Give & Take (Redbeard Cove #2)

12. Lana

Chapter 12

Lana

“ A nd that’s when I told him he’d used the wrong surgical stitch.”

Daniel’s smirk, which I know is supposed to be sexy, drops when I can’t make the laughter happen.

I smile politely, and say, “That’s so funny,” because it’s the best I can manage. I can’t muster the enthusiasm I need to be here.

All I can do is count.

Three hours since the doorbell rang and I left the happiest, most feel-good Saturday night at home to step into this man’s car. I could still taste the single forkful of Bolognese Raphael had made me taste before I left.

“It’s the best I’ve ever had,” he’d said, then stared at my lips as I swallowed.

An hour before I can politely suggest going home.

Forty minutes more until we’re back in Redbeard Cove.

“So tell me about the new clinic,” I say to Daniel. He’s mentioned several times that he’s opened a new surgical clinic in Vancouver. That’s where he lives, thank God. That’s why I called him, in particular, even though Shelby said she knew an architect in Swan River and Annie told me about the new middle school teacher who’d moved to Redbeard Cove. I’d rummaged around in my vanity drawer and pulled out the phone number the man in front of me had slipped me last summer when I’d served him at the Rusty Dinghy.

I’d tried to throw the scrap of paper away immediately. He’d been a polite customer, good looking in a corporate kind of way. But I’d had zero interest. Chris made me keep it. “No closing doors!” she’d insisted. She’s been trying to get me to date for as long as I’ve known her.

Of course, she meant I should hang onto his number for a few weeks. Not a year, like an absolute weirdo. To be fair, I’d forgotten I had it until these weird, inappropriate feelings I have for Raphael started cropping up.

I clamp down hard on that line of thought, trying hard to focus on Daniel as he goes on about how in-demand they are amongst local celebs. He gives me Mike déjà vu.

I’d been relieved Daniel wasn’t married by now when he picked up the phone. Even more so when he told me yes, he was at his summer place, and was definitely available for a date on Saturday night.

Now I know why. If it wasn’t the slightly pitying look he gave me a few minutes ago when I answered his question about what I like to do for fun with ‘read by myself’, it’s been the endless stories that heavily feature his medical prowess .

“So you like books, huh?” Daniel asks me. I think it’s the second question he’s asked me all night. No, third, after ‘Don’t you just love new car smell?” When we’d left my place in his Land Rover.

“I do.” I don’t tell him that ever since I left law, and outside my kids, books and reading have become my whole personality. That stories of love were healing during my divorce. I don’t tell him because all I want to do is go home, like I have since the minute I saw Raph, looking up at me from the bottom of the stairs.

A headiness heats me as I think of how he looked at me. I could have become drunk on that feeling.

Unfortunately, Daniel took me to a restaurant in Swan River, where it’s a little tougher to make up some excuse and head home.

“You ever considered writing a book?” Daniel asks.

I wasn’t expecting the question. He looks genuinely interested. Maybe I’ve been giving him too hard a time. Maybe he’s only talking so much because he’s nervous.

Feeling no small amount of guilt that I’ve been thinking about another man the whole time I’ve been on this date, I let out a breath. “Actually, yes. I’m writing one now.”

“Is that right?” Daniel asks. “What’s it about?”

Oh God. Why did I tell the truth? I hate this question. Especially because if I tell the truth, nearly everyone has an opinion. And it’s not usually a good one.

Still, it’s as good a test as any. “It’s a romance,” I say, keeping my chin up, holding his gaze and daring him to say something disparaging. Or worse, to laugh. If he does, I’m calling a cab. It’ll be worth the cost of one from here to Redbeard— approximately that of a short-haul airplane flight.

“There any money in that?”

I force a smile, reminding myself it’s not the worst question he could have asked.

“I’m not trying to make a career out of it,” I say. I’m really not—but it’s too hard to explain why I’m doing it. He wouldn’t believe me anyway.

“You know, you could consider a career in medicine,” Daniel says. And just like that he’s veered the conversation back to himself, even if indirectly. “If you’re looking for something different than waitressing. You could be an assistant of some kind, maybe?”

This is good practice. I need to keep dating, to remind myself I deserve a healthy partnership.

Shit. Now I’m quoting my therapist.

“I’m perfectly content with my life,” I say. But the words feel wooden. Defensive.

I fold up my napkin. The thing was, a few weeks ago, I was perfectly content. I have a job where I take care of people, in a way. It affords me flexibility and time with my kids. A beautiful house in a beautiful town. Reading and the tiniest bit of writing as hobbies.

But now I can’t help holding this man up against the one at home, with my kids. The one who lost it over my bolognaise and looked so achingly sexy tipping his head back and sipping that beer, the bottle lost inside his broad hand.

As Daniel prattles on, I realize that the worst part about this date is that all night all I’ve been thinking about all the things he isn’t. He doesn’t make me laugh. He doesn’t look at me like he’s deeply interested in what I have to say.

No sparks frizz across my skin when he touches my hand during a story. Not even any anger swirls in my stomach as he pushes my buttons.

Because this man doesn’t push any of my buttons. He doesn’t make me feel anything at all.

I set my fork down, watching Daniel’s lips move without a care about whether I’m paying attention. And that makes me suddenly deeply irritated.

I wait for him to wrap his story up, then clear my throat. “Daniel,” I say, wanting to cut this off before we drag it out any further. “It’s been a lovely night, but I think we should?—”

“Have dessert?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so,” I say, not unkindly.

On the drive home, Daniel valiantly tries to keep up the conversation. He tells me a story about his grown daughter’s follies getting into med school. She’s going to be a doctor, too. Perfect right?

A lot more perfect than a twenty-something grad student who probably knows more about cannabis blends than cabernets. Not that he’s ever indicated that.

But he was an infant while I was entering high school, I remind myself.

And he makes my insides feel as if I’m flying down a winding road with no brakes when he so much as looks at me.

Now, as Daniel pulls up to the house, I chide myself at the feeling of having missed out on something wonderful when I see the house is dark. Of course the girls are asleep—it’s past the time I told Raphael to put them to bed. Maybe he’s asleep too, on the couch. I picture him waving as he passes me out the door, too sleepy to talk, and my disappointment deepens.

Daniel insists on walking me to my door. He’s quiet for the first time that night as we walk up the path. I wonder with sudden dread if he’s still going to try to kiss me. He hasn’t been great at reading signs.

I’m surprised Raphael didn’t leave the light on for me. It seems like something he’d think to do. But it just makes the sleeping on the couch scenario more likely.

At least he won’t be able to see us.

“Thank you for walking me up here,” I say briskly, needing this to be over.

“That was the best time I’ve had in a long time,” Daniel says, inching closer.

Were we on the same date? “Oh,” is all I can think of to say as I take a subtle step backward.

Even in the shadows I can see Daniel’s face fall.

“I had a nice time,” I lie. I don’t need to be a total bitch. I take another step toward the door, pulling my keys out so they jingle loudly in the darkness, the sound a clear sign the night is over.

But instead of Daniel taking the hint, he startles at a little shuffling noise from the darkness of the far end of the porch.

I groan inwardly. Raccoons are a problem here. I guess a raccoon tearing up my porch swing would be a fitting ending to this cursed date.

“You know,” Daniel says as I feel around for the right key in the dark. “I own my practice.”

You don’t say! I want to scream. Where the hell is this key?

“I can shift our operating hours so I’d be available to come up to the cabin every weekend.”

“That’s not necessary,” I say, my desire to be unbitchy rapidly diminishing. Especially since I realize I’m holding my work keys. “Dammit,” I curse under my breath, digging into my purse for the right set.

Then, because Daniel still hasn’t moved, I say, “You don’t need to wait for me to go inside, Daniel. I’m fine.”

Another scuffle comes from the darkness, one that has me furrowing my brow. Raccoons don’t attack, as far as I know. Though that could be a small mercy at this point.

Finally I find the other set of keys. “Daniel,” I say, now ready to unceremoniously tell him to get the hell off my porch.

He’s staring into the darkness, looking concerned. But at his name, he smiles, completely fucking oblivious. “Lana. You know what I’ve been thinking all night?” He doesn’t wait for me to say anything, which is good, because it would be ‘No, and I don’t care.’

“I’ve been thinking that”—he lowers his voice—“you’re a very attractive woman.” His eyes are half-lidded in the dark I’ve now adjusted to. “In fact, you look spectacular , for your age.”

But before I can issue a much-earned Fuck off, a voice booms from the darkness.

“Okay that’s it. ”

Both Daniel and I jump. I’m so startled I make a kind of goose-like squawk, stumbling back against my front door.

My heart thuds as a tall, shadowy figure appears between us, even though I know exactly who it is. My heart rushes with heat knowing who it is. It’s Raphael. And he looks livid.

“For her age?” Raphael asks, his voice a hard line of barely restrained anger.

Daniel rears back, looking ready to bolt.

For a moment, I’m so stunned, I can’t speak. Then my shock flips to irritation. Or maybe the irritation’s bleeding over from Daniel to Raphael. “Were you…waiting up for me?” I ask Raphael. I squash down the bubble of pleasure that tries to rise up knowing he was.

“Yes,” Raphael says. “And I’m glad I did. Who the fuck says that?”

That last part’s directed to Daniel. I can tell because Raphael’s up in his space.

I grit my teeth. I’ve got the right key in my hand now, but drop it back into my bag, because of course the unlocked door opens easily. I reach inside to flick the porch light on.

That’s why it was off. Raphael had planned this ambush.

Angry heat flares inside of me that he felt the need to interfere like this. It grows hotter because I know that like everything when it comes to Raphael, a part of me thrills over his anger at Daniel.

In the light, Daniel looks completely bewildered. And slightly terrified. “Lana? Who is this?”

“You said she looks good for her age,” Raphael says, before I can answer. “I’m curious. How old are you?”

I place my palms on my forehead, gathering strength. “Raphael, please.”

“No, seriously. He’s what, fifty? Sixty? I honestly can’t tell.” He leans down into Daniel’s face. “You look like shit for your age. ”

My hands come down over my mouth. “Raphael!” I exclaim through my fingers.

Daniel’s expression turns stormy. “Listen, pal, I?—”

“No, you listen,” Raphael says. “Pal.” He takes a step forward so they’re toe to toe. Daniel’s thicker than Raphael. But Raphael is so tall he towers over him.

Daniel backs up. He better be careful or he’s going to go down the stairs. Theoretically, I know that would be a bad thing.

Raphael steps forward. “Lana looks good period ,” Raphael says. “She looks good now, just like she looked good ten years ago. Like she will decades from now. She looks good because she’s a decent human being who values other humans for more than how they present themselves to you.”

“I—I know that.”

“Do you? Because in one sentence, you showed yourself to be a shallow man with no appreciation of real beauty. It’s sick, frankly.”

I’m half horrified, half delighted. I watch this exchange like a train wreck happening before my eyes.

Daniel, for his part, sputters, bringing me back to my senses .

“Okay,” I say, giving my head a shake. I step between them, my back to Daniel.

I press my hands to Raphael’s chest. “Enough.”

But Raphael only looks down, to where my fingers are splayed on his chest. I follow, as for a brief, terrible moment, I’m distracted by the heat under his worn t-shirt. By the way, when I look back up at him, I see he’s tipped his chin to look down at me, his eyes stormy. He’s really truly affronted. On my behalf.

His look asks questions as clearly as his mouth would. Are you okay? Should I toss him down the stairs? Or keep tying him up in word salad and making him look like more of an idiot? Because that would be easy, too.

I drop my eyes, because looking at those eyes is making my insides jittery and hot. But I didn’t look far enough, because in the faint light from the streetlamp, I see his skin pulsing at his throat. And out of nowhere, I have the strangest, clearest urge.

I want to know what that part of him feels like under my touch.

Maybe under my lips.

I want to inhale his scent up close and?—

Horrified, I give his chest a shove. “Go home,” I say, my words tight.

Raphael’s jaw is tight. “I’ll go when I know he’s gone.”

“No.” The word is hard. Final. “Now.”

Raphael crosses his arms over his chest, the punctuation to his sentence. His eyes burn as he stares at Daniel. He does a fake step forward and Daniel flinches.

“Oh my God,” I breathe.

But when Raph looks back at me, the anger that’s been fueling me releases, hissing out like a pressure valve. Raphael’s hearing me loud and clear. He wants to do what I’m asking, but he’s fighting some kind of inner battle. Over Daniel. He looks at the older man again.

But I reach up and gently take hold of Raphael’s chin, turning his face back down toward me. His stubble is sandpaper under my fingers. And goddammit, if even that touch doesn’t make my insides feel like butter sliding off a warm knife.

I swallow. Then I meet his eyes.

“ Go. ” I say, my voice softer now.

Raphael’s throat bobs. But his eyes on me linger, and I’m certain now that I’m right about the silent conversation passing between us.

I won’t.

You will.

I won’t.

Yes, you will. For me.

Finally he lets out a puff of air. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and storms down the steps, rounding the path toward the garage, out of sight.

It feels like a whole minute passes before Daniel speaks, reminding me he’s still here.

“Who the hell is that, Lana?”

“The babysitter.”

“Really? You hired the local punk to look after your kids?”

Now my ire isn’t reserved solely for Raphael. I pin it on Daniel. “He’s not a punk. And yes, I did. ”

Daniel’s shoulders slump at my icy tone. “Sorry. I was just…I’m not used to being accosted.”

“I wouldn’t call that, accosted, would you?”

I’m done with him now. He’s just not used to being stood up to. But I don’t bother telling him that. Instead I say, “You need to leave now.”

“Can I call you?”

My jaw actually drops.

To his minor credit, Daniel holds his hands up. “Okay. Gotcha.” Finally, he turns and sulks back to his Land Rover.

I stand there at the top of the stairs, waiting until the lights of his car have disappeared around the corner. Then I sag against the door, inhaling the cool night air, waiting for my pulse to drop back to normal.

Finally, I open the door again.

But as I flick off the light, I swear, in the disappearance of brightness, a shadow moves at the edge of the house, next to the path Raphael walked a moment before.