Chapter Nine

Carina

SWEAT IS POURING DOWN my body. “And then he said I’ll live with you,” I say, dotting my brow with my workout towel. My workout capris and tank are soaked through. “Just like that. Tell me what that sounds like to you.”

“He didn’t say anything else?” Jasmine asks.

Our other friend, Teala, the one I usually just see at our boot camp class, looks at me with confusion. “That seems really weird. Like he asked to move in with you? Or you to move in with him? Confusion isn’t strange in this instance, honey.”

I shake my head, still breathing heavy from the intense cardio. We’re unable to talk during the ferocious hour we’re getting our butts handed to us by the trainer, so it all spills out as we make our way into the street to find our cars. “He got a phone call from Moose and had to leave after that. I didn’t have a chance to probe. God, I should have. It makes no sense whatsoever. He texted me this morning and wants to meet for dinner tonight.”

“Dinner?” Teala asks. “Not an interview, but dinner?” She knows our story, so she’s able to keep up for the most part.

Raising my sweaty brows, I nod. “Dinner. At my favorite tapas place in Gaslamp.” I wipe in between my boobs with the towel and then tuck it into the back of my pants. The Gaslamp district is downtown San Diego. They have the best restaurants and bars. It’s eclectic and vibrant, full of museums and historic apartment buildings. It’s a place where you can feel everything. “That isn’t a place where we’d ever do an interview. It’s loud.”

“It’s a date,” Teala says. “You said yes, right?”

If my heart wasn’t hammering from my workout, it would be now. Someone else saying the word I’ve been thinking makes it real. Smith asked me on a date. I can’t be the other girl in this twisted relationship. Megan is the woman he should be with. The photos I saw of them confirm that. He loved her. Everything about her, Smith loved. He cherished her smile, worshipped the ground she walked on. But then again, I catch myself thinking in the past tense. He loved her in those photos from their past. Everything changed after he lost Henry. After he lost pieces of himself.

“I said yes. He’s my friend,” I reply.

“Moose. That’s a real name, Care?” Jasmine asks, detouring our conversation to something that may benefit her.

Tossing my hands up, I say, “That’s what you’re worried about in all of this? Smith’s best friend is named Moose. Yes. I don’t know if it’s short for something. They all have weird nicknames, so I’d assume so, but they’re goddamn Navy SEALs, so Moose fits. It’s part of the culture. Or so I’ve gathered from talking to him.” Smith wants me to meet Moose. Our schedules haven’t jived yet.

Both Jasmine and Teala laugh. I shake my head. Try as I might I was unable to write anything last night. Visions of Smith clouded my thoughts. One would think that’s what I would desire to gain focus to write a novel about his life, but it was so distracting. The way he touched me, looked at me seemed so intimate. I wanted him all to myself. More than I’ve wanted anything else in my entire life, I wanted him to see me like he sees Megan. And he did. I believe he really did.

Teala downs the rest of the water in her bottle. “I need to find a friend who looks like that, too. Can you make that happen? Write me in as the love interest!” she exclaims. A wave of mild annoyance washes over me. In my mind the love interest has always been Megan, but perhaps, just maybe another woman enters the picture. My stomach sinks and flips at the same time. If I write it, it’s fiction, but I could live in the place I so desperately desire to be.

I unlock my car door. It’s a brand-new German engineered sedan. The windows are tinted, and I ordered new tags. It gives me another layer of security against my past. I haven’t seen or heard from Roarke. His mother called me twice to ‘talk’. What she really wanted was reasons. For the first time in the history of knowing Roarke’s creator, I told her everything. The reason we spoke twice, is because it took two-hour-long phone calls for me to get the whole story out in between her sobs. She told me she suspected something was amiss in our relationship, but never would have guessed how dubious her son was behaving. She apologized for him several hundred times. It made no difference. If anything it solidified my decision.

I wave a quick goodbye to Teala, tell Jasmine I’ll see her at home, and excuse myself to write. And write I do. I plot and outline and add quotes to the large marker board that covers half my wall. I’m a mad woman—a woman on a mission. I don’t change out of my workout gear. The sweat on my clothing and my hair eventually dries and I’m sitting in the middle of my bedroom at Jasmine’s house staring at the last blank, white bubble at the right side of my board.

“The ending,” I whisper. “How does it end?” Love triangles aren’t my strong suit, or any suit if I’m being honest. This is two love stories streaming at the same time. One from a forgotten time, and one present—now. One that is wildly alive and thriving. The choice should be easy, but I see no easy choice for my characters. I close my eyes and think of the photo albums. I let my mind replace Megan with me. The images flit through one by one, until when I open my eyes, tears are pouring down my face.

Jasmine pokes her head in my room after knocking softly. “You have an hour before dinner. Smith called the house to remind you. I told him you were zoning.” She closes the door after widening her eyes at the mess of my multicolored marker board. She never asks questions about my process.

I don’t stop thinking about the blank bubble while I shower or blow-dry my hair, nor when I have a meltdown trying to decide what to wear. “A date? Not a date?” I ask myself, as I toil between a skirt and blouse or a low-cut dress. Jasmine made the executive decision for me. When I open the front door to greet Smith, I’m wearing a dress covered in sloths. The neckline dips down low enough to reveal the swell of my breasts. This is a date, I think when I see Smith.

“You’re early,” I say in greeting. “Sorry I was busy when you called.” Planning our future without you realizing it.

“No apologies needed. Especially when you appear like this,” he says, turning his hands palms up and motioning to my body. “And on time, too, might I add. Wearing sloths. You should join me on my planet. I think you’d enjoy the weather there.”

Shaking my head, I giggle. “Come in,” I say, flustered. His hair is coifed like I’ve never seen before. The smile he wears is mine, and everything inside of my being is drawn to him. I have to repeat her name in my head. Megan. It’s my mantra. What is he doing to me? When he walks past, I smell his soap, and I swallow down a lump of desire.

“You have a beautiful place, Jasmine,” Smith says.

Jasmine acts bashful, turning her face down. He’s fucking with everyone. It’s pheromones. It has to be. And I have to spend a whole dinner pretending to not be affected. Jasmine finally thanks him and retreats to the kitchen to continue making soup.

Smith licks his lips and turns his gaze my way. “Are you going to show me your room?”

I panic. The marker board. He can’t see that. Oh my God. What was I thinking? It’s a book about his life. He will read it. In my frenzy, I failed to remember the most important part of this. Smith and his feelings.

“Aren’t we going to be late? It’s a mess right now. Plus, I have so many questions. I’m pretty confused, Smith. Should I grab my notebook?” Finally something intelligent comes out of my mouth. “You look like that. I’m wearing my sloth dress. I don’t know what that means.”

Laughing, he lays a hand on my bare shoulder. It’s warm and dry. I shiver anyways. I don’t shrink away from his touch like I did with Roarke. Smith’s hands have never done anything to betray me. There’s nothing sinister in his actions—only honesty and sincerity. ”It’s dinner, Carina,” he says. His explanation does nothing to quell my nerves. “We’re going to eat at your favorite place. I showered, if that’s why you’re wondering why I look like this. I’m clean. Also, I’m assuming the sloth dress is only reserved for special occasions. I’m honored to meet you, sloth dress,” Smith says, running a finger underneath the strap on my shoulder. No cardigan is needed tonight.

My breath catches in my throat. “Smith. What is this?”

“Whatever it wants to be, Carina.”

I blow out a large breath through both my nose and mouth. Before I put my foot in my mouth, I ask, “Explain, please.” I keep my voice low and hold up one finger when he parts his lips to speak. I know Jasmine is listening to every word. I usher Smith out the front door into the warm, breezy air. “Now explain.” My hand burns where it lies against the outside of his shirt. It makes me wonder what it would feel like to touch his bare skin on the other side of the shirt.

Looking up at the sky, he pauses a few beats. My pulse hammers against my neck and I rock from one foot to the other, thanking Jasmine for choosing a pair of ballet flats instead of heels. She told me sexy heels don’t belong with my sloth dress. It was a fair point. Smith’s gaze flicks down to meet mine. He’s determined something in those few seconds of silence. I see the steely reserve reflected in his dreamy eyes.

“We broke up. Megan and I are no longer together. I wanted to tell you the other day, but you left him, and I was so happy for you that I didn’t want to ruin that news with my news.” He works to swallow. “It’s over.”

Relief hits me square in the chest, but it’s quickly replaced by sadness. She’s not only a real live person. She’s also one of my beloved characters. “You broke up with her,” I say.

Sighing, he clasps his hands behind his head. “She initiated it, but I agreed with it. It’s for the best. It’s not fair to either of us. There are no hard feelings.”

Of course there aren’t. She’s perfect. Megan wouldn’t be catty or cruel to this man. He’s perfect. He wouldn’t make this harder on her than it has to be. I cough. “It’s tragic,” I whisper, hiding my face with both hands.

He shakes his head. “A second ago you would have been happy about it. I see the way you look at me.” My eyes widen. “I know there’s more between us than either of us will admit. You asked what this is,” he says, motioning between our bodies. “We can finally find out.” This is why he spoke of living with me. It’s a real option now. When I stay silent he continues. “You’re going through a lot,” he says.

I interrupt. “We’re standing on my best friend’s deck because I had to leave my abusive fiancé. A lot doesn’t define what I’m mucking through right now, Smith.”

“Nothing has to happen between us. This means I can be at ease looking at you.”

I scrunch up my nose. “Looking at me?”

He nods, asks if I still plan on eating dinner with him, and then leads me down the steps. Next, he opens the passenger side door of his blue truck. The same one I had fantasies of riding away in the day I met him. When he’s in the driver’s seat, his hands on the steering wheel, he looks over. “If there’s one thing you should know about me is that I honor my commitments. I can look at you and not feel guilty, Carina. I can let my mind wander to places I didn’t let it before. I don’t have to wonder what if, because I can live it if we choose to. We have freedom of choice. Friendship? Of course. More? Who knows.” His words comfort me in a sense, but I can’t imagine how Megan must be feeling. “So, yes. Look at you.” Pointedly, he lets his gaze roam from my neck down to my waist and back up.

He leaves his hand on the seat between us, the pink scars visible against the beige leather. Accepting the subtle invitation, I place my hand in his. “If I’m to blame, even in the least, I hope you know I won’t be able to sleep at night ever again. I would never wish ill will on anyone. Especially her.” My voice cracks on the last word.

He squeezes my fingers. “That’s something you don’t have to tell me. I know you’re a good person. You’re not to blame at all. Circumstances are. Ones that are out of our control. My relationship with Megan after the accident was tedious at best.” Sure, but for her it was more than that. Smith leaves me no choice but to remove myself from their break-up equation. It’s not my fault. It’s not. It can’t be. I didn’t do anything wrong. I have to believe their demise happened organically. A fading away that happens gradually when one person loves another person more. I’m well versed in that arena.

Smith drives, and I think. Never in all of my years have I felt such a serene calm. There’s no fear about what tomorrow brings, or how I’m going to survive another day. It’s the first time I’ve felt this carefree since I was a child. Before my stepfather, Greg, came along and changed me down to the cellular level.

“The photo albums, Smith. All that love. As a romance author, I can’t in good conscience let that go by the wayside. You had a timeless love. Amnesia isn’t something that stopped that. It can’t. It’s inside you.”

Smith clears his throat. “Not all romances have happy endings. You know that,” he says. For a second I think of all of my favorite books. About half of them have a happy ending. The others end poetically sad in that literary way that serves the story well.

At the reminder of stories, I think of my current work in progress and my marker board of shame. I can’t write myself into the story if Megan isn’t in the picture any longer. It’s cheating. It’s fiction. I can do whatever I want. In Pinion Lane there were so many truths about my childhood and the love story was contrived of my hopes and dreams for a life with Roarke. I twisted everything to my liking. I’ll do it again.

We arrive at the restaurant, place our drink and dinner orders, and make small talk over the live band in the corner of the restaurant. Sipping my mojito, I try to steer the conversation away from our personal lives. I end up asking him questions about his career, which frustrates me because I don’t have anything to write with and I know I’ll forget important details.

“I told Moose to stop by and say hi. I hope that’s okay,” Smith says during a lull. “He was next door at the pub with a few of our friends.” He motions with his thumb to the wall to the left.

I’ve heard so many stories about Moose that I’m literally bouncing with excitement. “Yes. That’s fine. I’ve wanted to meet him for a while,” I reply.

Smith scratches the side of his head. “You can’t grill him like you grill me. Don’t get too excited.” Smith smirks, waves to someone over my shoulder, and stands. His stance is tall and regal.

I make a show of crossing my arms under my chest. “Who do you think I am?” I ask. “I’m not going to grill him. Too hard.” I smile. Standing, I turn to see Moose heading our way. The restaurant is full, but there’s no question who Smith’s best friend is. He’s a lumbering man with broad shoulders, a don’t mess with me attitude, and a smirk that is probably famous all across the world.

Smith shakes his friend’s hand and motions to me. “Carina, I’d like you to meet Moose. Moose, this is my friend Carina.”

Moose smiles. It’s genuine and kind—it seems displaced on a man of his magnitude. He extends his hand and my own gets enveloped in the sheer size.

“A pleasure,” I say, smiling in his direction. Smith’s gaze is locked on my face. From the corner of my eye, I see his smile the second I smile.

“Is all mine,” Moose replies, tilting his chin down and to the side. A perfect gentleman. I’m waiting for him to curtsy. Moose releases his grip and turns his focus on Smith. Smith doesn’t notice. He’s still staring at me.

“I probably won’t hear the end of it, so I have to ask. Why Moose?” I ask, laughing to break the odd pause. My friends will be happy with this information. “I mean, I understand for the most part.” I motion to his figure that seems to be well over six feet, then motion with my hand side to side.

Smith tells me it’s a long story and suggests we sit down. I take a sip of my mojito and swirl the drink with the long cane of sugar. Smith orders a few more orders of tapas and a drink for Moose and then launches into a story about how Moose can actually make a true blue moose sound. Both of the men laugh, and I see a new side of Smith. It’s eye-opening to see how carefree and unencumbered his personality is when he’s living inside his friend’s grace.

Moose turns to me with mirth reflecting in his eyes. “I’m from upstate New York. When I was twelve I was attacked by a moose,” he explains, gesturing with his hands.

Smith coughs. “And he won.”

I let my eyes widen. “No way. That can’t be a real story.”

Moose nods. “I was large even as a child. From that day forward I was Moose.”

“The nickname has nothing to do with the weird SEAL thing then?” I ask, lowering my voice. The small amount of alcohol has already hit my bloodstream, but I know enough to make an effort to be quiet when I speak of their profession. “I find that hard to believe.”

Smith laughs. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to hold back,” he says, shaking his head. “He learned the moose call to try to befriend the beasts. The joke is that the animals mistake him for their kindred because of his size. All he’s missing is antlers and fur.”

“I have to hear it. You know that, right?” I deadpan. I’ve been in southern California my whole life. The fact he’s seen a moose is enough to impress me. He might as well be a host on an animal television show. That’s how versed I am with any sort of wildlife that isn’t a coyote.

Moose looks left and right. “I’m afraid I haven’t had enough to drink tonight, but I’ll give you a moose call rain check. So, Smith has told me so much about you. How’s the book coming along?” Subject change status: expert. His eyes narrow. Like any good friend, he’s concerned. I wonder if he knows about his break-up and how much of my drama he’s privy to.

Swallowing another large gulp of my drink, I tell him the truth. “It’s the single most meaningful thing I’ve written. It’s coming along very well, thank you. Smith,” I say, looking at Smith.

His eyes crinkle as he flashes me his very best smile. The scars on one side of his face pull his skin oddly. I rarely notice his scars. Sitting in front of both of the men, one whole and one dismantled, it’s easy to understand Smith Eppington’s life a little better than I did before.

Without breaking eye contact I finish, “Is a great man. I didn’t know men like him existed. His story is sensational, actually. It’s better than fiction. As his best friend, you already know that. Between his stories and my imagination, there’s no telling where this thing will land.” I take a beat to gauge Moose’s reaction to my words. He’s satisfied. Wiping the sweat off my glass with my finger, I smile widely. It falls a little when I remember the blank circle on my marker board back home.

“She’s good for my self-esteem at the very least,” Smith jokes. “Carina is too kind.” His molten gaze meets mine and heat rises up my neck.

I pop a stuffed olive in my mouth. “I’m not good at stroking egos. It’s all truth,” I reply. It’s a lie. Stroking egos is something I’m actually masterful at because of Roarke. I’m not stroking egos now. It is truth.

Moose shakes his head. “I don’t know how you do it, man.”

“Do what?” Smith asks his friend, eyes narrowed.

“Nothing,” Moose says, clapping Smith on the back. “I’m starving. Do they have burgers here?”

Smith quirks a brow at his friend, but lets him change the subject without another word. I think they have the kind of friendship that’s beyond conversation. I imagine them telepathically finishing their dialogue to keep me out of their business.

I push a few trays of tapas in front of him. “Eat seven trays and it’s equivalent to a burger,” I explain.

Moose smiles and begins eating.

After he swallows a mouthful, he says, “You know, I have better stories than he does.” He jerks a thumb to his right. “Sure he’s all scarred and decorated, but I’m pretty sensational, too.”

Smith coughs, laughing. “She’s booked. Sorry, Moosey. No interviews for you.”

I laugh. Moose grunts.

“Another perspective might be good for the story,” I say, fishing for a reaction from Smith. In actuality I have more from Smith already that I’m not sure I’ll be able to fit it in one story. I meet Smith’s gaze and smile. It’s fierce, protective—not happy with my suggestion. It tells me all I want to know. “Just joking,” I say, letting my lips pull to the side.

Smith tells me my joke was funny, and Moose laughs at his friend’s response.

Moose is happy and polite. Truly, I can’t help myself. Or, I’d kick myself. “Rumor has it you’re single.”

Moose tilts his head to the side, chews with his mouth closed, and furrows his brow.

“I have someone I want you to meet.” My girlfriend Teala will be ecstatic if I can snag her a date.

Smith scoots his chair back and holds his large arms out to the sides. “Come on, man. Carina has better taste than Aunt Ethel. Ole’ Eth still thinks you like blondes with small dogs in purses.”

I cover my mouth to stifle a giggle.

Moose sighs, looks me up and down once, and says, “For some reason, I trust you.” After he agrees, he makes himself scarce, disappearing into the bar next door, leaving me alone with Smith on our date.