“Did I hear you say that you’re looking for a husband?” he asks, rubbing a finger along his bottom lip.
“You heard no such thing.”
“Are you sure? Because I’m pretty damn certain I heard you say that you want to find a husband.”
I grin. “You heard me say that I’d rather find a husband than go through with Kerissa’s silliness.”
His smile incinerates my insides. “If you change your mind, I’m up for the job.”
I shove his arm and immediately regret the decision.
The contact is akin to touching a piece of metal after shuffling across the carpet in clean socks. Despite the jolt of energy, my hand remains on his solid bicep for a moment longer than necessary.
Jess laughs, the sound taking up the space between us as I withdraw my touch.
I’ve known Jess and his brothers most of my life, thanks to my brother, Greg. Dad didn’t give his only son much of a choice. He was going to carry on the family legacy and become a wrestler. It turns out that wrestling is a very, very small world, and the Carmichaels were a permanent fixture in that landscape.
I spent countless weekends traveling to tournaments as a young girl, watching Greg do his thing. As we grew older, my brother and Jess became best friends. And when we all graduated from high school, Greg went to college on a course for med school, and I followed the year after. Jess stayed behind.
Since then, I’ve loosely kept up with the Carmichaels through social media and saying hello on occasions when we bump into one another somewhere. But because I made it a point not to come back to this area, mostly to avoid my parents until I moved back last week, I haven’t had an opportunity to really talk to any of them in a long time.
“When did you get here?” I ask, imploring my cheeks to cool.
“We’ve been here—what? Ten minutes?” He looks across the table. “Is that about right, Banks?”
A shorter, darker-headed version of Jess shrugs. “Probably. Hey, Pippa.”
“Hi, Banks.”
“Kerissa,” he says, nodding warily.
“Banks.” She lifts a brow and turns her back to him.
Jess and I laugh at the two of them still holding a grudge that’s years in the making—even though I’m almost positive that if Kerissa would give up her end of the beef, so would Banks. He’s stubborn, but fighting probably takes away from the attention value he could get from actually being able to talk to her.
If I remember one thing about Banks Carmichael, it’s that he loves attention.
“What have you been up to?” I ask, ignoring the strong pulse of my heart. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Not much. Working a lot.”
“Do you still work for your dad?”
He nods. “I’m running a crew now, and my brother Moss is running the other. The old man is keeping us pretty busy.”
“What about you, Banks?” I ask. “What have you been up to?”
“Looking for a new best friend. Are you in the hunt for one?”
Kerissa’s head whips around to his. “No. She absolutely is not.”
“I didn’t ask you,” he says, narrowing his eyes at her.
She narrows hers right back.
Banks does the only thing to make things worse—he grins. This only causes the flames shooting out of Kerissa’s head to grow hotter.
“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” Kerissa says, giving Banks a final glare. “I’ll be back, Pip.”
She storms off toward the back of the building.
“That’s funny,” Jess says, tipping his beer toward his brother. “Banks was just about to go to the truck to get his wallet.”
Banks flinches. “I was?”
“You were.” Jess lifts a brow. “So go get it.”
“Fine,” Banks says, sighing dramatically as he gets up from the table. “I’ll go get my wallet even though it’s not like I’m going to pay anyway.”
I can’t help but laugh as he heads toward the front of Shade House, leaving the two of us behind.
The air shifts, engulfing me in the scent of man—sweat and dirt and just enough exotic spices to elicit a chemical response from every woman within twenty yards. Despite the overt stare from the gorgeous woman at a table next to us, Jess focuses on me.
It’s a heady feeling to be the center of this man’s curiosity. He could give it to any woman in this restaurant, and they would soak it up. He’s the kind of guy who walks into a packed room, and within a few minutes, everyone seemingly knows he’s there.
And they want to talk to him. Why? Not just because he’s handsome but because he’s present. He looks you in the eye and responds with comments as if he’s actually listening.
People don’t do that anymore.
“Can I sit with you?” he asks.
“Yeah. Sure.”
He stands, towering over me with his six-foot-plus frame. His jeans are stained and ripped; his black shirt is torn at the hem, clinging to his muscled frame. It takes everything in me not to drool.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he says, sitting across from me. “How have you been?”
“I’m good. Working, unpacking—boring life stuff.”
“Unpacking?”
I grin. “Yeah. I just moved to Kismet Beach.”
His eyes widen. “Is that so?”
“That is so.”
His smile pulls mine along with it.
“Did you move alone?” he asks, prying.
I laugh. “Are you asking me if I’m single, Carmichael?”
“Yes, Plum. I’m asking if you’re single.”
My lips press together as I give him a look. His response? He chuckles.
Jess has asked me out at least once a year for the past fifteen years. I only saw him once last year—at a mutual friend’s birthday party—and he managed to slip in a dating proposal in the four hours we were together.
Sometimes it surprises me that we’ve never been an item. We get along famously. He is the definition of a catch. Our chemistry isn’t lacking in any way, shape, or form. But when we were younger, I knew my parents would murder me if I brought home anyone who wasn’t on track to have fancy letters after their name.
Now that we’re older—now that my parents have basically excommunicated me, and I control my own life—hooking up with Jess hasn’t been a viable option.
Not that I would take the option if it were possible.
He licks his lips, and I shiver.
Doesn’t hurt to imagine, though.
“You know me,” I say, leaning back against my chair. “I’m never attached to anyone.”
As if he can’t take the added distance between us, he leans forward. His hands fold on the tabletop next to the carousel of condiments.
“What’s wrong with you? Why are you always single, anyway?” he asks, his head tilted to the side.
“Because boys are trouble.”
“Good thing I’m not a boy, then. I assure you—I’m a man.”
Slowly, like he knows I need time to process those three words, he settles back in his seat. The fabric of his shirt shifts, lying flat against his stomach. A slip of skin at his hip where his shirt bunched glistens.