Take Me All the Way (5 page)

Instinct made him shift his body forward, midair, not wanting to land on his ass—just as he felt himself connect with the softer female flesh of his boss and he knew he was taking her down with him.

They hit the soft dirt with a gentle
plmmmp
, and his fall was made even softer by having her body beneath him. They ended up face to face.

When Jeremy met her gaze—filled with a little bit of shock and little bit of something else he couldn't quite read—a small, unplanned grin left him just before he said, “We gotta stop meeting like this.”

The woman beneath him didn't smile back. “You can get off me now.”

Yeah, he knew that. But for some reason, he didn't really want to. It wasn't a bad place to be. “Before I do,” he said, “I just realized we were never officially introduced. I'm Jeremy.”

Mary's heart began to thump and her hands to shake a little in her delight and excitement.

Frances Hodgson Burnett,
The Secret Garden

“Y
ES,
I
know,” Tamra said. She couldn't believe the Neanderthal was lying on top of her. How on earth had she gotten herself in this situation? “Get off me.”

“And you are?” he asked.

“Getting angry,” she said through slightly clenched teeth.

Which made him let out another of those deep laughs of his. Which might have charmed her on some human level if he weren't a belligerent wiseass and if she didn't have to deal with him. “You're Tamra,” he said, since she'd refused to play along.

“Very good,” she said dryly, rolling her eyes. “Now get up.”

And when he didn't immediately make a move to do so, she pressed her palms to his chest. It felt warm, solid. In a way that somehow seemed to echo through her fingertips and up her arms.

Oh. Ugh. She didn't know what was happening
here, especially as their eyes met. His . . . weren't bad. They were maybe even kind of nice. Blue. Flecked with gray. And something hard, masculine—not the kind of thing you could really see, but more sense, feel. Yet the rest of him was unkempt and hairy and rude and cocky and a host of other things that held no appeal for her. He was so not her type. So she was back to ugh.

And why was he still lying on her? And dear God, right in view of Coral Street. “Get up! Now!” She pushed on his chest again, harder this time. And ignored any other feeling besides the intense desire to bring this awkward connection to a quick end.

Finally, her rude worker pushed upward to his knees, separating their bodies, and she suffered a startling awareness of the way he hovered above her, their legs still mingled.

When he got to his feet, relief rushed through her veins—along with a more subtle underlying current she couldn't put her finger on. The heat of the tropical autumn sun beat down on her, making her hotter than usual.

As he reached to help her up for the second time in just a few minutes, he said, “You're no fun.”

And the accusation put her on the defensive. “Not wanting to lie around in the dirt with a stranger on top of me has nothing to do with whether or not I'm fun.”

The last time he'd pulled her to her feet, she'd become more aware of the touch than she should have. The same thing happened this time, too—only more so now. Just as when she'd touched his chest, a zing of unwanted electricity rippled up her arm, then spread all through her.

“So are you?” he asked.

“Am I what?” She tugged at the hem of her shorts, then smoothed the tank top she wore as she scanned the area, looking around to see if anyone had witnessed Jeremy Sheridan, war veteran and jailbird, lying on top of her at the jobsite.

“Fun,” he said easily.

Okay, why did that question catch her off guard?

Because . . . it's flirtatious.
No matter how she sliced it, Mr. Scruffy Beard was flirting with her. And she supposed he'd been doing so for the last few minutes, but the reality was only fully hitting her now. “None of your business.” She had no idea where the reply came from.

Yes you do. You don't want to say yes and have him think you're flirting back. But you don't want to say no and have him think you're not fun.
Ugh again. Why on earth did she care what he thought of her?

When he flashed a speculative grin through that messy beard of his, it moved all through her—and made her nervous as hell even as it irritated her.

“And quit smiling at me like that. I'm not
that
fun.”

“I'd be surprised if you were,” he said, stooping to pick up the shovel he'd abandoned.

And she was on the verge of feeling insulted—when he winked at her. Oh Lord. She wasn't sure what was worse—that it was officially overt flirtation or that her body responded with a thin burst of desire flowing through her lower regions when she'd least expected it.

“Was it so horrible to have me on top of you?” he asked. Lord, he was direct. She wondered if her eyes betrayed her and wished desperately for sunglasses to hide them, but she'd left them all the way over on his tailgate.

“I
didn't mind it so much,” he added when she didn't reply.

“That was clear,” she quipped, not wanting to let him think he was getting the upper hand. “And yes, it was extremely unpleasant.”

As usual, though, he just laughed. “Why's that, prin– . . . Tamra?”

She raised her eyebrows. Was he seriously asking her? She'd met his gaze, but now looked away. “Well, I don't even know you, and I don't lie around with men I don't know.”

“But if you knew me you would?” Another grin through that beard.

She prayed he couldn't see the heat rising to her cheeks, or that he would mistake it for a touch of color from the sun. “No! You're not . . . not . . .”

“Not what?”

Did the man never stop? Well, fine, she'd just be direct, too. He was asking for it anyway. “My type,” she said. “You're not my type.”

He appeared completely undaunted as he asked, “What's your type?”

So she tried to keep being honest. “Well—not so much of this,” she said, motioning around her head with her hands, meaning he had too much hair for her taste. “Or this.” She motioned to her chin, meaning his beard. “And I like men who are nicer, and more polite—two things you seriously have working against you.” She ended with a brisk nod, just to drive the point home and make sure he knew exactly how much she was
not
into him.

And she supposed it shouldn't have surprised her when he simply laughed in reply, but it still did.

So she heard herself ask, “What's so funny?”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” he said, still looking amused.

And her jaw dropped. “You're quoting Shakespeare now?”

He lifted one hand, used his index finger to point at his head, and let his eyes grow big. “Like I said,” he told her, “lot going on up here, sister.”

Tamra rolled her eyes once more. “That's another thing I am not. Your sister.”

“Don't worry,” Jeremy said, one more small, bold grin unfurling across his hairy face, “I could never confuse you with my sister. Because I would never like lying on top of my sister so much.”

T
AMRA
couldn't deny feeling a little emotionally disheveled by the time she sent Mr. Scruffy Beard off to Home Depot to buy the supplies needed to start the golf hut. She almost wondered if she should think twice about handing him the credit card Cami had issued her for such things—he was such an unknown quantity in ways, and so far he didn't exactly come across as a fine, upstanding citizen. But the whole encounter with him had her so flustered that she'd have probably handed him her
own
credit card just to get rid of him for a while.

As she watched him drive off in the old red pickup in need of a muffler, her heartbeat slowed. And life began to seem normal again. The beach lay serene in the distance as families and couples began to dot the sand now that the sun had risen higher in the sky. A seabird cawed as it flew by overhead. Coral Cove was
at peace, and so was she. But that was a far cry from how she'd felt while caught in a verbal sparring match with Jeremy Sheridan. Not to mention when he'd been lying on top of her.

Ready to push the whole incident from her mind, she crossed the street and walked toward the Hungry Fisherman, visible in the distance.
Yes, talk to other people, clear your head. That's a good idea.
Any distraction at all from what had just transpired seemed wise.

As she approached, she found Polly sitting at a table on the patio with Cami and Reece. All of them smiled at her—too boldly.

“Um, hi,” she said, wondering why they all wore goofy grins.

“That was a nice show there,” Polly said.

Oh crap.

“Maybe a little early in the day for something like that, though,” Reece added. “Might want to keep it a little more G-rated for the little kids headed to the beach.” He finished with a good-natured wink, but Tamra could scarcely recall a time when she'd been more embarrassed in front of her friends.

“That was no show,” Tamra assured them. “That was the Neanderthal Cami hired being a clumsy lout and using the opportunity to be totally inappropriate.”

At this, Reece's eyes narrowed. “Inappropriate how? Did we make a mistake here? Do I need to have a talk with him? Or get rid of him altogether?”

Tamra hadn't expected Reece to come flying to protect her honor, and now she almost felt bad about the accusation. Mr. Scruffy Beard had been inappropriate—but . . . did it still count as inappropriate if it had made her heart beat faster with excite
ment? She didn't like admitting that to herself, but she couldn't deny the truth—the hard, cold reality that it hadn't been completely one-sided. “Well . . . he was just very flirty when he fell on me, that's all. But I handled it and I'm sure it won't happen again.”

In response, Cami still sat there smiling, looking almost as if she had a secret.

Tamra lowered her chin and squarely met her gaze. “What?”

“You just look . . . flushed or something. Maybe a little flirting isn't a bad thing.” Cami finished with a wink, as if to emphasize the point. Ugh, why had Tamra spilled her guts about her sexual needs? It was so much easier to just keep private things private.

She tilted her head and said, “Really, Cami? Have you seen him?”

Cami just shrugged. “Under all the hairiness, he might be cute. Christy says so anyway.”

“And he's got some nice muscles on him, that's for sure,” Polly said. “Hubba-hubba.”

Reece spun to look at Polly. “Don't take this the wrong way, Polly, but I don't think people say ‘hubba-hubba' anymore.”

She planted her hands on the hips of her rust-colored uniform. “Well, they might if they saw
him
.”

“But back to Tamra and Jeremy,” Cami said, switching her attention from Polly to Tamra.

Rats, Tamra had thought maybe she was off the hook. And she was extremely uncomfortable with this whole conversation. “Let's get something straight. There
is
no me and Jeremy. The guy works for me. Which I didn't even want, if you'll recall. And he's a handful, but I can manage it. And that's all there is to it.”

“Handfuls of
some
things can be fun,” Polly mused.

But Tamra didn't return her playful expression, even as Cami laughed out loud. Instead she just said, “Can I please have a Coke? I need to restore my energy before the handful gets back from Home Depot.”

As Polly stood up to get Tamra's soda, Reece rose from the table, too. “I'm gonna go check on Fifi, work on getting her habitat winterized today.” Fifi was Reece's six-foot-long giant iguana who lived in a room behind the Happy Crab's check-in desk.

And as soon as he was gone and the two of them were alone, Cami said, “Don't get mad at me, but you really do look a little flushed, and I really do think he's cute underneath the hair. And given that you're—you know—feeling certain urges, maybe you should just be . . . more open-minded.”

“Let me get this straight,” Tamra said. “You think it's a good idea for me to hook up with an unkempt, impolite, homeless guy who was arrested for attacking a stranger.”

Cami pursed her lips. “Well, when you put it that way . . .”

“Thank you,” Tamra said with a terse nod of victory.

“But he's a war veteran. So he has reasons for . . . not being at his best,” Cami argued. “It really doesn't mean he's a rotten guy.”

“It doesn't mean he's a good one, either. But no matter what he is, he's made a terrible impression on me and I'm not attracted to him one iota, and that's the end of the story.”

It was a relief when the restaurant's patio door opened and Polly reappeared with her drink. And
thankfully, conversation shifted to preparations for Christy and Jack's wedding. Tamra, Cami, and the maid of honor, Bethany, were throwing an engagement party and there were lots of plans to be made.

“I met Bethany,” Cami told Tamra. “I think you'll like her. She's an artist, like you.”

Tamra smiled. She always appreciated that, being called an artist—recognizing her creations as art was the highest compliment someone could give her. Her mission in life was to leave the world a little richer in that way than she'd found it.

But as the discussion went on, Tamra's thoughts drifted unwittingly back to what she'd said about Jeremy. The last part might have been a lie. She might have been a little bit attracted. Maybe more than even an iota.

But she didn't like that—not at all. Because it wasn't logical; it didn't make sense. He was unkempt and hairy. They'd been at odds since the moment they'd met. At best, he was cocky and presumptuous; at worst, downright rude. So why on earth had she suffered any twinges of desire for him?

Was she
that
desperate? Was her body
that
hungry for sex? Would
any
able-bodied man who'd fallen on her and refused to get up have elicited the same reaction?

Ugh. Don't even think like that! You are not desperate. You are not needy. This, too, shall pass.

After all, it was her first morning working with Jeremy, so this was . . . growing pains in their work relationship. It was new and awkward.
He
was awkward . . . as in too forward and having too much attitude. But soon enough, what had just happened would
be further in the past and their time together would start seeming more normal, less fraught with tension. Working with him would become just “another day at the office.”

But maybe for right now, while things
were
awkward, she'd just arrange it so they didn't spend a ton of time working directly together. She'd provided him with architectural plans for the hut, so assuming he was as capable a builder as she'd been promised, she wouldn't really need to be on hand for that. While he worked, she could do other things: tend to the landscaping, design the remaining course obstacles. There were a million things to be done, after all. He'd do his part, she'd do hers, and they didn't have to be Siamese twins about it.