On the Rocks (A Turtle Island Novel) (12 page)

“Are you kidding me? That set of legs?” His gaze lowered to her legs. They were displayed nicely in black stretchy pants—the same kind she’d worn that first morning. “Bare?” he continued, and she peeked between her fingers at him. He nodded. “I noticed.”

Her blush took on a new shade of red, and his smile grew another inch.

“It’s dark when I go out to read,” she pointed out. “And my shirt covers everything. I’m
not
indecent.” The way she defended herself was adorable.

“No.” He chuckled lightly and tugged her hands off her face. “I’ll give you that. You’re very decent.”

“Stop it, Carter. You’re embarrassing me.”

“Can’t help it, Red. You grew up nice.” And this was fun. This was what he’d needed. To sit with a friend and simply enjoy the moment. He didn’t do that anymore, with a friend or without.

“It’s the missing thirty pounds,” she said, but her words made no sense.

“The what?”

She stood. And holding her arms out at her sides, she spun in a slow circle. “The thirty pounds,” she repeated. “That’s why I grew up nice. Most girls go away to college and gain fifteen, I went away and lost thirty.”

He took another look, taking his time moving over her body, but not in an appreciative manner so much as contemplative. He didn’t remember her being heavier. “That must be what’s different,” he finally muttered. “I couldn’t figure it out.”

Her jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? How could you not tell the difference?”

“I don’t know. I never thought about you as overweight.”

“You’re full of crap.”

“No, I’m not.” He tried to picture her from before, but all he could pull up was red hair and her smile. Her optimism. “It’s not like you were fat. You were just you. Just . . . Ginger.”

For a moment she continued to gawk at him as if he were an alien species. Then she flipped the ends of her hair over her shoulder and gave a snooty lift of her nose. “Well, I look amazingly better than I did back then.”

This time the path he took over her body was appreciative. “You definitely look amazing.”

She didn’t respond, just watched him with slightly narrowed eyes. He wished he could read whatever was going through her mind, and he wondered if she had any idea what was going through his. About her body. About her.

About the fact that it had been
months
since he’d had sex.

“How good?” she asked.

“What?”

“How good do I look?” She once again twirled in front of him. “I have trouble getting a man to stick—or even picking one up in a roomful of them, apparently—so something must be wrong with me. Either that, or I’m targeting the wrong ‘quality’ of man.” She stopped twirling, and the seriousness on her face captured his complete attention. “Do you think I’m going after men in the wrong class? You saw my date Saturday night. Was he too good for me?”

He didn’t reply.

He didn’t know
what
to reply.

“What I’m asking is, how attractive am I? What scale of man should I be seeking out?”

He finally found his voice. “Are you out of your mind?”

“No. I’m one-hundred-percent serious. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but if someone would only tell me, I’d work on it. I’ll wear different clothes, talk about different subjects. Try a different hairstyle. I just don’t want to—”

She bit off her words as if she’d realized her inside thoughts had made it out, and turned quickly away from him.

“You don’t want to what?” he asked. He rose from the rock and moved toward her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.

“Answer the question.”

She shot him a look, and the way the sun lit her features had him reaching for her. He grabbed her hand. She looked hurt. He knew that kind of pain.

“Forget I said anything else, will you?” she begged. “Just tell me how attractive I am. That’s all I want to know. Am I good enough?”

He pulled her back when she tried to turn away again, and reached for her other hand. They stood facing each other, and everything else about the morning around them no longer mattered.

“Answer the question, Ginger Root. You don’t want to
what
?”

C
HAPTER
N
INE

H
er chest constricted. He’d just played the friend card.

Ginger Root. What a stupid nickname. He’d given it to her when they were eight and she’d tripped on a root while they’d been exploring the island. She’d come away with two bloody knees, and Carter had cleaned and bandaged them for her. She’d hated the name. Only, he’d continued using it throughout the years, usually when she was hurting from an insult or some seeming slight, and in the end, she’d grown to love it. She’d forgotten all about it until now.

Her heart thumped behind her rib cage as her gaze bounced back and forth between his eyes. Could she really admit her biggest fear to him? This wasn’t them as teenagers. She couldn’t just tell him all her secrets, could she?

“You know I can stand here all day,” he threatened.

She smiled slightly. Because yeah, he could. Especially when it came to helping heal her wounds. He’d been that kind of friend.

So yes, she could tell him.

She readjusted her gaze so she didn’t have to look at him straight on, and ended up focusing on a couple walking along the edge of the water. They were holding hands, her head resting on his shoulder. They looked like they were in love.

Carter gripped her fingers tighter, and she swallowed around the lump in her throat.

“I don’t want to hear that it’s
me
,” she admitted. The sadness in her own voice wasn’t lost on her, and she pulled herself from his grasp. “Do they not like that I own the ferries? The boats?” She gave a tiny shrug. “That I routinely smell like fish instead of flowers?”

When Carter didn’t respond, she decided to put it all out there. She glanced briefly at him before darting away. His eyes were too watchful. It was easier to remain focused on something else.

“That’s the one thing I don’t want to change.” Her voice shook. “If it’s something about my appearance, I can fix that. But if the problem is
me
. Who I am inside?” She shook her head. “Do I have to change
me
to get the kind of man that I want?”

He watched her differently now. It was a subtle change, but she felt it. More intense.

She slid her gaze back to his, and without intending to, locked on to his eyes. Nerves buzzed with anticipation, and her pulse knocked so hard that it nearly shook her body.

“What kind of man do you want?” he asked.

The answer was simple. “A good guy. One who looks at me and sees someone he wants to be around for fifty years.” She bit the inside of her lip and finished softly. “One who loves me just as I am.”

He nodded. “You deserve that man.”

The sincerity in his voice humbled her. “Thank you.”

“With
out
changing,” he stressed. “Don’t change for anybody, Ginger. You’re good as you are.”

A mix of gratitude and relief bloomed in her chest, but it just as quickly disappeared. He was talking to the girl she’d been. Her as a teenager. He was remembering their friendship.

He didn’t know who she was now any more than she really knew him.

“What if there’s no other choice?” she asked softly. Because there might not be.

He shook his head. “There’s always another choice.”

That’s what she’d always believed. Why she kept plugging away at it. Being optimistic that her time would come. But her surety was flagging these days, and the desire to continue putting herself out there was getting harder to come by.

“Maybe I should just quit.” It was the first time she’d voiced the thought out loud, and she wasn’t sure she meant it.

“Quit dating?” he asked.

She nodded. The very idea broke her heart.

“You ever considered that
you’re
the one who doesn’t want more from the men you’re choosing?”

Was she sending off a don’t-ask-me-out signal?

The question bounced around inside her for a moment, but in the end she shook her head. “I
liked
Patrick.” At his confusion she added, “Saturday night’s date. I got a second date with him, and I wanted a third. Badly.”

She’d planned to bring out the lace underwear for the third.

“Then don’t quit,” he said, seeming to snap out of the intensity he’d had just a moment before. “Keep looking. You’ll find someone. And he’ll be damned lucky to have you.”

“Thanks.” She was tired of thinking about it. She offered him a weary smile. It was time to get home and get ready for work. “I appreciate the talk.” She looked back at the water and the sun now well above it. “And the sunrise,” she added. “It was nice sharing it with you again. I hope you’ll come back.”

Truth was, she’d hoped all week he’d be out there. Before he’d come home, she’d taken up the habit of driving over to the house for sunrises most mornings. The pier near her house was the most perfect spot she’d ever found to start the day, yet she’d been coming here all week with her fingers crossed that Carter would, too.

His showing up that morning gave her hope. Maybe his hurt would eventually ease.

Before she got fully up the hill, she turned back. “By the way,” she called down to him. When he looked up at her, she added, “You look good when you smile. I hope you’ll do that more often, too.”

She turned to leave, and laughed when she heard “By the way, you look good with no pants on.”

“I so completely needed this margarita.”

Kayla Morgan sucked down another gulp of her oversized, Friday-happy-hour drink while Ginger sat beside her, eyeing both the drink and the woman, and wondering what had Kayla so worked up. She’d barely crossed the threshold of Gin’s before catching Kevin’s attention and requesting the drink.

Kevin—the newlywed bartender who’d gotten married on Ginger’s dinner cruiser almost three weeks before—had nodded understanding, then sent over both Kayla’s drink as well as a mug of Ginger’s favorite
beer. Friday night was beer night, and all of her friends knew it.

Unless she was on a date, of course. Then she ordered wine and sipped. Usually.

But tonight there was no man to worry about, and no need to impress. Therefore, not only did she plan to put away more than one beer, she’d do it in her favorite faded jeans, T-shirt, and flip-flops. Let the weekend begin.

She tipped her beer back, and nodded when the server passed by and silently asked if she wanted a second. Hopefully she’d stop after two—there was no need to embarrass herself in the company of others—but there was no guarantee.

Aside from the middle-of-the-week failed attempt at attracting a man, the week had actually been a good one. She’d met with Gene after work yesterday to discuss final decisions on changes from the original electrical and plumbing plans, and work on both of those had begun today. The men would be out there tomorrow, as well, and it was her belief that before the end of the weekend, if there were a light fixture or toilet in the house, they’d actually be functional.

Of course there wouldn’t be either. She hadn’t picked them out yet.

But her first focus had been deciding where sinks and major appliances would go. Electrical and plumbing couldn’t be finished without those choices being made, and she was glad to have finally crossed that hurdle. Carter had added his thoughts to the discussion, which had helped. He’d also given his two cents about the style of cabinets, floors, and counters he thought would look best, but she hadn’t settled on those yet.

“What has you so worked up?” she asked after Kayla had slurped down over half the margarita and finally looked around as if ready to join the rest of the crowd.

Kayla blew out a breath. “Brides.”

Seaglass Celebrations’ main stream of income came from weddings, and Kayla, being the very efficient obsessive-compulsive that she was, left no detail unturned. That characteristic had a way of leaving her needing the occasional margarita.

“I hope you’re not talking about my mother,” Ginger said.

Another fourth of the drink disappeared. “No.” Kayla wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and held up a finger to get their server’s attention. “Your mother is great. Aside from the fact that she had me wedge in a last-minute wedding into our second-most-popular month.”

“I worried that might be a problem.” October was gorgeous on the island, and once Seaglass got national attention last year, brides had quickly figured that out.

“
Then
she insisted on the senior center for the reception,” Kayla added. She ordered a second drink and turned to Ginger. “You wouldn’t believe how popular that place suddenly is since they opened the patio.”

“It’s the view. No sand to contend with, but you still see the ocean. And those trees.” Ginger sighed. “Those trees are so romantic.”

Live oaks, hanging moss. Ginger had always pictured them in her own wedding.

“It’s insane, is what it is.” The last few drops of the margarita disappeared. “Any time a new location opens up, anyone with a wedding scheduled within a year goes wild, thinking
that’s
the new place to be. And, of course, Mrs. Rylander is in charge of the rentals over there now. My god, that woman can try the nerves of a saint. And we both know I’m no saint.”

Mrs. Rylander was one of the feistiest seniors on the island. Roni loved her to death because they’d been next-door neighbors for years, but the woman was definitely an acquired taste.

“But you still love the job?” Ginger asked. Kayla was the only reason Andie had been able to move to Boston without worrying about the business.

She nodded. “The best job I’ve ever had.”

“As long as you get the occasional margarita to help it along . . .” Ginger teased.

“Or two.”

The server replaced both their drinks and refreshed their bowl of tortilla chips, pulling a grateful sigh from Kayla, and Ginger buried her smile inside her glass. Since her best friends had moved away, she’d begun meeting up with Kayla on a more regular basis, and without question, Ginger ended up laughing at the woman every time. She was wound so tight.

Owen Elliot, an early-twenties, laid-back sweetheart, passed by with a tray of appetizers held above his head, smiling at girls as he weaved his way between the tables, and Ginger kept an eye on him. But she noticed that Kayla very obviously did not. On his way back, he readjusted his path, bringing them by their table, and paused to greet Kayla. Dimples flashed, and Ginger would swear he didn’t even realize
she
was there.

Kayla barely acknowledged his presence before he once again went on his way, eventually disappearing through the door leading into the kitchen. After the encounter, Kayla began repetitively tapping one fingernail against the top of the table, while simultaneously sucking down half her second drink.

“You know he likes you?”

“Don’t even,” Kayla protested. Which only made Ginger laugh.

“Why don’t you ever give him the time of day?”

“Are you kidding me?” Kayla glanced around as if making sure no one else could hear, then tucked one side of her brunette bob behind her ear and leaned in. “I am
not
a Mrs. Robinson.”

Ginger laughed again. “No, you’re
not
. You’re only thirty-one. He’s . . . what? Twenty-three? Twenty-four?”

“Twenty-two.” Kayla’s tone screamed horrification.

“Twenty-two might be fun,” Ginger suggested.

“Or it might kill me.”

“Please. You could totally keep up with that.”

Before Kayla could reply, the door across the room opened, admitting several more men into the bar. Both women stopped talking as two additional early-twenties hotties walked in. Gregg and Ian. The two men seemed to do everything as a pair, and Ginger couldn’t help but heat up at the thought of doing
them
as a pair.

Good grief.

She gulped her beer. Southern-boy charm or not, she had no doubt either of them would sleep with her, then be in someone else’s bed
before
morning. There would be no staying over, no breakfast, no nothing.

Except probably a rousing good time.