Going Deep (Coastal Heat #1) (6 page)

His show featured the same mix of science and adventure Mr. Cousteau’s documentaries brought to the world. The internet fueled a wave of nerd fandom that catapulted the boy she once knew from the ocean he loved and into the stratosphere of fame. Then they brought him crashing to the Earth by stripping away layers of the one thing he valued the most—his credibility.

Brooke wasn’t surprised Brian ditched any chance at reclaiming his fame. Judging by this disappearing act on graduation day, he seemed to excel at walking away without looking back. Like everyone else on the Gulf Coast, she’d been waiting and watching, wondering what he’d do next.

Ignoring her seafood gaffe, she switched tactics. “Your parents must be glad to have you back.”

His smile spread slowly. “You act like I’ve been gone the whole time. I did come home for Christmases, you know.”

“I just meant—”

“I spent a few weeks gathering tar balls on the beach after the spill.”

He spoke casually, but the words swirled with undercurrent. Another flash fire of embarrassment sucked the moisture from her mouth. He wrapped long fingers around his glass, sending beads of condensation scurrying. She stared, craving a few drops of the trickling moisture but too self-conscious to move.

A frown creased the space between his brows. He licked a stray bit of tea from his upper lip as he lowered the glass and cocked his head. His gaze flickered to the table and back to hers. “Do I make you nervous?”

The puzzled incredulity in his tone startled her. Brooke glanced down to find she was gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles shining white against her skin. Releasing her hold, she looked up to find him staring at her with an expression of desire so raw and unguarded it made her blood surge. His all-seeing gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth, then slid down to rest on her throat. Like he was about to take a bite out of her.

“Brian—”

“Are you happy to have me back?”

His voice dropped an octave. He spoke the question softly. It should have been lost in the hubbub of the crowded restaurant, but every cell in her body seemed preternaturally attuned to him. She spoke without conscious thought but pure emotion.

“Yes.”

It was the truth. She was happy to have him back. She liked seeing him happy and at home in a hole-in-the-wall barbecue shack. It was a relief to sit across from him as an adult. Now she understood the pull that confused her as a teenager. It was attraction, plain and simple. The connection between them was as elemental as water and air, and irresistible as gravity. It had always been there, sparking between them long before they were old enough to know what it was or had any clue what to do with it. They both knew now, though. And she wasn’t exactly sure how to handle it. Yet.

Clearing her throat, she set aside the polite inquiries that were as natural to her as blinking and breathing. The only way she was going to get through this lunch with her ethics intact and the interview she needed, would be to plow straight through to the heart of the matter, niceties be damned. Wiping her fingers on a paper towel, she pushed her basket aside and picked up her pen. “When did you realize the footage had been switched?”

Brian’s shoulders tensed and an eyebrow twitched, but he gave nothing away. His smile remained in place, but the warmth in his eyes disappeared.

“Right away,” he replied with equanimity. He dropped his gaze to the basket of food in front of him then reached for his bundle of cutlery. Extracting a fork, he speared a chunk of mayonnaise-coated potato with practiced negligence. “Unlike those guys who make a living spewing jokes other people write for them, I do know the difference between an eruption and an earthquake. Too bad they can’t tell the difference between funny and not.”

The tiny brackets of grim dissatisfaction she’d seen often in high school were back. Brooke tightened her grip on her pen, afraid she might give in to the temptation to reach across the sticky table and wipe them away. Remorse soured her stomach. She hadn’t planned on going there. As a matter of fact, her strategy had been to avoid all mention of the made-for-Hollywood scandal. But he made her tense and fluttery all at once. Decisively indecisive.

He stabbed another hunk of potato salad and shot her a glance from under thick-fringed lashes. “I’d given you more credit, Brooke. I didn’t think you’d take the low road. Guess I was wrong.”

“The low road?”

“I thought you were a serious journalist. I mean, it seems a little sad to go from Pulitzer Prize quality reporting to tacky tabloid tactics.” He stared straight into her eyes, but his voice softened to a murmur. “I’m seldom wrong,” he mused. “Funny how it’s always when it comes to you.”

How dare he imply he might only be fallible when it came to her? She couldn’t magically be what he wanted her to be. Disappointing the people who mattered to her was nothing new. But disappointing Brian felt different. It wasn’t the sharp, slicing pain of a knife in the gut, but an aching, inescapable agony she imagined might accompany of thousands of paper cuts.

She wanted to strike out at him. Slap his handsome face for having the gall to imply her standards had slipped. “I couldn’t care less about the interview.”

“Then what’s this all about?”

“I told you, I have a story.”

He continued to stare at her, an expectant eyebrow raised, his gaze challenging. And hot. Hunger rolled off him in waves and it had little to do with the basket of ribs in front of him. He wanted her. Sleazy tabloid tactics or not.

Professional ethics be damned, she wanted him to kiss her again. Over and over. Everywhere. She wanted to melt into his arms again and give up the fight. She’d let him call the shots, say or do anything he asked, as long as he kept looking at her like he was in that moment.

“It’s about the clean up,” she blurted, then clamped hand to her mouth, shocked she’d given it up to him so easily.

Someone jostled her shoulder and she looked up, expecting to see their waitress back with another round of flirty smiles for Brian and a side of scowl for her. Instead, she found Jack Tucker grinning down at her.

“Hello, sugar. Fancy meetin’ y’all here, huh?”

He slipped onto the bench beside her and stretched one arm possessively across the back of the booth. The audacious move struck her dumb.

“Byron,” Jack said with a nod in Brian’s direction.

To her surprise, Brian laughed and reached for another rib. He saluted Jack with the slimy bone and smiled broadly. “Jackass,” he replied, mimicking Jack’s inflection to perfection.

His teeth showed brilliant white as they sank into the meat. His eyes locked on hers, his gaze steady and unperturbed. He chewed lazily, the muscles in his neck and jaw flexing. His foot bumped hers beneath the table. The nudge somehow managed to be both annoying and reassuring, just like Brian.

Brooke released her breath in a rush. Before he could pull back, she hooked the toe of her shoe behind Brian’s ankle and held him in place. Then she turned her attention to their intruder. “What are you doing here?”

Without asking, Jack plucked the piece of Texas toast from her basket and started tearing it into pieces. “Why, I suppose I’m here for the same reason you are.” He shoved a hunk of sauce-smeared bread into his mouth. To make matters worse, he tried to smile at her when he did. “Lunch,” he mumbled.

She stared at him, stupefied by his oblivious conceit. Frankly, she couldn’t credit it. Jack’s classic matinee idol features looked bland next to the crags years of sea and sun etched into Brian’s face. Tucked close beside her, Jack’s body was warm but soft. Not that he had gone to seed, exactly, but like he thought he didn’t need to work quite as hard as other guys did. He had other things going for him, and he knew it. What he didn’t know was the prospect of inheriting his family’s chain of car dealerships held very little sway in comparison to the memory of Brian’s lean, muscular body pressed tight against hers.

Plucking the last of her bread from his hand, she tossed it back into the basket. “And you can’t afford your own?”

Jack’s good old boy grin expanded, showing off fancy orthodontia. “Don’t you worry about me, darlin’. I can afford to splurge and order the banana pudding.”

“Can and should are two very different things, but some people never understand the difference,” Brian murmured.

Brooke jerked her foot back, her gaze snapping to the man across the table. It was more an observation than a statement. Typically Brian. Blunt and truthful, cutting straight through her confusion and questions.

Could she have him? Yes, she could. Easily. He didn’t bother hiding the hunger in his eyes. Even now, with Jack wedged into the booth with them. Should she? No. He would be a distraction at a time when she needed to be focused on her next move. She understood both of those things all too well. Unfortunately, she was afraid she already knew the answer to the question left unspoken. Would she?

Of course she would.

The admission triggered a white-hot flash of desire. Biting the inside of her cheek, she wriggled away from Jack’s overbearing presence. It took a full minute for the rush of blood in her ears to simmer down to a dull roar. Another passed before she tuned into the verbal volleys the men had begun to launch.

“So, how’s the used car business?” Brian smiled as he tore a hunk of meat from a rib. “Saw you on a billboard out by the interstate.”

Jack bristled, but she didn’t dare glance in his direction. Instead, she reclaimed her own basket and feigned an intense interest in her coleslaw.

“We deal mainly in new cars.” Tension all but hummed off him, but Jack kept his voice level. “You know, Brendan, we got a new shipment of hybrids in. Maybe you’ll want to trade for something economical now since you’re unemployed.”

Brian’s chuckle was as effective as sparkly bait. She looked up, letting his easy amusement roll over her. The bashful dimple in his cheek winked at her, but his eyes were sober as he returned Jack’s stare. “You know, I might stop by one day. I have to admit, sometimes I worry about leaving the Italia parked at the marina when I’m out on the boat for a few days.”

The conversation seemed congenial on the surface, but Brooke felt the urge to duck, nonetheless. Hoping to ease the tension, she latched onto the first word that jumped out at her. “Italia?”

Jack quivered, strung tight as a tripwire, but Brian’s gaze never faltered. He waved his sauce-stained hand in casual dismissal. “It’s a car.”

“A Ferrari,” Jack said tightly.

Oops
. Not a good change in topic. Brooke cringed when she spotted the muscle ticking in Jack’s jaw.

But it was Brian who frowned. “Beautiful machine, but better suited to California than Alabama, I think.” He picked up his fork and started poking at the potato salad again.

“Of course, you can’t just trade a car like that, can you?” Finally, Brian turned his attention to her, a mischievous smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. “Most car dealers can’t tie up that much cash in one car,” he explained. “I’ll probably end up selling her to a private collector.” He paused, his fork dangling from his fingers as he eyed her speculatively. “Think I should get a truck?”

The image of Brian Dalton tooling about town in a jacked up dually popped into her head and a laugh sputtered out of her. “No!”

“No?” His smile spread as he cocked his head. “Why not? Lots of guys around here drive trucks.”

She shrugged. “Okay, but you should know most women think the bigger the truck, the tinier the equipment.”

The bit of insider information sobered Brian instantly. “I see.”

Brooke reached for her tea as he turned his attention back to his meal. She took a sip, trying to hide her smile. She wasn’t at all prepared for the serious set of Brian’s mouth or the cool, calculating gleam in his eyes when he looked up.

“I bet you drive a really big truck, don’t you, Jack?”

The tea slid down the wrong pipe as she whipped her head around to catch Jack’s reaction. She pressed her hand to her mouth and coughed. Their waitress landed a couple of hearty slaps on Brooke’s back when she passed. Brooke looked up to find Jack glaring down at her, the front of his polo shirt spattered with tea and spit. Brian was out of the booth and at her side, paper towels clutched in his hand as he gently lifted her arms over her head to clear the airway.

“Relax and breathe,” he coaxed. When her coughs began to subside, he released one hand long enough to mop the tears from her face. A lopsided smile twitched his lips and he lowered his gaze. “Sorry about that.”

“S’okay.”

“I shouldn’t bait your boyfriend,” he whispered. “It’s just…he makes it too easy sometimes.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

The answer was as reflexive as her cough. She couldn’t have stifled the denial if she wanted to. Nor could she stop the montage of flashbacks playing through her head. All the times Jack rose to take the bait Brian dangled. The big man on campus’ lame attempts to prove he was as quick and clever as the class nerd. He wasn’t. Unable to intimidate Brian physically, Jack relied on his ability to stir the tide of social scorn. He’d never understood that Brian didn’t measure himself by the subjective standard of popularity. He required substantive data.

As if to refute her breathy statement, Jack placed a hand on her shoulder. “I wanted to let you know I picked up my tickets to the Bay Ball. I promised your mama I’d bring you along.”

The Bay Ball was the high water mark of the Mobile social season, and her mother was this season’s chairwoman. The night would be a culmination of years of hard work in the name of charitable good works. Looking up at Jack’s set jaw and smug smirk, she felt resentment rise inside her. She had long ago promised Emmaline she would be at the ball, and she would be, but she’d never agreed to let her mother choose her escort.

She drew a steadying breath and tossed the wad of paper towel onto the table. Bumping Brian with her hip, she shoved him to the edge of the bench. He laughed as he spilled from the booth and onto his feet with a sailor’s rolling grace.

She plucked two twenties from her wallet and dropped them onto the littered table then turned to face Jack. “Thank you, but I’ve already made other arrangements for the ball.”