew why he’d had no trouble securing the appointment. His mind raced. The folio in his lap was suddenly as heavy as an anvil, pinning him to his seat.

“Of course, I couldn’t really do anything until the volcano thing blew over.” His lips twitched. “No pun intended.” He ran a gnarled hand over the pristine blotter. “It was a load of crap, son.” Heaving a sigh, he let a shoulder rise and fall. “I hope you know I would have been happy to have our work featured on your show, but we were just getting our flippers under us. The board thought, considering where the bulk of our funding comes from, it would be best if we kept a low profile. We couldn’t risk any aspirations being cast on the work we were doing.”

Resentment gnawed at Brian’s gut but he managed to mutter a soft, “Right.”

“But, personally, I enjoyed the show. You did some nice work. Made what we do accessible and interesting for people.” His voice dropped to a parody of a television announcer. “Like Jacques Cousteau.”

Brian grimaced and the other man laughed.

“But now you’re back home. Thankfully, you don’t seem to be intent on trying to sell some kind of super centrifuge or oceanic chamois, and you’re a bit young to consider retirement. I’m assuming you want work.”

Visions of cutting-edge facilities danced in Brian’s head. His life could be perfect. He could spend his days doing what he loved to do and his nights loving Brooke. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut and let it happen.

The lines sun, sea, and the passing of years etched into the professor’s tanned face glowed white with expectancy and he leaned forward and planted his clasped hands on the desk. “We can’t pay Hollywood wages, but I’m betting we can keep you interested. Maybe not as interested as the pretty young lady you were wrapped around in the newspaper, but the work is satisfying. No one takes sneaky pictures of me in the supermarket, either. Maybe it’s a trade-off. But life is full of compromises, isn’t it? I hope you can put most of that kind of…sensationalism behind you if you come to work with us. Due to the nature of our funding, we sometimes have to walk a line. I believe we have a higher standard of…credibility to uphold.”

The word set him off like a shot. Clutching the portfolio, he sat up tall. “About walking a line, Dr. Bennett,” he began, then his train of thought came to a screeching halt. “Wait. What young lady?”

It was the other man’s turn to look surprised. “You mean you’ve got more than one? I have to say, I never did see the point in trying to handle more than one woman at a time, but I guess a fella runs on a sharper learning curve out in La-La-Land.” His eyes narrowed. “I hope you remember despite all the sprawl, Mobile can be a fairly small town in some ways. Going to be much harder to juggle your love life around these parts. Especially now, when everybody has one of those camera phones.”

Brian shook his head in fierce denial, but whether it was in defense of his loyalty or denial of his creeping suspicions, he couldn’t say. “Nothing to juggle.”

The older man’s half-smile telegraphed his skepticism.

Pushing his impatience down under the rising tide of good old-fashioned panic, Brian slid to the edge of his chair. “I’m not seeing more than one woman.”

“Well, I’m relieved to hear that—”

“What did you mean by sensationalism?”

Dr. Bennett managed a small smile. “I simply mean we keep a lower profile as individuals here. All data is vetted before it’s released. We don’t seek personal glory. Our researchers don’t give usually grant interviews. Not that anyone is particularly interested to know if Dr. Andrews is a Virgo or what Dr. Matthews’s favorite movies might be.” He relaxed into the chair and steepled his fingers. “Good call on the live oak, though. Strong roots. Deep and enduring.”

Understanding dawned dim and hazy, gathering like storm clouds on the horizon. His blood rolled like thunder in his ears. Fear snaked through him, slick, twisted, and utterly visceral. Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, he asked the question: “Are you talking about my interview with Brooke Hastings?”

The other man frowned. “I have to say I was a little shocked by the tone of the profile. Ms. Hastings is known for providing a more…in-depth reporting. A glimpse into the lives of ordinary people thrust into extraordinary circumstances.” He shrugged. “Your circumstances have certainly been extraordinary, but judging by the tone of the piece, I don’t think she was overly impressed with—”

Unable to listen to another word, Brian jumped from his seat. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Oblivious to the startled sputtering from his former mentor, he barreled down the hall. Dr. Bennett called Brian’s name as he pushed through the door, but he didn’t break stride. Bypassing his car, he broke into a trot at the edge of the parking lot. The hard soles of his shoes slapped pavement. He cut the corner and picked up the pace, his sights locked on the bustling convenience store at the corner.

Brian skidded to a halt in front of the faded yellow paper box. Empty. A discarded candy wrapper crunched under his foot as he pivoted toward the door. An electronic sensor announced his arrival. He homed in on the short stack of newspapers on the rack near the cash registers. The headline screamed something about interest rates. A full-color photo of the president addressing a cheering crowd dominated the space below the fold. He caught a glimpse of his own smiling face in the bottom left corner as he tossed the paper onto the counter and dug for his wallet.

“Hey, you’re that dude!” The kid behind the counter lit like a roman candle when the connection arced.

Brian tossed a five onto the counter, grabbed his newspaper, and spun on his heel. “Nope. Never seen that dude before in my life.”

Momentarily blinded by the sunlight, he paused on the apron outside the door. Tucking the leather folio under his arm, he fanned the thin bundles of newsprint with his thumb. The banner announcing the People and Places section jumped out at him. He let the others fall to the ground at his feet like sails dropped in the face of an oncoming storm.

The word
mancandy
leaped from the page and punched him in the throat. A quick scan of the first three paragraphs made it clear conditions weren’t likely to improve. With a flick of his wrist he straightened the page, his gaze gliding past the obligatory wetsuit shot to the cringe-worthy copy of his seventh-grade yearbook photo.

She’d mentioned his ability to recite the fifty states in fifty seconds, but the revelation didn’t bother him. He wasn’t even peeved by seeing the entire science fair debacle laid out for all to witness. The full-page spread included about a dozen potentially embarrassing facts and stories designed to knock him off the pedestal the locals placed him on when he became “that dude.”

Every tidbit printed was something he and Brooke talked about the first day on his boat. When he lay naked, happy, and utterly exposed. But the embarrassing high school stories barely registered. He was too busy staring at the grainy cell phone photo embedded in the bottom right-hand corner of the page. The one of him wrapped up in a certain young lady who’d come down to his boat determined to get an interview from him. And from the looks of picture, it was clear they both got more than they bargained for.

****

A loud banging noise startled Brooke from the fog enveloping her. She blinked and the newsprint swam into and out of focus. Without conscious thought, she wrapped her fingers around the heavy ceramic mug and lifted it to her lips. The coffee was barely warmer than room temperature and black as crude oil. Grimacing, she immediately set it aside and turned toward the kitchen, her gaze locking on the clock on the microwave. Nearly two hours had passed since she poured the coffee. One hundred and twenty-seven minutes, to be exact.

She turned back to the table, taking in the crisp section of newspaper, the petrified slice of peanut butter-smeared toast forgotten on a sheet of paper towel, and the incriminating mug. She’d been sitting staring into space, doing absolutely nothing as everything she’d worked for and wanted most shattered around her. Scraping her tongue along the edge of her teeth, she forced herself to look past the picture of Brian with his wetsuit peeled back to his waist. She skimmed over the junior high-era photo in the center, allowing herself the briefest of smiles for the wound-tight boy he’d once been. But when she got to the photograph at the bottom of the page, her heartbeat thumped like a jackrabbit.

The shot was mobile-phone grainy and a tad blurry, but no mistaking who the players were. Those were indeed her hands on Brian’s ass.

Jack. Jack Tucker did this. She closed her eyes and an involuntary groan seeped from her lips when she realized the supermarket they’d shopped was around the corner from Jack’s condo.

No denying those hot, heady kisses now. And she wouldn’t. Making out with your new semi-celebrity boyfriend in the middle of the grocery store wasn’t the brightest of ideas. But, hey, everything was fresh and new. Fresher than the seafood spread out on a bed of ice chips in the case behind them. So new that simply looking at the snapshot had her reliving the moment in her mind. Brian’s arms, warm and tight around her, holding her so close she wanted to climb right into him. His mouth—commanding, urgent, and very…necessary.

It was supposed to be nothing more than a quick stop for the shrimp he needed to make scampi. She scoured the photograph. The truth remained the same after over an hour of searching. She’d had no inkling of anyone being near enough to snap the picture, oblivious to everything but Brian. And now, the evidence of her indisputable bias was printed for all to see, imprinted by
The Courier’s
obliging a four-color web offset press.

Someone pounded on her door again, the blows as heavy and deliberate as the application of a battering ram. Brooke pushed away from the table, her movements stiff and jerky. Cold coffee splashed over the lip of the mug, soaking the edge of the super-absorbent paper. She scowled at the spreading stain then shook it off. She wouldn’t clip this particular profile to add to her portfolio.

Her heart echoed the relentless hammering on her door, kicking up the tempo when the knock shifted from the rap of knuckles to the pounding of one meaty hand.

“Brooke? Answer me.”

She stared at the door and, little by little, cognizance began to seep in. Brian was pummeling her door. He’d been calling her name. Instinctively, she responded to his command.

“I’m here.” But she didn’t move closer to the door. She didn’t reach for the knob or peep through the security scope. His anger and frustration wafted under her door like smoke. She couldn’t bear to face him. Not until she’d said her piece. Hovering inside the entry, she curled her fingers into fists as her own anger stirred and rose. “I didn’t write that crap.”

Her nails sliced the tender skin of her palm, but she didn’t care. The sting was nothing compared to the searing betrayal she felt the moment she spread the newspaper flat on her table. She shook her head, denying this inconceivable outcome. Rejecting the reality the article represented. Refusing to accept that less than a thousand printed words had the power to destroy everything she’d worked to achieve. This wasn’t supposed to be an ending for her. It was meant to be a beginning. A limitless new phase in her career. Hope for the victims who trusted her to be their voice. Brian. Loving her. Wanting her. Believing in her.

She stepped closer to the door, intent on making him believe. “I wrote about the tadpoles you tried to grow in your Grandma’s birdbath. Your obsession with composition notebooks. You lettered in track because you liked the sound of your own breathing.”

The door rattled in its frame, as if he’d trusted his entire weight to it.

“I wrote about your mom and those crazy chocolate oatmeal cookies she used to bring when she was homeroom mother. And I did use the live oak thing because I liked it. The answer suited you,” she continued, momentum carrying her. “But I never used the word ‘hunky’. I swear.”

“I know.” His answer was muffled but sure, issued so quickly it couldn’t be anything but the truth. “Let me in.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Nels did this. And Jack.” She forced herself to draw short, shallow breaths. “They’re trying to ruin it all, but I won’t let them. I’m not going to let this stop me.”

“Good for you.”

“I have to do this series, Brian. I know you’re iffy about it, but these people trusted me. They told me their stories and shared their pain. Granted, they probably thought I had better sense than to fall head over heels for the Gulf Shore’s junior Jacques Cousteau, but who could predict that happening, right?” The last bit snagged on a sob. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth to prevent any more from escaping.