Chapter Two #2
Spencer drew her close to his body and began a slow country waltz toward the edge of the water. She had never danced on a beach and found it to be exhilarating.
“The song is talking about you,” Spencer said.
Monica dropped his hand and looped both her arms around his neck. Chest to chest, she could hear his heart beating as fast as hers, and just knowing that she affected him as much as he did her charged her adrenaline. “How’s that?”
“You really are as sweet as strawberry wine.”
“We’ve known each other less than twelve hours. I might be a pure fake.”
“I don’t think so,” he whispered as he took one of her hands and twirled her around in the ankle-deep water.
“What if I’m bossy and a real bitch?” she asked.
He pulled her back to his chest and looped her arms back around his neck. “You would have trouble convincing me of that.”
“Why?” She wasn’t used to such romantic gestures, and she wanted to believe that he wasn’t just shooting her a line.
“You sound like a broken record with all those whys,” he teased. “To answer your question, I’m a pretty good judge of character. You are kind and probably have a job dealing with people.”
“Are you an FBI profiler or something?” she asked, but her bull-crap meter didn’t raise a single digit.
“No, but I do have to be able to talk to a lot of people.”
She took a step back when the song ended and threw the back of her hand over her forehead, in true Scarlett O’Hara style. “Please tell me you are not a telemarketer.”
“Nope, I am not. I will tell you what I do if you tell me that much about you,” Spencer answered.
“As long as you aren’t someone who has tried to sell me insurance, or warranties on my car, or worse yet, offer me a good Medicare plan, I’m good,” she said.
“I promise to never do that,” he replied as he laced his fingers in hers and began walking down the beach. She had thought the evening was perfect before, but now she knew it was. If this was all she got, and tomorrow he disappeared, she would be grateful for the memories.
“Another question,” he said. “What’s your favorite wine?”
“I’m not a connoisseur of wine, but I do like a glass of cheap strawberry occasionally. I don’t like whiskey, and I really don’t like beer.”
Spencer walked along slowly beside her, the waves gently slapping against their legs. “That’s good to know. I won’t bring beer to the picnic on the beach tomorrow night.”
She stopped and turned toward him. Did she really hear him right? Would she get to spend more time with him the next day? “What picnic?”
“Miz Monica, will you join me for dinner tomorrow evening? And before that, will you go to Pier Point with me?” he asked. “There’s a Ferris wheel there, and it’s been years since I’ve been on one.”
“You’ve done your homework about what all is available around these parts,” she said.
“Is that a yes?” Spencer asked.
She smiled at him and took a big chance on hearing him say that he made other plans for the third day they were in the same hotel. “That is a yes. And on the next day, maybe we will go to Shell Island.”
“You read my mind. Have you ever been kayaking?”
“No, but I’m open to new things,” she answered.
He planned more than a fall into the bed, slam-bam, thank you, ma’am night. In her mind, she had just won the lottery.
“Know what I’m glad for tonight?” Spencer said.
“No, what?”
“That there was a wind blowing earlier today, and you let me help you get your blanket on the sand,” he replied.
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Me, too. I would have eaten cold-cut sandwiches and canned soup all week, stayed in my room or out on the beach with a book if I hadn’t met you.”
“Yep,” Spencer agreed. “But now I’ve got someone to share new adventures with, and that’s what makes a vacation fun. I read that there’s a little doughnut shop down the road from us. How does that sound for breakfast?”
“Amazing,” she said, and glanced over her shoulder. “Do you see that building back there that looks like a tiny little hotel from a Monopoly game?”
“Is that the Sugar Sands? How far have we walked?”
“I’d guess a mile. Maybe we should make a U-turn and start back.”
Spencer stopped and led her up to an empty chaise lounge.
“Let’s catch our breath first.” He sat down and pulled her down onto his lap.
Heat that had nothing to do with the warm evening jacked up in Monica.
Her heart threw in an extra beat, and her pulse raced.
She wanted to sit right there until it was time to check out of the hotel.
“Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?”
“No, but my rental car might,” she teased with a note of breathlessness in her tone, “and my fairy godmother will wave her wand and replace my sundress with a ratty T-shirt and pair of worn jean shorts.”
“You would be beautiful in a burlap bag tied up at the waist with bailing twine,” he said.
“Thank you for that. I take it that you know a little about ranching or farming.”
“A little.” He cupped her face in his hands and looked deeply into her face. “You could be a model.”
She thought of her sister and how having a model as a sister was hard on Monica, leaving her feeling like the ugly duckling.
She started to make a joke about how the modeling agencies would want her to lose twenty pounds and grow at least ten inches, but before she could say a word, his lips were on hers.
Her heart skipped a beat and then raced full speed ahead.
Suddenly, it felt like she and Spencer were in a bubble with no other sound but the gentle evening ocean waves rolling in and out.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned closer to him.
He tasted like a mixture of sweet tea and shrimp, and she loved it.
When the make-out session ended, they were both panting.
“Was that …” He inhaled deeply. “As good for you as it was for me?”
“On a scale of one to ten, it was a nine for sure,” she whispered, and kissed him on the cheek.
“What do I have to do to make it a ten?” he teased.
“Keep practicing,” she answered.