Carolina Heart (2 page)

Cynthie squashed her instinctive sympathy. “Sweetie, you can’t break the rules because some boy dared you to.”

“But, Mom, he was picking on Aidan.”

“She really does take after you,” Max murmured.

Cynthie looked up, surprised by his intrusion.

He smiled, warm appreciation in his eyes, and something in her brain turned and clicked like the tumblers in a lock.
Max Lewis . . .

“You tell your friend—Ryan, is it?—that the aquarium gives behind-the-scene tours on weekends. But children have to be accompanied by an adult. You really should come,” he said.

To her?
Cynthie wondered.
To both of them?

“That would be cool,” Hannah said. “Mom?”

Cynthie shook her head regretfully. “Thanks for the tip. But I’m usually busy on weekends.”

“Oh. Sure.” Color stained the high ridge of his cheekbones, the points of his well-shaped ears. “You’re, uh, married.”

“Divorced. I work weekends.”

She needed the tips, especially now, in the off-season.

He took his hands out of his pockets. “So I could check the aquarium schedule and call you.”

Was he . . . ? He was
hitting
on her, she realized. In a totally respectful, awkward sort of way. It was sweet, a welcome change from the usual grab-ass come-ons at the bar.

Well, it would be welcome if she was looking for a hookup.

Which she wasn’t.

“You don’t need to do that. I’m sure the aquarium has the schedule online.” She smiled again to soften her refusal. Well, and because the combination of those broad shoulders and pink-tinged ears was kind of adorable. She glanced down the length of the darkened gallery, searching for the rest of her group. “I’ve gotta go wrangle my kids. But thanks.”

“Right.” Max thrust his hands back into his pockets, that clear gray gaze intent on her face. “It was . . . It was really great seeing you again, Cynthie.”

She sighed. He was cute. But she was trying hard these days to listen to her head and not her other parts. Guys didn’t want a woman with two kids for anything other than a one-night stand, anyway.

“You, too.” She left without looking back.

But she felt his gaze following her, a tickle between her shoulder blades, as she waded back into the current of kids. They eddied and swirled around her, carrying her away.

CYNTHIE SCANNED THE
Fish House dining room, calculating how much longer before she could clock out and go home. Table six, table four, three guys at the bar, a couple in the back booth holding hands. A quiet Thursday. The restaurant emptied early now that the season was over and the tourists were gone.

The old fish house on Dare Island had always been the heart of the community, the place where local fishermen brought their catch and talked about their neighbors and the weather.

Ten years ago the property owner had razed the building where fish were cleaned and packed, and replaced it with a restaurant. Now dark wood tables and long plank floors stretched to the back of the room. Rows of bottles glinted in the light of the flat screens over the bar.

Nothing was left of the original fish house but the name and the view of the harbor.

Yet the place still survived as a hub for the locals to gather and gossip.

Cynthie closed out table four, leaving them with the check and a smile, and made her way to the couple in the booth: Sam Grady, the owner’s son, and his fiancée, Meg Fletcher, who’d gone to school with Cynthie.

As she walked through the narrow aisle, one of the guys at the bar patted her ass.

She evaded his hand expertly, jabbing him—not hard—with her elbow.

He raised his palms in token surrender. “You had something on your butt.”

Cynthie laughed. “Yeah. Your eyes.”

Sam Grady lifted an eyebrow as she approached the booth. “Trouble?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Cynthie said cheerfully. Nothing she wasn’t used to.

“You’re too nice,” Meg said.

Not nice,
Cynthie thought.
Pragmatic.
It didn’t pay to piss off customers in the off-season. The biggest jerks were sometimes the biggest tippers. And she needed the tips to pay her bills. “He doesn’t mean anything by it,” she said.

“You should have dumped a drink on him.”

Cynthie shrugged. She didn’t want the cost taken out of her wages. “Waste of good booze. Speaking of which . . . Can I get you folks anything else? Another beer? Another . . .” She looked at Meg’s drink, trying to remember her order. Something weird, something a girl who’d been to Harvard and lived in New York would know about. Something Cynthie had never in her life heard of before. “Another Aperol Ricky?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Sam said.

“Unless you’re trying to get out of here,” Meg said. “Do you want to bring us the check?”

“Only if you all are set,” Cynthie said.

Sam raised another eyebrow. “Hot date?”

Cynthie didn’t resent the question. There was a time when she’d lurched from relationship to relationship, bed to bed, trying to find love and secure some kind of future. But she was trying to be an example now. The girls’ lives were crazy enough with her going back to school. They didn’t need a mama who was still writing her phone number on cocktail napkins.

She shook her head. “My mom’s watching the girls tonight. I want to make sure they do their homework before bed.”

“How’s school going?” Meg asked.

Cynthie warmed, as always, at the chance to talk about her kids. “All right. Maddie’s getting used to changing classes, finally. And Hannah’s all excited about her aquarium report.”

“She’s a smart girl,” Sam said.

Smart kid.
Max Lewis’s voice intruded in her head. She could almost see his tanned legs, his ankle bones protruding above his ratty sneakers.
You must be proud.

“That’s great,” Meg said. “But I didn’t mean the girls. How’s it going for you?”

“Oh.” Cynthie blinked, surprised that Meg would ask. Which was silly. Meg had encouraged Cynthie to apply to the community college, had helped her fill out all those confusing financial aid forms.

“All right, I guess.”

Nice girls don’t brag,
Mama said.

Cynthie had never done much to brag about. But the fact was, she’d done real well in summer school. All those courses she had to take as a prerequisite for her associate’s degree: algebra, biology, chemistry. Of course, she hadn’t gone to Harvard like Meg.

“I start my first real dental classes this semester,” she offered. “And a preclinic lab.”

“How long does that take?” Meg asked.

“Twenty-two class hours, six lab hours a week. Mostly when the girls are in school.”

While they chatted about her schedule, Sam slipped a credit card from his wallet and laid it on the table.

“You want me to ring you up first?” Cynthie asked.

Sam smiled. “I trust you.”

She carried the card away. When she returned with the check for his signature, the cell phone in her pocket hollered the chorus of “Redneck Woman.”

“Great ringtone,” Meg said.

Cynthie grinned and slapped her pocket. “Sorry.”

“Go ahead and take it,” Sam said.

“We-ell . . .” Cynthie’s hand hovered. “Just in case it’s the girls,” she said apologetically.

She slid the phone from her pocket and glanced at the display.

She recognized the number with equal parts attraction and annoyance. Max Lewis.

He’d called her last night, too. She had listened to his voice mail right before bed, the deep, well-educated tones, disarming, diffident.

“Um, hi, Cynthie? It’s Max. Max Lewis. I got your number from Gilbert Fry. You know Gil.”

Of course she knew Gil, a regular at the bar, a soft-spoken waterman trying to revive oyster fishing on Dare Island. She knew everybody on Dare Island.

And lots of guys—including Gil Fry—had her number.

“Anyway . . .”
She’d heard Max take a breath.

“I thought you’d like to know there’s a behind-the-scenes aquarium tour this Sunday at two if you’d like to go with Hannah. And me. Or without me. I mean, you should feel free to . . . But I’d be happy to reserve tickets for you. Or us. Whatever. If you’re interested, that is. You could call me.”

He’d rattled off his number while her heart beat a little faster.

“Well.”
Another breath.
“It was great to see you again. Uh, bye.”

Of course she hadn’t called him back.

She hadn’t expected him to call again.

And she still didn’t remember who he was. Couldn’t picture him in high school, despite his bare knees and boyish smile.

With a little shake of her head, she tucked the phone away.

“Everything all right?” Sam asked.

Sam was one of the good guys. Meg was lucky. Although Meg—brainy, ambitious, determined—had always insisted on making her own luck. No stupid choices for Meg.

Cynthie flashed them both a smile. “Just fine.”

“Who was it?” Meg asked.

Nobody
, she should have said. Nobody she ought to be thinking about, anyway. But what actually came out of her mouth was, “Do you remember a guy named Max Lewis? From high school?”

“I don’t really . . . Sam?”

“It was our senior year,” Cynthie said. “Sam wasn’t around then.”

“I came home for holidays,” he said.

Meg exchanged a private look with Sam, intimate as a kiss. “I remember. So, what about this Max guy?”

Cynthie shrugged. “I ran into him the other day, that’s all.”

“Max Lewis,” Meg repeated thoughtfully. “Max . . . You don’t mean
Maxwell
Lewis? Dark-haired, skinny kid? He was in my advanced biology class.”

A vision of tall, dark, extremely buff Max Lewis rose in Cynthie’s head. “I don’t think he would have been in class with you,” she said doubtfully. “He’s, like, two years younger.”

Meg nodded. “That’s the one. The Boy Genius. It sort of pissed me off, actually, because his grades were always just a little bit better than mine. His parents were both university professors. His dad was here on some kind of research fellowship.”

“Are you talking about Oscar Lewis’s son?” Sam asked.

“Do you know him?” Meg asked.

“I know of him,” Sam said. “At least, I’ve heard of his father. Oscar Lewis, big linguistics expert at Duke. He wrote a book about the effects of isolation on the island dialect.”

Boy Genius
?
University professors
?

“Not my type, then,” Cynthie said.

Meg pulled a face. “Stop that. You’re smart. Anyway, what does it matter whether he’s your . . . Wait.” She straightened, her eyes brightening. “Was that him? Is he texting you?”

“He called,” Cynthie said.
And that was another thing,
she thought with an unfamiliar sense of grievance, remembering his warm, deep voice, his adorable hesitations. It wasn’t fair for the man to be so cute. Not when she was trying so hard to resist him. “What kind of guy calls instead of texting?”

“A guy who’s interested,” Sam said.

Cynthie shook her head. “Interested gets me a pat on the ass. Not a phone call.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Meg said.

“Ouch,” Sam said. “Friend zone.”

“Not even that,” Cynthie insisted, trying to make it no big deal, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. “He just wanted to tell me about some behind-the-scenes tour at the aquarium on Sunday.”

“Sounds right up Hannah’s alley,” Meg observed.

“Yes.” Yes, it was. Unfortunately. Cynthie hated to disappoint her daughters.

“So are you going with him?”

“No.” Tickets cost twenty dollars. Each. Cynthie had looked it up online. She didn’t have that kind of money, especially not at the start of the school year when the girls needed new shoes and school supplies.

“Have you told him?”

“I figured he’d get the hint,” Cynthie said. “When I didn’t answer his calls.”

“Guys are good at ignoring rejection,” Sam said. “It’s a defense mechanism.”

“Or ego,” Meg said.

He grinned at her, sharp and quick.

Maybe
. Cynthie was used to guys who wouldn’t take no for an answer, who got handsy or pushy or pissy when she turned them down.

But Max Lewis hadn’t struck her as one of them. Something about his eyes and the way they’d actually focused on her face, or the endearing way he blushed to the tips of his ears, or those awkward phone pauses.

“I suppose I could call him back,” she said.

Sam and Meg exchanged glances.

“Just to say no,” she added. “I mean, I don’t want to keep the poor guy hanging.”

“You’re such a softy,” Meg said.

“Gee, thanks,” Cynthie said, trying not to mind the echo of her mama’s words.

A soft heart and willing hands.

And no brains.

*   *   *

THE
student on the other side of Max’s desk pleated her fingers together in the lap of her extremely brief skirt and fixed Max with wide, earnest eyes. “I really want to do well in your class, Dr. Lewis.”

Max sighed. She was a senior. She probably needed the science credit to graduate. Unfortunately, doing well in his class actually required that students do their work. “You shouldn’t be too discouraged by one bad test performance. Your class participation is very good.”

She nodded eagerly. “It’s so interesting. What you do, I mean. I just wish I could bring my grade up.”

“Well,” he said mildly. “You might try studying.”

“Maybe I need tutoring. I could stay after class.” She smiled at him hopefully. “Or we could meet someplace. Like, for coffee?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. If you would spend more time with the text—”

“Nothing else?” She dropped her gaze, peeking up at him through a fringe of stiff, mascaraed lashes.

“You mean extra credit?” He shook his head.

She blinked at him, crestfallen. “But—”

“It’s early in the quarter,” he said kindly. “Just keep up with the readings, and I’m sure you’ll do better next time.”

He explained the grading rubric again, reminded her to refer to the syllabus, and sent her on her way.

As she was leaving, Greg Stokes, the department’s acknowledged expert on fish migration and women, appeared in the doorway of his office.

Greg turned to watch the departing student and her short skirt twitch down the hall. “Very nice.”

“She’s a nice girl. Terrible student, though.” Max frowned. “I don’t understand why she’s struggling. She seems to be paying attention in class.”

Greg shook his head pityingly. “Max, you idiot, of course she’s paying attention. All your female students pay attention. Why do you think they take your class?”

Max lifted his brows. “I assume because they have an interest in biological oceanography.”

“In saving the whales, maybe. Or swimming with dolphins. Not in restoring oyster habitats.”

“That’s incredibly sexist.”

“Maybe,” Greg acknowledged. He leaned against Max’s desk, almost knocking a pile of reports to the floor. “But I’ll bet you anything that girl is less interested in bivalve reproduction than in getting it on with teacher.”

The tips of his ears heated. “Don’t be a jackass. She must be ten years younger than me. She’s a student.”

“A very pretty one. It’s like revenge of the nerds, man. All those girls who never gave you the time of day in high school are begging you for extra credit.”

All those girls who never gave you the time of day in high school . . .