One Moment in Time (9 page)

Yes, something crazy. But not something
dangerous
. Or worse, something dangerous like going home with a guy I
just met. Something dangerous like going home with a guy I just met while on vacation in a strange place. He's cute, yes. And he seems harmless enough, albeit cocky. But still . . .

Don't overanalyze it. How are you feeling—what do you want to do?

I take in a deep breath.

And then, before I can change my mind, I turn and look at him.

“Okay,” I say. “Let's get out of here.”

I CANNOT BELIEVE I'M DOING THIS. THIS IS
insane. This is crazy. It's so much not like me that it's kind of astounding. But I'm starting to like the way it feels—it's like trying on a dress that's not really your style, then realizing it suits you after all.

“Should we go get something to eat first?” I ask as soon as we're out of the club. My stomach is flipping on itself, over and over again.

“First?” Abram stops on the sidewalk outside the club, and when he looks at me, I have to catch my breath at how absolutely gorgeous he is. Dirty-blond hair, a chiseled jaw, dark-green eyes, smooth tan skin. He's wearing an emerald-green T-shirt that reveals lean biceps and strong forearms. His cargo shorts hug his hips in a way that makes me think the rest of his body is just as perfect as the little I can see of it.

“Yes.” I swallow and jut my chin out, daring him to tell me he won't take me to eat.

“First before what?”

“First before . . .” We hook up? You have your way with me? I'm not exactly sure how this whole thing works. I'm woefully inexperienced when it comes to the opposite sex. It's because I overthink everything. The last and only time I ever hooked up with a guy, it took me so long to decide if I actually wanted to do it (it involved multiple pros and cons lists), that it turned out to be kind of awful, mostly because by the time it happened, the guy wasn't even really that interested in me anymore.

The side of Abram's mouth slides up into a grin. “That's awfully presumptuous of you,” he says.

“What is?”

“Thinking I was asking you to leave so that we could hook up.”

“Well, weren't you?”

“Wasn't I what?”

“Hoping we were going to hook up.”

He looks me up and down, his eyes lingering over my body, almost like he's deciding what to do with me. But it's not in a lecherous, gross kind of way. It's more like he's amused. “Were
you?”
he asks.

“Was I what?”

“Hoping we were going to hook up.”

“No,” I say, even though I obviously kind of was. Otherwise, what's the point of leaving with him? Going out to eat with a stranger is a lot less exciting than going to make out somewhere.

“Then let's go eat.”

“Okay,” I say, equal parts disappointed and relieved. A nice warm breeze hits my skin as I start to follow Abram down the main street of the key. The vibe outside has changed from when I was on the beach earlier—there are still plenty of kids and families, but now instead of wearing swimsuits and carrying inner tubes, they're dressed in khaki shirts and polo shirts, their hair damp from the shower, their faces red from a day in the sun.

Abram heads for a restaurant a few blocks down on the corner, called Hub Baja Grill, and leads me right up to the hostess stand.

“Hey, Jenna,” he says to the girl working there. She has gorgeous long blond hair, and she's wearing a white, empire-waist maxi-dress with a twisty gold belt.

“Hey, Abram.” She smiles. “Your usual table?”

“Perfect.”

She leads us to an outside table that's situated with a view of the street, just far enough away from the guy playing banjo in the corner so that we can enjoy the music without it being so loud we can't talk. Jenna sets menus down in
front of us and then turns and heads back toward the hostess stand. I watch as she goes, admiring the way her long blond hair is pulled back in a loose braid. She has the whole casual, sexy beach look down perfectly. I wonder if Abram knows her just from coming here, or if she's one of his many conquests.

“So you're a regular here?” I ask.

Abram shrugs. He's leaning forward in his chair, so close that his knee brushes against mine under the table. Our bare skin touches, and I flush. His skin is warm, and his legs feel strong. “I'm kind of a regular everywhere.”

“What do you mean?” I open the menu. It's on the small side, but everything looks amazing and very islandy—fresh-sounding seafood dishes, nachos with homemade guacamole and mango salsa, organic strawberry margaritas, and a yummy-looking tropical fruit salad.

“Just that I grew up on the island,” Abram says. “So everyone kind of knows me.”

“Especially pretty hostesses,” I say before I can stop myself.

“Jenna?” He smiles. “You're jealous of Jenna?”

“No,” I say haughtily. “I'm not jealous of anyone.” The truth is, I am kind of jealous of her. Not because of anything she's done, or even because I think she's that pretty (which I do), but because she has a familiarity with Abram. Which
is so stupid—why should I be jealous of her knowing Abram better than I do? I should be happy I don't know Abram that well. It makes hooking up with him more of a crazy thing to do.

Although are we even going to hook up now? Did I ruin my chance by insisting he take me out to dinner first? Am I overthinking everything? Why am I overthinking everything?
Just relax, Quinn. You're breezy. You're in the moment. You're winging it.

“Good,” Abram says, “because there's no reason to be jealous of Jenna. I've known her since I was a little kid. She's like my sister.”

“Good,” I say. “Because I'm not. Jealous, I mean.”

“Good.”

“Good.” I turn back to the menu, wondering what I should order. I'm starving—by the time I stumbled on Paige and Celia in the lobby, the pizza they'd ordered was long gone, and so I haven't had any dinner. My stomach grumbles quietly in anticipation. Luckily, the music is loud enough that Abram doesn't hear.

“Aren't you going to look at the menu?” I ask.

“Nah. I already know what I want—dip sampler, teriyaki wings, honey-glazed salmon.” He ticks them off on his fingers.

“That's a lot of food.”

He smiles. “Yeah, well, it's been a long day.” He raises his eyebrows at me, like he's thinking there's a chance it could
be a long night, too.

But before I can figure out how to respond, a waitress appears at our table. Abram orders his plethora of food, and I go with the chicken quesadilla and the barbecue bacon cheeseburger.

“Impressive,” Abram says, once the waitress is gone.

“What is?”

“Well, it's just that most girls try to pretend they don't eat. So they order a salad. Or, if they do actually order some food, they'll go with lobster, just because they're in Florida.”

“I don't like lobster,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “And if I did, I certainly wouldn't come all the way to Florida for it. I'd go to Maine, which is way closer to my house.”

Abram laughs. “I like a girl who knows her seafood,” he says. “And who doesn't care what people think.” He inches his chair closer to mine.

“Do the girls you date usually care about what people think?”

“Enough not to order red meat.”

I look him right in the eye. “Then I think you've been dating the wrong girls.”

He cocks his head, like he's thinking about it. “Fair enough,” he says. “So tell me about Quinn.”

I frown. “Tell you about Quinn?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you referring to me in the third person?”

“Because I read somewhere that people find it less threatening.”

“You think I find you threatening?”

“Don't you?”

“No.”

“Intimidating?”

“No.” Lie. Anyone as good-looking as Abram is going to be intimidating.

“Charming?” He leans in close on that last one, like he's really interested in the answer. My heart pounds in my chest.

“No.” I shake my head emphatically.

“Liar.”

“I'm not lying.”

“But you came out to dinner with me.”

“So?”

“So that must mean you find me at least a little charming.”

“No. It just means that the club was boring.”

“So you find me interesting, then.”

“No.”

“Lie.”

“Seriously. If I found you interesting, do you think I would have ordered an appetizer and a cheeseburger? I would have ordered the side salad and the Florida lobster, which would have soured me on lobster forever, because obviously it wouldn't be as good as the ones from Maine.”

He laughs, and I can tell he likes the fact that I can hold my own with this verbal sparring that we're doing. “Besides,” I say mock seriously. “You shouldn't call a girl a liar. It's not nice.”

“I didn't say you were a liar. I said you told a lie.”

“Semantics.” Are we flirting? I think we're definitely flirting. And the thing is, I'm pretty sure I'm good at it. Or at least,
he
thinks I am. The whole time we've been talking, he's been inching his chair closer to mine. He reaches out now and puts his hand on my knee, and fire slides up my thigh and into my belly.

And that's when someone starts screaming my name from down the street.

“Quinn!” The high-pitched shrieking is followed by the sound of heels clacking against the sidewalk. I turn to see Celia and Paige running toward us, their purses bouncing behind them. “Quinn!” Celia screeches. “Oh my goodness, Paige, there she is!”

“I see her,” Paige grumbles. “Can we slow down now? These shoes are really hurting my feet.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Celia demands, stopping on the other side of the railing that separates the seating area of the restaurant from the street. “We were looking all over for you.” She turns her eyes to Abram, and a look flickers over her face—surprise, followed by interest. “Oh,” she trills. “I didn't know you were with someone.”

“Yeah,” Paige pipes up. “We didn't know you were with someone.” She drops her purse onto the sidewalk, then reaches down and unbuckles her gladiator sandal and begins massaging her ankle.

“Well, I am,” I say cheerfully. “And I'm fine.” Crap, crap, crap. I meant to text the two of them once I was out of the club and out of their line of sight—the last thing I wanted was them trying to convince me not to leave with Abram. But I totally forgot.

I'm glad they were worried enough about me to leave the club to come and find me, but honestly, I just want the two of them to go away. “Why didn't you just text me if you were so worried?”

“We tried to,” Paige says. “But you weren't answering your phone.”

I reach into my bag and pull out my cell. Oh. Five new texts, all from Paige and Celia, all along the lines of
where are you
or
where did you go
or
we're worried about you.
I can't believe they actually noticed I was gone.

“I didn't hear my phone,” I say. Damn. Why, why, why didn't I text them and tell them I was okay, that I didn't feel good, that I was leaving and going back to my room? Then they wouldn't have followed me out here. Although I guess they didn't technically
follow
me. They were just looking for me. But still. I want them to leave. “I'm sorry I made you guys worry,” I say. “But I'm fine, so . . .” I give Celia a pointed
look, the kind of look that any normal person would know means,
Go away, I'm with a guy I maybe like and should be left to my own devices
.

But instead of doing any of those things, Celia leans over the railing so that the top of her shirt flutters down in the front. “I'm Celia,” she says breathily.

“Abram,” he says, taking her hand. Surprisingly, he doesn't take the opportunity to look down her shirt. I don't think I've ever seen a guy not want to look down Celia's shirt. “Thanks for coming to check up on Quinn. That was really nice of you.”

Celia looks momentarily confused by his lack of interest in her breasts, but she recovers quickly. “Of course,” she says, straightening up. “We would never let Quinn just run off by herself.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Especially with a random boy.”

“Oh, I'm not random,” Abram says happily. “Quinn and I know each other.”

“You do?” Celia frowns.

“Celia, can we go now?” Paige whines. “I'm starting to get a blister on my ankle.”

“Yeah, we met on the beach earlier,” I say breezily, like meeting someone on the beach is totally normal, and that if you do, you can leave clubs with them and not have to worry about them spiking your drink and/or killing you.

“When?” Celia demands. “Where was I?”

“I think you were getting sloppy drunk,” I say. Wow. That came out of nowhere. Celia's mouth drops. Mine almost drops, too. I've never said anything like that to Celia before. I'm starting to kind of frighten myself. “No, but seriously, you guys,” I say quickly, trying to gloss over the comment, “I'm fine. I swear.”

The waitress returns and sets our food down in front of us.

“I'm going to have dinner with Abram, and then I'll text you.” I make sure my voice sounds firm.

“No.” Celia shakes her head. “No way. I'm not just leaving you here with some random.”

“Celia,” Abram says, pretending to be upset, “I'm starting to get a little offended at the fact that you keep calling me a random. It's not nice.”

“Well, if you're not random, then you're strange,” Celia insists. “And I can't just leave my friend with you.” I want to point out that she's left me plenty of times, like at Bronx Crocker's eighteenth birthday party last month, when she decided to hook up with Jeremiah Brown and left me to find my own ride home. I had to call Neal to come get me at, like, two in the morning, and he definitely wasn't happy.

“Look, I'll tell you what,” Abram says. He reaches across the railing and takes Celia's phone out of her hand. He dials his own phone, then picks up the call and ends it. “Now you have my phone number.”

“Ha!” Celia says. “You can't just give me your phone number and expect me to be okay with it. You could be a serial murderer, and that could be a TracFone.”