Those Cassabaw Days (19 page)

Matt just shook his head. He rubbed his hand over the shorn hair, then scrubbed his jaw. For a moment he stared out at the sea, watching, silent. With his elbows propped on the rail, his hands clasped, he sighed against the wind. He struggled with something; she could tell in the way he clenched his jaw muscles.

“I’m glad you came home,” he said to the wind. He just stared out across the darkened Atlantic, staring and breathing as though words were difficult for him, then dropped his gaze to his hands. “Real glad.” He looked up at her then. “You are the strangest, most unique and genuine person I’ve ever known.” His eyes moved to her mouth, and those liquid puddles of syrup darkened even more. “You make me feel again, Em. You make me laugh.” His gaze didn’t falter. “It’s like we never stopped being friends.”

Emily stretched up high onto her tiptoes and planted a kiss to Matt’s scruffy jaw. Then she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Always friends,” she said, and laid her head against his chest. His arms went tentatively around her, somewhat stiff, and she laughed lightly into the crook of his neck. “Loosen up, Mattinski, and hug me back.”

For a moment, Emily didn’t think he would. Then, almost on an exhale, the tenseness eased from his arms and they tightened, and his breathing quickened somewhat as he rested his chin on the top of her head. “You’re so damn different,” he said softly. His big arms enveloped her, snugged her closer, and Emily inhaled the clean scents of pine and soap and salt.

“I’m just me,” she returned, although her voice cracked just a bit. “Just Em.”

Matt drew in a long breath, making Emily’s head rise and fall against his chest. His arms tightened further, his hand splayed across her back and she felt the silver brotherhood ring he wore from his time served in the marines. She snuggled against him. It was comforting. Warm. Sensual. Familiar yet completely intriguingly foreign at once.

Where he touched, she turned hot. She liked it. Liked it a lot, actually.

His head dipped then, and his lips grazed her temple. Cheekbone. Emily’s breath caught as he pulled back, ever so slightly, and for a moment, their eyes locked. She froze in Matt’s arms; his eyes sought hers. They were so, so close...

“Hey, guys, up here!” A young shout sounded, just before the creaky hinges on the iron door opened, and a boy—maybe twelve or thirteen—stuck his head out. “Whoa, hey,” he muttered when he saw them.

Matt set Emily away from him. When she looked up, his eyes were as stormy as the darkened Atlantic.

“Vern! Tommy! Up here!” the kid said, and hurried past Emily and Matt. Footsteps scraped up the lighthouse stairwell. Two more boys pushed through the steel door and ran to the railing.

“I guess we should head back, huh?” Matt said, then rubbed his head. He glanced at his watch. “If you want to get the Windchimer open in time for the Fourth of July, we need to get a move on that penny bar.” His gaze locked onto hers.

Emily was still swimming from Matt’s interrupted exploration of her skin with his lips. Soft but firm, she hadn’t wanted him to stop. But he had, and she wondered now if he regretted the intimate moment. Of having almost kissed her.
On the mouth.

She shivered and peered at him in the darkness, deciding to play it off. “You are absolutely right.” She smiled, turned and opened the steel door leading back down the spiral stairs of Cassabaw’s light station. “And,” she said over her shoulder, “you’re the rotten egg, don’t forget.”

Matt grinned and shook his head. “I’m sure you’ll remind me.”

Emily’s laugh tinkled and echoed in the stairwell. “Bet your sweet patootie I will.”

Matt’s raspy laugh trailed behind her, then they cut behind the lighthouse keeper’s cottage and made their way to the Windchimer’s parking lot.

There was tension. And there was something simmering that Emily wasn’t sure she was imagining or not. The crowds had died down, but the band’s mournful blues still wafted over the salty air. At the Jeep, she turned and gave Matt a smile.

“Thank you kindly for the delicious supper and exhilarating tromp up the lighthouse steps,” she said. Her eyes unavoidably drifted to his mouth—partly because she hoped he’d resume the kiss he’d almost started. Partly because those lips fascinated her so.

“You’re welcome.” He scrubbed the back of his neck, stared at a spot between his feet, then moved his gaze to hers. “I’m gonna get out of here, then,” he said. “See you in the morning.”

Emily sighed. “Okay. Yes. Bright and early,” she said. Climbing into her open door, she waved. “Night, Matt.”

Just before he climbed into Jep’s truck, he nodded. “Night, Em.”

Emily started out of the parking lot, and in her rearview mirror noticed Matt head off in the opposite direction. Whatever moment they’d shared, apparently had faded. For him, anyway. Definitely not for her. Her skin hummed with desire. Anticipation. Hadn’t he felt it, too?

Maybe he was fighting it. She had felt a connection—or rather, a reconnection—with Matt from the very first day. She had a way of reading people, and she knew no matter how much he tried to deny it, or pretend it wasn’t there, he’d felt it, too. And he’d just proven that fact in the lighthouse.

Disappointed, she drove home, pulled into the drive and trudged up the porch steps. Inside, she kicked off her sandals and shut the door a little harder than she meant to. Crossed her arms and leaned against it. Frowned.

What was his problem, anyway? Is it so hard?

She stomped into the kitchen, filled the kettle up with water and set it on the one working burner to boil.

She felt as though she was fuming more than the kettle. Fuming with frustration.

In the darkness of her living room, Emily nursed her second cup of hot tea with brown sugar and honey. Thoughts of Matt consumed her. Of before. Of the present. And how at war he was with himself. She wished she could help, do something to make him see his worth. But she knew that was something he’d have to figure out for himself.

It was nearly midnight when a knock at the front door startled her from her quieting fumes, and she set down her empty mug and hurried to open it. When she did, Matt stood, his brows furrowed, hands locked behind his neck, looking just as bewildered and exasperated and frustrated as she felt.

Then, he swore something unintelligible under his breath. In two strides, he was there.

He grasped Emily on either side of her face. Held it firmly. Flashed smoldering emeralds as he searched her eyes. Not asking permission. Not from her, anyway.

In the next breath he crashed his mouth down to hers and breathed in deeply, as though inhaling Emily, and his firm soft lips urged hers open and his tongue swept hers once, again, leaving behind the faint tangy heat of whiskey, and Emily’s hands encircled his neck and kissed him back.

Their mouths moved together, in sync and starved and exhilarated at once. His mouth sought and devoured hers, his fingers shoved through her hair, against her scalp. Everywhere his lips touched, or his skin touched, it left heat in its wake. Matt moved then, blindly walking her backward until the wall stopped them, and still they tasted, caressed, explored. His mouth dropped to her neck, his lips suckling and tasting the column of her throat. Emily couldn’t help the stifled moan of pleasure that escaped her as he breathed her in again...

Suddenly, Matt gasped her shoulders and stepped back, putting space between them, and his eyes, glassed over and as dark a green as Emily had ever seen, bore searchingly into hers. Both breathed heavily; energy pulsated around them. Neither said a word. Only breathed.

“Well,” Emily finally said, breathily, “glad we finally got that over with.”

When Matt said nothing, simply stared with that profound stare, she gave him a shaky grin. “I was getting a little worried about my self-control.” She cocked her head and ducked to look at him. “You’re drunk, aren’t you? I can taste the whiskey.” She smacked her lips. “Tastes good, too—”

He shook his head then, glanced away, then walked right back up to her, grasped her jaw gently with his big, calloused hands and lowered his mouth. Hovered, right above hers.

“I’m not drunk, Emily. Was, but not anymore.” His husky voice brushed over her lips, and she shivered.

This kiss was different.

He slid his mouth over hers, slowly, hesitantly. He was exploring and it was all-consuming. Matt tasted every inch, the corners of her mouth, the top lip, then the bottom, and sighed as though he’d discovered something quite exquisite, elusive, endangered. When he inhaled, Emily’s breath went right along with it and he swallowed it whole.

This time when Matt pulled back, he only did so a fraction, and rested his forehead to hers. His hands went around her waist. “This is insane,” he whispered.

Emily wrapped her arms around him, felt the heat of his body, could’ve sworn she heard the thump of his heart. “I know,” she said, craning her neck to look at his eyes. “That’s what makes it so perfect.” She peered at him. “Why do you taste like whiskey?”

He pulled her to his chest, and his voice rumbled against her ear as he spoke. “Maybe I tried to get you off my mind. I’ve tried everything else. Ignoring you. Avoiding you. Being angry with you. Still, you’re always there, bolder and more beautiful each time.” He sighed, and his warm whiskey breath fanned the top of her head. “So after I left you I drove over to Calhoun’s and had a few drinks. Shot a few rounds of darts. Had a few more drinks.” He chuckled. “It just got worse.”

“I’m a regular pain in the backside, huh?” Emily muttered against his chest.

Matt gave a soft, raspy laugh. “Always have been. Anyway. Nathan came by, picked me up, brought me home. Next thing I knew—” he lifted her chin with his knuckle “—I was on the path, heading over here.”

“To scratch that insatiable itch called Em?” she questioned.

Matt pulled back then, ducked his head. “Of course. And, of course not. What is this, Em? What is this thing?”

The corner of her mouth tugged up. “I don’t know, really. I’ve felt it simmering, though, since that very first day, in my kitchen. Guess we’ll have to just wait and see, huh?”

Long dark lashes brushed his cheeks as Matt closed his eyes; again, he struggled. Fought some unnamed battle within himself. Then he looked at her. “I don’t want to hurt you, Emily.”

Emily searched the emerald depths of Matt Malone’s worrisome eyes, and she understood. She knew then he was still a flight risk, no matter how soul-searing a kiss they’d just experienced. Matt still had things to figure out.

Did she have the patience to ride out the storm? Could her heart withstand it if he left?

“Well,” she said, bravely meeting his gaze. “Then just don’t.”

His eyes scoured hers. “It may be out of my control.”

She thought about that. “I can clear one thing up right now.” She tapped him on the nose. “I don’t do casual. I don’t do flings. I don’t do one-night stands. In other words, what I give, I give with heart. The two go hand in hand, I’m afraid. So if that’s what you’re looking for—”

“It’s not,” Matt said softly. “In all honesty, though, I haven’t been looking for anything.” He shrugged. “Then you showed up.”

“Oops.” Emily grinned, and punched his arm. “Sorry ’bout that.”

“Slow,” Matt said. “Let’s just take things slow.”

Emily’s eyes hazed over as she gave him a long, slow smile. “I can do slow.”

And then her best friend since childhood kissed her again. And again.

* * *

A
S
THE NEXT
week passed, and the Fourth loomed, Matt and Emily worked side by side, day and night in the café. Slowly but surely, he opened up more and more each day. And true to his word, he took things slow.

As slow as possible, anyway.

They took a few moments here and there and just enjoyed exploring
them
. They walked Cassabaw’s northern shoreline at dusk, away from the tourists and after low tide, to look for treasures left behind by the sea. They lay on their backs on the Malone’s floating dock, with their heads side by side as their bodies pointed in opposite directions, talking about old times and letting the sun wash their skin with warmth.

They’d break from working in the café, devour one of Hendrik’s chili dogs at the end of the pier and then jump the waves at the shoreline as the tide rolled in. And they ran through old Fort Wilhem, through the whitewashed walls made of shell and mortar, secret passages they’d hidden in as kids. And they’d race the steps of the lighthouse, watch the sunrise from the platform.

Matt watched his p’s and q’s when others were around; to the point of it being comical, in Emily’s eyes at least. Not that they were keeping their blooming relationship a secret or anything.

Mr. Wimpy and his gang stopped by most evenings to work on the penny counter; they weren’t easily fooled and frequently called Matt out on it. They picked on and ribbed Matt and her both. When they were all gathered, Emily would look over the aging vet’s heads and make goofy faces at Matt. He’d be stoic, try and smother his grin. Most times he simply had no choice but to leave the room.

When Matt and Emily were alone? He had a way of making her heart skip beats. The way he kissed her? Threaded his fingers through her hair, and grazed her jaw with his roughened knuckles? It took every ounce of strength to remain upright.

One night, close to midnight, Emily sat in the Windchimer alone, setting pennies. Matt had gone night shrimping with the other Malones, and she’d decided to get some more of the counter finished.

Emily got up, stretched and reset the record player to an old Ella Fitzgerald collection. Claiming one of the mason jars of pennies that Wimpy and his men had brought, and with Ella’s mournful voice wafting through the dining hall, Emily set to work.

Only a few minutes passed before the front door opened. When she looked up, Matt ducked his dark head as he stepped into the café, closed the door behind him and strode directly to her. When he reached her, he didn’t miss a beat—he pulled her to her feet, slipped one hand over her jaw while the other cupped the back of her head, lowered his mouth and kissed her.