Ties (7 page)

“Or crab. Do you like crab?” He holds a hand out to me.

I take his hand in mine, loving the warm scratch of his palm under my fingers. “I do. Actually, I love crab.”

“Hattie, would you care to eat a disgusting amount of crab with me? And maybe toss back few cold beers?”

That mouth! I’ve never seen a mouth that was so obviously begging to be kissed, to be sucked and licked. My blood races and the dull roar of it in my ears makes it hard to focus.

I think about watching him break crab legs with those huge, strong hands, about staring at his throat as he tips back an icy beer and swallows long sips, about our legs brushing under the table.

I never think about stupid flirty stuff like this. I never get all gaga before a date. But Ryan’s caught me at a weird time, and I find myself wanting to know more about him, wanting to go on this date with him, even if he’s not remotely my type.

   “Can I have wine instead of beer?” I ask. He pulls me close to his side as we leave our booth, and he opens the door for me.

“I think I can get you some wine, fancy pants. I’ve never dated a girl who turned her nose up at beer.”

We walk out into the blistering heat and rush to his truck. Which has creaky, warm air conditioning, I discover.

“I’m sorry all your former dates were burly, ale-guzzling wenches. I
can
drink beer. I just don’t
prefer
it,” I explain, rolling the window down and pulling my hair into a ponytail.

“‘Burly, ale-guzzling wenches, huh?” He drapes an arm out the window and taps his fingers on the steering wheel.

“I happen to admire burly ale-guzzling wenches,” I say, loving that he laughs when I press the joke. “I’m just not one of them. Beer is too bitter for me.”

“Ah.” He nods. “Because you’re so sweet?”

“Really? Are you going to ask me if it hurt when I fell from heaven?” The interior of his truck is small enough that I can bump my elbow against his without moving much. “More like I can’t drink anything bitter because I’m such a sourpuss.”

“Are you?” he asks, looking at me like he’s shocked I’d say that.

“That’s what my friends say.” I try my best to look sour enough to prove it, but something about the way he checks me out makes me want to smile instead.

“Sour?” He shakes his head. “I think you’ve got a little bite to you. I love that, by the way--”

“Ale-guzzling wenches with bite,” I muse.

“Maybe wine-sipping wenches with bite,” he says, his voice hardly more than a scratch against my eardrums, and I feel a rush, a quickening, a sweet tingling in the back of my throat that I don’t want to lose the taste of.

“Maybe,” I sort of agree.

6
RYAN

I’m in over my head.

When Hattie joked that I only date ale-guzzling wenches, I had this weird fear that her whole ‘east coast’ backstory was some kind of cover and she somehow knew, firsthand, what I’d been doing with my romantic life the last few years.

Because she kind of hit the nail on the head.

Not that the girls I dated before her were
actually
swarthy women with mugs of ale in each fist. They were just the kind of girls you’d picture when you imagined inebriated ladies who frequent shady drinking establishments. When my ex and I broke things off, the girls in bars had been the first and easiest to hook up with.

They were all so damn sweet after Megan’s harsh string of lies and rejections. They looked at me with sympathetic doe-eyes hooded with too much mascara. They clapped clumsy hands on my back and then rubbed my neck, their fake nails unintentionally scratching my skin, while they murmured comforting things about true love and relationships that really
mean something
.

The beer always flowed freely, we always danced and flirted for a couple hours, maybe less, and then we always wound up back at my place--or their place--or the back of a roomy suburban--or even a tight hybrid if that’s what it took. I loved them for their sympathy, for the wild abandon, for the way they could make me live so hard in the moment that I’d forget the heartbreak of my real life.

The problem was the morning. Always. Sober, in the sunlight, we were never who we’d pretended to be the night before. And that was the reason for a swift, consistent rotation.

Of ale-guzzling wenches.

But that’s my past. My present has been resigned celibacy. My future?

She might be sitting next to me, loose strands of her black hair draped over her shoulders, her eyes a warm coppery color I’ve never seen before. I have a feeling that if she heard my sob story about my break-up, she’d do pretty much anything other than coo with sympathy and rub my neck. She might even laugh in my face.

And I like the idea of that.

We pull up to Crab Catcher because, I’m not gonna lie, I want to impress her, and I’m willing to pull out all the stops to do it.

When I glance over, she’s pressed back against the seat, shaking her head back and forth, those metallic eyes narrowed.

“No. No, no, no, nope.” She gestures down to her dress-thing, which is black, clingy, and looks damn fine to me. “Ryan, we can’t go there dressed like this.”

“But I know their crab guy personally. You want crab, you love the ocean, and I’m going to score you a bottle of wine that will make you agree to a second date if I’m lucky. But it’s gotta be here.”

I’m sure she assumes I want to eat here because I’m insisting on excellence. And I am, kind of. Crab Catcher is arguably the best seafood in La Jolla, but I’m not sure I could afford to find out if any other place could compare. Darryl sent me on emergency assignment when one of the owner’s yachts got stranded over Labor Day weekend last year. I made triple pay for the run out, and the guy was so happy with my work, I get to eat at Crab Catcher whenever I want as much as I want, on the house.

I have money, of course. I work. I just pour most of it into racing, and what I have left over isn’t enough to impress a girl like Hattie. And I want to impress her in the worst way.

“I’m wearing flip-flops,” she cries, holding one tiny foot up to show me what looks like a perfectly good shoe for eating crab in.

“They have these super fancy things called tablecloths here,” I joke. I like the way she catches her lip between her teeth so I won’t see her smile. “They totally hide your feet. Because I get how embarrassing those shoes must be.”

“You’re making fun of me.” She doesn’t say it like she minds.

“I’m trying to convince you not to let your crazy footwear stop you from the best crab--the
best crab
--in California.” I watch her lip drop from between her teeth. “In the United States.” She wrinkles her brow, like she’s giving this serious consideration. “In the universe.”

“Who could say no to the best crab in the universe?” She shrugs. “Okay. But if the host makes us leave because we look like slobs, I’m not talking to you on the ride to the corndog hut.”

“Fair enough.” I go around to get her door and take her arm, and she lets me. I never know, because sometimes it pisses girls off when I try stuff like that, and Hattie definitely has that whole independent woman vibe going on big time.

She lets me hold the door for her, too, but she makes sure to thank me when we walk in. It’s just details, just the little things, but she’s such a class act. I know how awkward she feels about her outfit--even though I think she’s crazy...she looks freaking amazing--but she radiates comfortable confidence anyway.

She’s layered. That’s really attractive. I love that she can put on a good show, squash her insecurities. I love that even though she blows me off on the surface, pretends that this is just a casual get-together, there’s so much potential for it to go deeper. And I promise myself I won’t get discouraged if it feels like she’s not as into me, because her game-face could afford her a solid career in professional poker.

I’m determined to call her bluff.

We sit and Jovan, the waiter who’s absolutely always here, rushes over.

“Mr. Byrne! You’ve brought a beautiful lady here, you’re a smart man. Fresh catch just came in, and Cook says he’s never seen better. Can I bring the lady--” He tilts his head to one side and gives Hattie a long, assessing look. “The Albarino. You will
love
it,” he assures her, and Hattie gives him this smile that makes me wish I had suggested some fancy wine before he could.

“This place is amazing.” She cranes her neck to take in the breathtaking cliff and ocean views out the enormous plate glass windows, then turns back and eyes the upscale decor inside.

I agree. We lapse into silence, and I’m dying, totally pulled under and drowning, when Jovan comes back with a tall, ice-cold beer for me, and a bottle of wine that he makes a big deal out of presenting and uncorking for Hattie.

She takes a sip and closes her eyes. “This is unbelievable,” she murmurs.

“You wait,” Jovan says, pointing at the bottle. “When you pair it with Cook’s special? It will come alive. Your taste buds will dance!”

I know she’s got to be dying inside, but she tells Jovan she can’t wait and thanks him for his choice. No withering retort, no ball-busting--I guess that’s all for me. And I love it that way.

“He can be a little crazy when it comes to food,” I apologize.

“Crazy about food is perfect,” she sighs. “I think the elemental stuff is super important.”

“Really?” I gulp down some beer, all kinds of sweaty, sexy elemental scenarios starring Hattie running through my head. “Elaborate.”

She lifts her wineglass and points at me with it. “I know where your mind went. And, yes, that too.” Her lips press into a smug smile when I choke. “But, on a basic level, I like to eat. I like to sit and enjoy my food. Screw all that rushing around and eating out of vending machines. I like when a house smells like a dozen ingredients, all simmering together all day long. I like to sit around for hours at dinner.”

“Huh.” That’s all I’ve got, because I eat most of my food on the go, stuffed down my throat as fast as I can. I consume food primarily as fuel ninety percent of the time.

Obviously, that’s not the way it is when I have a girl like Hattie sitting across the table from me.

“I feel that way about sleep, too. My room is just my bed. That’s all.” She tugs the tie that holds her neat ponytail in place, and all that black hair spills over her shoulders and down her back.

It takes a long second for me to reconstruct my thoughts so they’re coherent, because all I can think of is her hair, her skin, her bed.

I clear my throat. “So, just a bed? What about a TV?”

“I don’t watch. I don’t have time.” She shrugs breezily like that’s remotely normal.

“You never just lie in bed all day, watching crazy reality TV or every James Bond movie ever made back-to-back?” I ask. She laughs and shakes her head. I cock an eyebrow. “Well, I think vegging in front of the TV is pretty damn elemental.”

“No,” she disagrees, pushing her wineglass away so she can lean closer. “TV takes energy away from focusing on what’s important.”

“Relaxing is important,” I counter. “Not that I’m glued to the set or anything. If I had my choice, I’d be out on the waves every day, sailing.”

“Right.” She nods and leans back in her chair. “That’s elemental, too. Work. Doing what you love.”

“Sailing isn’t just work for me. It’s also my passion. I think one of the things that sets me ahead of the other guys is that I really love being out there. I mean, you have to love it on a certain level to do what we do. But I love it all, on every level. I love the competition. I love the energy. I love being out there, on the ocean. I love the idea that if I don’t keep control, keep my mind on what I’m doing, I’ll be at the mercy of something that has the power to swallow me whole, just snuff me out, you know?”

Her golden eyes go so wide I can see the whites all the way around. She takes a sip of wine and taps her finger on the rim of the glass. “That sounds scary, Ryan. I don’t think having that much risk in your work is something you can balance long term.”

I don’t agree, but I like the feel of our conversation. The last thing I want is a defensive debate. So I switch gears.

“What about you? What are you passionate about?”

“My major is computer science.” She traces long, vertical lines in the condensation on her glass with her fingertip. “I’m in an advanced program, so we’re doing some pretty cutting edge stuff.”

“And you’re passionate about it?” I press, noting how she avoided my question.

She looks up and closes her eyes for a long few seconds. “I’m not yet. There’s a lot of base skills to get through, a lot of climbing before you can really be in a position where you’re passionate about the daily work. So I’m still learning.”

“But you’re passionate about that, about the journey?” I ask, attempting to peel back her layers carefully so she doesn’t clam up.

“I...am,” she says finally. “I mean, it’s a challenge. Most of the time. It’s...good.”

“Good?” I shake my head. “C’mon. You’re way too amazing to waste your time with just ‘good.’”

Her eyes roll and her lips twist in a frustrated smile.

“You’re taking the flirting too far again.” She takes a determined sip of wine. “I think there’s a lot of
good
in having a solid job. A solid, sure thing you can get behind. I think sometimes wanting that crazy passion all the time means you chase things. You know? Like you become an adrenaline junkie. I want to savor the real stuff in my life and be contented in the day-to-day.”

“But what if your day-to-day gets to be a grind?” I ask. “I get savoring the small stuff, but I think mixing in some overwhelming experiences puts it all into perspective.”

She squirms a little, like her logical side is telling her that what I’m saying is right, but it just doesn’t sit well for her.

Because she needs to
experience
it.

Before I can dig into my theory, Jovan brings the crab out, his eyes a little teary as he looks down at the masterpiece of steaming crustaceans. He squeezes Hattie on the shoulder and whispers, “Enjoy,” before he rushes away.

“I hear your point.” Hattie picks up our train of thought, taking a crab leg and cracking it with expert ability. “But I think you’re running on a line that’s dangerous. One toe over, and you keep seeking bigger thrills. Meanwhile your daily life just can’t compare. You’re trapped always chasing the next big experience, and you never relish the small ones.” She holds up the empty orange shell, dips the flaky meat into the butter, and pops it into her mouth. “But we’re putting this conversation on hold, because, right now, this is the
best damn crab in the universe.
And I want to enjoy.”

I take a cue from Hattie. It’s been a long time since I ate for reasons other than quick energy or to soak up booze. I forgot how you can sink completely into the experience of tasting the different elements of food.

The salty butter compliments the light meat. I like how hard we have to work to eat it. I love cracking the shells with the crackers and my hands, but I have a hard time paying attention to my own plate, because I keep sneaking glances over at Hattie, transfixed by the way her delicate fingers pick the meat out with neat precision. When she comes to a difficult piece, I reach across the table.

She looks at my hand, and I realize it’s a weirdly intimate thing to touch someone else’s food. This won’t even be the first time for us. She took a sip of my shake earlier.

Elemental.

“I can do it,” she insists.

“I’ve been watching you try for the last fifteen minutes. Let me help.” I crook my finger, and she hands me the leg. Which is trickier than I anticipated, and my struggle has her looking smug.

“It’s fine. I can eat perfectly well, unassisted. Give it back.” She holds her hand out and huffs when I refuse.