That Birthday in Barbados Page 8

  I look up, our gazes locked and searing.

  I’d forgotten what physical attraction feels like.

  But I am remembering. In every fiber of my being, I am remembering. It’s as if there is a magnet inside each of us, and we’re being pulled to each other at the cellular level. Our bodies dip and weave beneath the throb of the music, and I’m really hoping he never takes his arm away, never lets me go. Beneath the silk of my dress, I feel the hard sculpt of his thighs and yet further proof that all those hours on the bike have turned him into a living work of art.

  A waiter brings us two more drinks, setting them on a nearby table. Anders takes my elbow and leads me over.

  “My last one,” I say. “No more mules for me.”

  Anders shakes his head, smiling. “Have you seen that uptight New Yorker I took to dinner earlier?”

  “Uptight?!? Oh, wait. I was a little uptight about turning forty, wasn’t I? Didn’t someone say age is of no importance unless you’re a cheese?”

  He laughs. “Or a bottle of wine.”

  “I’d rather be a forty-year-old bottle of wine than a forty-year-old cheese.”

  “For the aroma alone,” he agrees, taking another sip of his drink.

  I giggle and pull him back to the dance floor.

  “So you like dancing?” he teases, reeling me in again and putting me back in the very spot I wanted to be in all along.

  “I don’t think I’ll remember in the morning how bad I am! And don’t remind me.”

  “I like watching you move,” he says, dipping his head low, and grazing my cheek with his lips.

  It’s as if I’ve had an arrow of desire shot through my center, and I’m thinking I am in serious trouble.

  I’m not sure how long we stay in the middle of the throbbing throng of people, six songs, seven? My dress is clinging where sweat dampens my skin, but even so, I’m not ready to leave the dance floor when the song ends, and his arm drops from my waist. I’m disappointed when he leans in and says, “Let’s get some air.”

  He takes my hand and leads me through the crowd, dodging dancers until we walk through a door and into the cool of the night.

  People are waiting in line to get inside, and we find a spot in the shadows of the building. Anders leans against a wall, arms folded across his chest. “Girl can dance.”

  “Not compared to you,” I say, laughing softly. The sky swirls above me. “I think that Red Door Mule has a pretty good kick.”

  He smiles. “Also thought you didn’t get drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk.” Did the n in drunk slur? “And you have to stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “This . . . this flirting with me. It’s like . . . like holding a glass of water out to a woman who’s just walked through the desert when you have no intention of giving the water to the woman.”

  Anders smiles, tips his head. “Who says I’m not going to give her the water?”

  “Well . . . you can’t. You’re young. She’s old. And the water won’t do her any good anyway. It’s too late. She’s all dried up,” I say, shaking my head and then forcing myself to go still since the sky just dipped toward us again.

  He’s staring at me with the kind of heat in his eyes I’ve never had directed at me quite so intently.

  “Baby, it’s never too late,” he says. With the quickness of a lightning strike, he swoops in, kissing me so long and with such deliberate expertise that I can’t breathe. I really can’t breathe. And maybe I don’t want to if it means he has to stop. He’s the stray bolt from the sky, and I’m the ground, and there’s definitely an explosion going on here that demands life-saving action. I slide my arms around his neck and hold on, for dear life, actually, and while I’m at it, I kiss him back. Not with any kind of expertise, mind you. I’m so out of practice that without the muscle-relaxing effects of the alcohol I’ve consumed this evening, I’m pretty sure I’d be stiff as a board.

  But, oh my gosh, he feels so good. And he tastes so good. I open my mouth beneath his, and we set about devouring one another, kissing like we’re oxygen-starved and the only place to find air is here in this life-inducing act of passion.

  I anchor my hands to his shirt and tip my head back. His mouth leaves mine, and he traces a path along my jaw and down my neck to the hollow at the center of my neck. From there to the crest of my breast at the neckline of my dress.

  “We’re going to need that water now,” I say. “We seem to have started a small fire.”

  His laugh is explosive. “You’re incredibly funny,” he says, staring down at me now with smoldering blue eyes.

  “Me? No. I’m not funny. I’ve never been funny. I’m serious. Serious people aren’t funny.”

  He laughs again. “Okay. You can’t dance. You never get drunk. And you’re not funny. Quite a list we’ve got going here.”

  I angle back, give him a long look that admittedly goes a little fuzzy around the edges.

  “I’d better get you back to the hotel before that mule knocks both of us out.”

  “Party pooper,” I say, hanging back when he takes my hand.

  He looks at me then, shakes his head and chuckles.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Some people believe holding on and hanging in there are signs of great strength. However, there are times when it takes much more strength to know when to let go and then do it.”

  ― Ann Landers

  Anders

  WE END UP on the beach once we get back to the hotel.

  The non-partying, non-dancing woman I took to dinner doesn’t want the night to end.

  If I’m honest, neither do I.

  From the center of the hotel, we go left, away from the lights. Catherine runs to the edge of the water, splashing in to her knees, a wave smacking the front of her dress. She screams, laughing, and jumps back, promptly falling in the sand onto her delectable butt. Gentle waves lap around her hips and thighs, and I find myself envying them.

  “I’m not sure silk and sea water are a good combination,” I say, reaching out a hand to help her up. She takes it, and just as I’m about to pop her out of the sand, she gives me a tug and I nearly fall on her, rolling to avoid her.

  She’s laughing now, and even though I’m wearing a jacket and pants, I don’t bother trying to save them. I lie back and stare at the moon hanging bold and full in the night sky. “I’ll send you my dry-cleaning bill.”

  She rolls over, hooks an arm across my chest. “I’m sorry. Very. Very, very sorry.”

  The apology is hi-jacked at the ends by the combination of Red Door Mules and rum punch. Her face is poised above mine, and I’m pretty sure I’m not coming into focus. “That’s a lot of verys,” I say.

  “Oh, sorry. Not very. Just sorry.”

  I laugh. “See. You’re a funny drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk,” she protests, raising up to glare down at me. Her elbow slips, and she’s suddenly flat on my chest. I take advantage of the moment to seek her mouth again since I haven’t stopped thinking about that kiss since we left the Red Door. All the way back in the taxi. And all the way through the hotel lobby and out to the beach. Now when I’m wondering if I could actually ever get enough of her.

  She kisses me back, and we’re alone out here with the gentle lap of waves as our soundtrack. Catherine slides on top of me, and there’s no mistaking when she takes over the kissing initiative. I lie back and enjoy it, not bothering to hide the fact that my body wants her. At this point, my brain’s not talking the rest of me out of it, anyway.

  If I’ve ever wanted to freeze-frame a page of my life, this would be the night to do it. I have a beautiful woman on top of me, a woman I admired before I left Wall Street. A woman who built a business from the ground up and made it into something other people were willing to pay a lot of money for. But she’s not anything like I would have imagined her to be.

  She makes a soft sound of protest and lifts her head. I want to protest the removal of her mouth from mine, but instea
d I run my hands down the back of her dress and under it to her sand-covered thighs.

  “Um,” she says, looking down at me again. “Better stop that.”

  “Now you’re the party pooper.”

  “You. Are such. Trouble.”

  I smile and take my hands away. “See how easy I am.”

  “I think I’m going to be the easy one if I’m not careful. I need to go for a run.”

  She stumbles to her feet, trots a few yards away and takes off in a sprint.

  “Wait!” I call out, getting up to run after her. “Catherine!”

  I have no idea where she got the energy but it takes me a good thirty seconds to catch her. I scoop her up with one arm and swing her toward me. “Hey now, it’s a little dark to see where you’re going.”

  “I can see.”

  “Really?” I ask, looking up at her because I’m holding her against me with my arms locked beneath the butt I very much want to sink my hands into.

  “Really.”

  “You don’t sound sober.”

  “I am sober. Very, I mean incredibly sober.”

  Suddenly, I realize that she’s crying. A tear drops on my face, and I ease her to the sand. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  She looks down, shakes her head. “Nothing. I-” Her voice breaks, and she goes silent.

  “I thought we were having fun.”

  “We were. Am. Are.”

  “Tears aren’t the thing that makes a guy think you’re having a good time.”

  “I’m sorry. I never expected tonight to-”

  “What?”

  She’s quiet for long enough that I don’t think she’s going to tell me.

  And then in a fast voice, she says, “I spent my honeymoon with my husband at this hotel.”

  I admit this isn’t what I expected. “Husband?”

  “Ex. Husband. We made out on the beach like you and I were-”

  I feel as if a tsunami wave has just risen from the ocean floor and crashed down on top of me. “Ah. I get no points for originality then.”

  “No. You were very original. It just . . . brought back memories I’d rather forget.”

  I run a hand through my hair. “How long ago was that?”

  “Ten years.”

  “How long have you been divorced?”

  “Three.”

  “Mutual break-up?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She drops onto the sand, pulling her knees up against her chest and staring out at the moon shining on the ocean’s surface. “He had an affair with my sister.”

  The words appear out of the night, and it takes me a second to realize exactly what she said. “Oh. That-”

  “-means there must really be something wrong with me.”

  “Whoa,” I say, putting a hand on her arm. “That means there’s something wrong with the two of them.”

  “Who does that?” she asks. “Even if I did have Grand Canyon size flaws. Who does that?”

  I put a hand on her arm, pressing softly. “Hey. You don’t have to open all this up.”

  “It’s never closed,” she says, the words barely audible.

  I slip my arm around her shoulders and pull her up against me. “You know as well as I do there aren’t any words of comfort in the whole Oxford dictionary to address this one. How about I just hold you?”

  She drops her head on my shoulder, and we sit there, silent and bonded. I don’t even know how it happened so quickly. We just met, but I feel it, and it grabs me deep down in the gut. I feel her hurt. It’s like something real and tangible that’s formed in the air between us.

  She relaxes into sleep. Her head droops a little, and her breathing deepens. I’m almost glad. At least sleep has the ability to steal the pain of those memories. I wait a couple of minutes to make sure she’s completely out. I angle my body slightly away from her, stand and manage to slip my arm around her waist. I lift her in a single swoop. I know she can’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds at five-seven or so, but Catherine asleep is a lot more than one-twenty. And I’m really hoping that room key is in the small clutch purse still draped across her shoulder and no doubt filled with sand.

  I head for the walkway between the hotel and the beach. I step up, holding onto her tighter. The last thing I want to do is stumble and drop her.

  When I get to the door that leads to the guest rooms, I reach two fingers out and pull the handle. I determine not to slip on the marble and walk straight for the staircase that leads to the third floor.

  I admit to being out of breath when we get there, spin instructor or not.

  Still holding her in my arms, I fumble for the small purse I am really hoping holds her room key. I turn the twist latch and slip my hand inside. Sand. Lipstick. Breath mints? Card key. Yes.

  I pull it out, slide it in the lock, realize I’ve inserted it the wrong way and try again. The light on top of the lock flashes bright green, and the door clicks open. I shoulder it in and step quickly inside, even as it swings shut behind me.

  I head straight for the bed, glad that housekeeping has already provided turn down service. I lean in and place her gently on the covers. I don’t see her waking up to change clothes. Which means she’ll have to sleep in the sandy dress because me helping her out of it would be crossing a line I’m not going to cross.

  Me, on the other hand? I’ll sleep in the chair, but the clothes have to go.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “If you’re going to do something tonight that you’ll be sorry for tomorrow morning, sleep late.”

  ― Henny Youngman

  Catherine

  OH. MY. GOSH. My head hurts.

  I open my eyes and try to remember where I am.

  I literally feel as if I’ve been kicked in the head by a mule. Which, I guess, by any realistic consideration, I have. Three times, actually. And that’s not counting the rum punch.

  The blackout curtains fail to contain the strip of sunlight stealing its way into the room.

  My eyes adjust to the dimness, and I suddenly realize I’m not alone. I bolt up against the pillow, fear flooding my veins so quickly that I am lightheaded with it.

  My feet are on the floor when I see that it is Anders.

  Sleeping in the chair. His head cocked to one side in what looks to be a very uncomfortable position. And he’s wearing the white hotel robe from my closet.

  I glance down to see what I’m wearing.

  The dress I wore to dinner. And, oh my gosh, where did I get all this sand?

  The sheets are gritty with it. I put a hand to the back of my hair and find it there as well.

  A fuzzy recollection of me, on the beach, pulling Anders down into the sand. Oh. Dear. Heavens.

  Heat floods my face at the memory. Embarrassment and something else too. I feel the weight of him on top of me, his mouth sinking onto mine.

  I make a dash for the bathroom, close the door and lock it.

  My phone is on the sink with enough battery life left to reveal the time as six-thirty. I consider waking Anders since he has to get to his class, but I can’t face him without a shower first. I turn on the water and step inside before it warms up, blasting myself with the cold spray and gasping even as I admit I deserve it.

  I stand still until the water turns warm and then let it sluice the sand from my body and my hair. If mortification has a theme song, it has opened a club in my head, its beat pounding out a rhythm I am sure I will march to all day long.

  I’ve dragged the shower out as long as I should. There’s no avoiding an encounter with Anders. Might as well get it over with. Walk of shame coming right up.

  I get out, towel off and slip on the white robe hanging on the door. I run a comb through my hair and drag my feet to the bedroom, calling his name to wake him up.

  But as my eyes adjust to the dimness, I see that the chair is empty. And he is gone.

  *

  I ORDER COFFEE and bring myself fully awake now, sitting on the balcony and staring
out at the ocean where the waves are tame this morning. The sun is up, tinting the sky with pink. And the birds are singing their songs of happiness, sometimes solo, sometimes in unison.

  I’ve finished my third cup before I cease the self-flagellation, grateful that Anders had let himself out.

  It would be hard to blame him for wanting to avoid an uncomfortable exit.

  I try to remember everything I said to him when we were on the beach, and there are some definite blanks. I would very much like to kick myself.

  I could hide out in the room all day. Take every precaution to make sure I don’t run into Anders Walker again. Which won’t be easy, true.

  Or check for an afternoon flight back to New York.

  I give both options a good bit of consideration before I dismiss each of them.

  I hear my phone ring through the crack in the doors between the bedroom and the balcony.

  When had I turned it back on? I have no idea.

  I could ignore it. But I don’t. I get up and grab it from the nightstand by the bed. It’s a FaceTime call, and I click on the icon, James’s face filling my screen.

  “Oh, thank God, you’re alive,” he says.

  “Sorry,” I say, trying to sound as if I really am. “I should have told you where I was going.”

  “You think?”

  “I know,” I admit on a sigh.

  “What the heck, Catherine?”

  “I wanted to turn forty alone.”

  “You knew about the surprise party?”

  “I got wind of it.”

  “I figured.”

  “How was it?”

  “A blast, actually. We set a picture of you in the center of the food table and sang happy birthday to it.”

  A laugh sputters out of me. “You did not.”

  “Did too. No point in wasting a good catering.”

  “I’m sorry. Really.”

  He shrugs. “I should have asked you if you wanted the party.”

  “If I weren’t such a control freak-”

  “You wouldn’t be CEO of ActivGirl.”