Seeing Red(5)

If the scheme worked, it’d be spectacular. Any man with half a brain would give his less-favored nut to be with Meg. Yeah, she was a bit of a shrew, but he’d seen her laugh before, and it was a magical thing the way her face lit up. That had been years ago, though. He’d be hard-pressed to remember her laughing in recent memory.

He put his feet up on the fabric-covered ottoman in front of him and crossed his legs at the ankles.

During a long sip of his beer, he pondered what Sharon had told him right before the bride-less wedding reception. She’d said, “Trust me on this. The way to Meg’s heart is through silence. Don’t talk her to death. She thinks small talk is annoying. Don’t stare. Don’t fidget. Don’t make her uncomfortable.”

“Is she a cat or a woman?” he’d asked.

“Hey, maybe she was a cat in one of her past lives, but that’s a perfect analogy for Meg. Don’t go to her thinking you’ll be able to cuddle and pet her belly unless you want to get scratched. Let her come to you.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Sharon had shifted her weight and chewed at her bottom lip a while before answering. “Well, if she doesn’t, you let me deal with it. I’m good at guilt.”

He knew that to be true. He’d seen the number she’d done on Curt—a man generally not so easily swayed by the feminine persuasion. Sharon had a touch of magic about her in that way.

A small, feminine form cast a shadow at the left side of the cabana. The newcomer shuffled her feet in the sand as she traveled.

The cabana curtains swung gently from the caress of fingertips trailed along the seam, and Seth sat up straighter. He pulled his feet down to the ground and set his beer on the nearby table.

Meg stopped in the curtain gap, her eyes slightly round with surprise. She carried an empty glass in one hand and a wine bottle in the other. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were in here,” she said. She started to turn away, but he stood and was at the opening in two long lopes.

“Don’t leave. It’s a nice night.” He groaned inwardly, ridiculing himself over his unsophisticated remark. Was that really the best he could do? Telling her not to leave?

She tipped her face up to meet his gaze, and her chocolate-brown eyes seemed nearly black in the faint moonlight. An unusual combination, her dark eyes, pale skin, and bright hair. An odd sort of genetic bingo, where all the dots had connected to create a rather striking woman. And not striking as in “interesting-looking,” either. At thirty—that’s what the marriage license had said, that she was thirty—she was pretty. Even when she was pointedly trying not to be, like right then.

Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, and lips bunched at the right side of her face as she assessed him.

He swallowed. What had Sharon said? Don’t stare, don’t make her uncomfortable.

Right.

Don’t make her uncomfortable.

He eased away from the opening and reclaimed his seat, reaching for his beer bottle.

No small talk.

He looked past her slim form at the waves in the distance and took another long swig of his Belgian ale.

She moved in his periphery, took a seat at the end of the bench farthest from him, and set her bottle and glass on the table.

When she was distracted with the bottle wedged between her thighs and focused on the corkscrew she worked into the stopper, he stole a glance at her.

She’d really dressed down since the ceremony and had trekked to the cabana without the slightest hint of makeup or artifice. In twelve years, he’d never seen her so…ordinary?

No, that wasn’t the right word. She’d never be that. Accessible, perhaps. That was a better word.

Maybe she hadn’t bothered that evening because she had no one to impress. He tried not to be offended at the thought.

“Dammit.” She blew out a sigh and let her head fall back, eyes closed, as she kept her grip on the bottle.

He caught his lips parting, ready to ask, “What’s wrong?” but Sharon’s admonition came to mind again. No small talk.

He was a scientist. Observation was a part of his job, so why not apply that skill set to relationships, as well?

Duh. The cork had broken off. Easy.

He wedged his hand into his front right pocket and pulled out the keychain he’d been carrying around in more or less the same configuration since he was thirteen. Prying the little knife open from the all-in-one tool, he extended his other hand to her. “Give it to me,” he said. “I’ll snake it out.”

She opened her eyes, righted her head to its natural position, and extended the bottle to him without meeting his gaze. “Fish it out, you mean.”

He grasped the bottle by the neck and drew it close. “I’m sorry?”