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  A deadly question.

  “I—”

  “You told him you thought you’d broken your ankle, that you’d fallen, and he was worried about a fucking sweatshirt?”

  Stef winced. “Um. Yes?”

  The only sounds were those of the waves breaking against the shore.

  Then Ben asked, “What’s his name?”

  Now, he looked downright scary, and she knew it must be the ruthless business side of him coming out, the part that made it possible for him to own that building in the city, to make whatever deals were necessary in order to achieve his ends.

  Heat curled between her thighs.

  Probably, it shouldn’t. But the fury had her shifting on the sand, clenching her legs together, wondering what it might be like to unleash that ferocity in bed.

  “Stef.”

  A slightly sharp command, not fierce enough to make her bristle, but enough to make her wet, to make her want to argue with him, just to see where it would get her.

  What was wrong with her?

  But nearly the same moment, a thought grasped onto the coattails of the first, one that was opposite and important and—

  Because what was finally going right with her?

  She felt blazingly alive. She wanted things, and yeah, so maybe wanting Ben wasn’t the same as wanting things, as in plural. Though she supposed it was plural in the sense that she wanted to do multiple things with him.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “He doesn’t matter. We’ve been broken up for almost a year now. My ankle was . . . God . . . six? Seven? No, it must have been nine months ago. He’s ancient history.” A shrug, deliberately ignoring the fact that it hadn’t been that long since he’d showed up on her porch demanding that stupid vase. She hadn’t heard from him since; that was all that mattered. “I’ve moved on.”

  “It still hurts you.”

  Stef shrugged. “It was a bad break. It probably always will ache a bit.”

  His palm came to her cheek. “And he yelled at you about a fucking sweatshirt instead of helping you.”

  That was what people did.

  People who weren’t Ben with his picking up at bars, his returning of cars. He was an anomaly. People weren’t good, not like him. Unless you really meant something to them, they didn’t go out of their way for others.

  And she’d never fallen into the category of meaning enough.

  She wanted that.

  She’d seen what her friends had with their significant others. She’d even been lucky enough to feel the care they gave her as friends. So, she wasn’t so cynical as to think that it didn’t exist, that she was ultimately unworthy of it.

  Stef was a good person. She had some great qualities.

  But she was realistic enough to understand that if it came down to it, her friends would choose their spouses, choose each other. She was the newest addition. Well, Tammy had come after, but she was Kate’s sister-in-law, Brad and Jaime’s sister. Stef was aware of where she’d fall on the hierarchy.

  And look, she knew how that sounded.

  Like she’d signed up for a pity party for one.

  She hadn’t.

  She worked in numbers and formulas, within the rules of science. Cause and effect, correlations, associations . . .

  They all pointed to the same thing.

  She just didn’t matter that much to the people in her life, wouldn’t matter enough for them to choose her if the world were ending and they could only cling to one person.

  Which was morose and dramatic and . . . fine.

  Ben’s fingers flexed on her cheek, and she forced a smile. “I was fine.”

  Something flashed through his eyes, telling her he knew that she wasn’t going to tell him Jeremy’s name—even if it was tempting to allow Ben to unleash whatever businessman badassness he possessed on her ex.

  She didn’t want to go backward.

  She wanted to hold on to this feeling, to enjoy her time with Ben, for however long it lasted.

  His thumb brushed over her cheek. “Stubborn.”

  “Now you know one of my many faults, right along with my superpowers.”

  “I don’t consider being stubborn a fault.”

  “Liar.”

  His lips twitched. “Okay, maybe in this instance, I would like you to be a little less stubborn, but I know when I’ve been beaten.”

  She jumped when a cold, wet nose nudged against her foot.

  Ben barely spared a glance, scooping up the stick and launching it away, Fred chasing after it.

  His thumb continued stroking, his palm shifting, dragging down her throat, making her shiver. “Will he really play fetch all night?”

  Her lips curved. “Until he passes out on the sand.” She lifted and dropped her arm. “Until my arm gives out.”

  “So, if I kept throwing the”—Fred dumped the stick on Ben’s lap, right on cue—“stick,” he said, scooping it up and tossing it again. “If I save your arm . . . then what will you give me?”

  His hand drifted down beneath the neckline of her sweatshirt, traced across her collarbone. Another quiver, goose bumps rising on her skin.

  She shifted closer, her thigh pressing to his, her hand lifting to rest on his chest.

  “I’ll give you—”

  The stick landed on her shins and . . . Fred decided to shake, splashing them both with icy cold ocean water.

  She shrieked. “Fred!”

  Ben froze.

  She expected him to curse, to back away, or jerk up to his feet, wiping away the water and glaring at her. It’s what Jeremy would have done, if she’d twisted his arm and somehow had managed to get him out here at all. But Ben didn’t do that, didn’t move at all actually, as water dripped down his cheek.

  Stef reached up and wiped the drops away.

  The touch had him shifting closer, his words brushing hers on a hot rush of air. “You’ll give me . . . what?”

  It took her a minute to focus, to remember what she’d been saying before the dousing.

  Then she did remember.

  Her hand slid down his cheek, cupping his jaw, feeling the bristles there against her palm. “A kiss,” she murmured. “I’ll give you a—”

  “Thank fuck,” he muttered.

  His mouth slammed down onto hers.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ben

  The dog was trying to kill him.

  He’d just slanted his lips across hers, and Fred was back, wanting to fetch, and Ben swore to fuck that he’d just thrown the damned stick.

  He launched it again, a little farther this time, hoping it wasn’t too far.

  Then Stef’s tongue touched the seam of his lips, and he stopped worrying about the dog and started worrying about whether or not he’d be able to stop himself from stripping her naked on the beach and fucking her right there.

  Not only would that be uncomfortable—sand, so much sand in all the wrong places—but he didn’t want to get either of them arrested.

  Plus, naked sand fucking in the middle of the day would certainly hit the gossip sheets.

  And he didn’t want his bare ass on any blog.

  Just as that thought trickled through his mind, Fred dropped the stick on his lap and shook again, and Stef tore her lips away, shrieking again.

  “Come on, Fred!” she snapped.

  Her pooch just nudged the stick closer and wagged his tail.

  Ben captured a drop of water where it trailed down her throat, scooping it up with his thumb, and she shivered again. Though he was finally getting it through his thick skull that it was less from cold and more from him.

  Which he was just enough of a posturing alpha to appreciate.

  Especially when she leaned close and buried her face in his throat, her lips grazing his skin, her soft exclamation of “Kryptonite” reaching his ears.

  Ben laughed. “I was thinking the same thing.” A beat. “Well, that and along with needing a third person to chuck the stick so I could kiss you properly.�
� She giggled, and he found his fingers in her hair again, the soft locks dancing along the back of his hand. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “Though I could do without another Fred dousing.”

  Speaking of which, the pooch came back with the stick and Ben scooped it up, throwing it before he had the chance to stop and shake.

  “Smart man,” Stef teased.

  He laughed. “I occasionally can be,” he said, slipping his hand from her hair and wrapping it around her shoulders when she wiggled closer. “But usually, I just get lucky.”

  “What do you do, anyway?”

  This was the part that always got dicey and uncomfortable and . . . people just got weird when they found out that he ran Hunt Inc. It was too big, too often in the news, too strange knowing he was the brains of the giant conglomeration, that it—and he—was worth that much.

  She sensed his hesitation. “Never mind,” she told him. “You don’t have to tell me if it makes things awkward.”

  Except, it was one of the most innocuous questions she could ask him, wasn’t it?

  It was also an important one.

  Something he needed to share if he wanted to have her in his life. Because that was what this came down to, wasn’t it? She’d sent that text, giving him the way out, and he had known in an instant he hadn’t wanted that. He wanted her, had wanted her from the moment he’d spied those red lips, from the short conversation, hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her, in all honesty.

  He hadn’t even stopped to think when she’d said she couldn’t get a ride.

  He’d just known it had to be him.

  Same as the movies, the food, those moments with Sweetheart . . . the sex. The car.

  Him. Him. Him.

  “I work at the lab”—she named one of the big biotech firms in the area—“with my friend, Heidi. Well, really, she’s my boss, but she kind of bullied me into being her friend when she realized that I was alone here and things with Jeremy—”

  He stiffened.

  She glanced up at him, her eyes going wide. Then they narrowed. “Forget you heard that.”

  Not a chance in hell.

  But he didn’t comment as her coffee-colored eyes remained on his, continued glaring at him.

  “You’re not going to forget that, are you?”

  He just lifted his brows.

  “You’re not,” she muttered. “Well, anyway, Heidi took me under her wing, and then it wasn’t just Fred and me any longer. We had Kate, Cora, and Kelsey—they’d all been friends since college. We also got Tammy, who’s Kate’s sister-in-law who moved to town not long ago. And Kels’s fiancé, Tanner, Kate’s husband, Jaime, and Heidi’s husband, Brad. Brad and Jaime are brothers and Tammy is their sister, and they’re just all really nice people. Kate’s mom, Marabelle, is the one who owns the cosmetics company . . .”

  Ben could admit this was the point that he began tuning out, just began watching those lush lips move, throwing the stick when Fred came back, and wondering how long it would be until he could kiss her again.

  Stef realized that. Or at least she realized that she’d lost him in the sea of names. Probably, she wasn’t all that aware of the need burning through him, not his shirt conveniently placed over one bent leg.

  Sweats would be dangerous around this one.

  “Sorry,” she said, so softly he could barely hear her over the crash of the waves. “That was a lot to throw at you.”

  He tugged her a little closer, smothering a groan when her palm brushed his thigh. “I’m probably not going to remember all of those names,” he admitted, “but I like hearing you talk.”

  Her brows shot up. “You like . . . hearing me”—her voice squeaked here—“talk?”

  Ben couldn’t resist brushing a kiss over her forehead. “Yes.”

  “Just to clarify,” she said. “Me?”

  Laughter bubbled up in his chest, burst out of him. So fucking cute. “Yes,” he said again, bopping her lightly on the nose. “Squeak aside, you have a pleasant voice, and I’m glad your boss bullied you into friendship.”

  Stef’s eyes went wide, concern drifting into those coffee-colored depths. “I was kidding about the bullying part. She’s not like that.”

  “I know.”

  A slow blink. “How do you know?”

  “Because of the way your face looks when you talk about her, about them.”

  Another blink, surprise weaving its way through her expression. “What do I look like?”

  “Your face gentles and light comes into your eyes.”

  “Oh.”

  It was a whisper, her gaze going out to the horizon and no stranger to needing a few quiet moments, he let her have this one. Just picked up the stick and threw it several more times, his stare alternating from the setting sun, to Stef, to Fred.

  “I love them,” she said, turning back toward him when the sun had turned into a half circle, the rest of it slipping beyond the skyline. “I didn’t realize how much I did until you said that.” She glanced at him, then away again, her voice nearly inaudible. “I didn’t realize how much I’m going miss them when it’s over.”

  He straightened. “Why would it be over?”

  Was she moving? Fuck, was she dying?

  His mind immediately went worst-case scenario, picturing his mom wasting away, the cancer taking her piece by piece.

  She just shook her head, not looking at him.

  “Stef?” he asked. “Are you sick?”

  Something in his tone—probably the panic—had her glancing back. “No,” she said. “I’m fine. My friends are fine.”

  “Are you moving?”

  “No.”

  Then what the fuck are you talking about? he wanted to yell.

  But there was something fragile about her in that moment, something even Fred, as though sensing her disquiet, seemed to recognize, sprawling on the sand next to her, the stick forgotten, his side pressed to her leg. She didn’t protest against Fred’s wet fur soaking through her jeans, just stroked her fingers through it and silently watched the sun go down.

  So, he did the same.

  Even though he had a million questions running through his mind.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stef

  Ben took the towel from her hands, efficiently rubbing the worst of the sand and water from Fred’s fur.

  She knew it wouldn’t all get out.

  Sundays were Fred’s bath day.

  He lifted Fred into the car, buckled his seat belt, leaving her to stand uselessly to the side of the car, watching the strong lines of his body do something that was often a struggle for her.

  Fred, as previously established, was a good boy. He, however, wasn’t graceful while navigating hallways or chasing squirrels or jumping into cars. Most of the time he jumped and missed, crashing his face into the seat, so mom guilt had her lifting all eighty-plus pounds of him, front legs first, then followed by back legs. Not the easiest thing, especially when Fred was slippery from dancing in the waves.

  The belt clicked. The door closed.

  Ben turned to face her.

  She’d expected questions about why she’d gone quiet. Instead, he’d just sat next to her, no pressure, no stress, and watched the sunset with her and Fred.

  God, she liked him too freaking much.

  She was firmly in cling mode—as in, wanting to cling to him forever.

  His fingers brushed her cheek, and she realized she’d been staring. “Did you want me to drive?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I’m fine. I’ve got it.”

  Deep brown eyes on hers. “That’s not what I asked.”

  She replayed her answer, his question, then bit back a smile. “You remember.”

  She’d complained about hating to drive on the way to the beach, lamenting the traffic on her circuit of doggy day care, lab, back to doggy day care, and finally back home, and how with Bay Area traffic, it took longer than a reasonable human being should have to deal with.


  His eyes flared, but he didn’t say anything other than, “I remember.”

  “Do you mind?”

  Another flash. “I wouldn’t have offered if I did.”

  This man . . . was confusing and wonderful and . . . confusing. “Do you really mean it?”

  “Stef.” His hands cupped her cheeks. “I wouldn’t have offered if I minded.”

  Thud.

  Thud.

  “Okay.”

  “That you understand I wouldn’t have offered if I minded, or that you want me to drive?”

  After considering that for a moment, she said, “Both.”

  A flash of bright white teeth. He plucked the keys from her fingers, threaded his arm through hers, and led her around the hood of the car, opening the passenger’s side door, then waiting for her to sit before buckling her in.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He cupped her cheek, held her gaze. “You’re welcome.”

  Then he got into the driver’s seat, having to wrestle with the controls for a few minutes to try and fit his long legs in her tiny Prius. But then he was in, and the car was on, and he drove her home.

  “This isn’t what I had in mind when I told you I’d buy you dinner,” she said, setting the paper plates and napkins on the coffee table alongside the pizza that had just been delivered.

  She’d been thinking fancy restaurant, candles and tablecloths, and soft music in the background.

  Not necessarily because she liked those things.

  But because he lived in a penthouse and owned a building in SF. He was probably used to fancy shit. Hell, he had that white rug where anyone might just stain it.

  Then again, he’d gone to the small theater, walked on that sticky floor, and shared popcorn and a KitKat.

  That wasn’t exactly fancy.

  Neither was eating pizza and drinking beers.

  But that’s what he’d suggested when his stomach had rumbled on the drive home, and she’d ordered the food on the app, so it had arrived almost when they did.

  Ben opened the lid, inhaled deeply. “Fuck, that smells good.”

  Her pussy clenched.

  As though he felt it, Ben glanced over at her, and she got lost in the heat in his eyes. He closed the pizza box, prowling over to her. Her nostrils flared, and she didn’t back up when he stepped right into her space, sharing her air. “You have condoms?” he asked.