Page 8 of Mixed Motives

I shiver because his voice is wonderfully low and deep—not startlingly so, like those little guys with baritone voices that don’t match their bodies. More like … he’s a man. Yum.

He gives me a searching look. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re soaked and shivering.”

“Yeah.” I chuckle. “To be fair to both of us, we don’t usually need any kind of rain gear around here.” I glance down. “I shouldn’t have worn white because now I look like I’d win a wet T-shirt contest in Daytona Beach—if the contestants were male and wore dress shirts to a wet T-shirt contest, which now that I think about it is highly unlikely and would probably require that the contest be renamed. Also, it’s February, so a little early for spring break. Tell that to my exposed nips, though.”

Note to self: Don’t mention wet T-shirt contests or nipples to your ex’s hot dad. And stop rambling.

Keane studies me, lingering on said nips for a beat too long, but I like his eyes on me. “I wish I had a coat to give you.”

“That’s okay. It’ll ease up, I’m sure.” I force a smile. “I’m a big fan of rain viewed from inside somewhere warm and dry when I have a blanket and a cup of tea and a sketch pad.”

“It’s definitely better that way,” he agrees. “Rain can have a certain … charm.”

“Do you know the word ‘petrichor’?” I ask before I can stop my motor mouth. I stare out at the dumping rain so I don’t have to see Keane’s sure-to-be-exasperated expression.

“The scent of rain on dry earth.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “I like crossword puzzles, and that word comes up sometimes.”

I’m amazed for two reasons. First, that he knows the word, although I suppose it’s not that special. But second, because he’s not laughing at me the way everyone else seems to. “It’s the most romantic word I know.”

“Well, I can’t do much about romance, but I wish I could buy you a cup of tea across the street so you could at least have part of your fantasy,” he says. “Except I’m late. I’m meeting someone in Southwinds.”

“Me, too. Late and… meeting someone.”

“Huh.”

I furrow my brows. “You’re not …”

“You don’t think …” Keane gestures between us. “You’re not my date, are you? From the Heart2Heart app?”

My cheeks burn as I nod. “I think maybe I am. Are you user2423? I’m supposed to meet him at twelve thirty.”

“Yes.” He pauses for just a moment too long, as if he’s doing the same analysis I am.

First, and most importantly, the algorithm deities decided Keane Fitzpatrick should be my fucking Valentine’s Day date. Are you kidding me, universe? Is this a joke? Did it track my GPS and know that I asked him to fuck me?

Worse—now that I’ve had a little time to reflect, in what circumstances do Keane and I make sense? He has his life together. I … don’t. I’m too young. We’re a bad idea. He was absolutely right to turn me down.

And in any case, if he got to know me better, he’d think I’m too anxious for him. Too much of a hot mess. Keane Fitzpatrick is the stuff crushes are made of: a prosperous winery owner with elegant manners and lifestyle.

Let’s not ignore the fact that he’s my ex-boyfriend’s dad. Sure, I had the evil idea that it would be fun to use Keane to get back at Kerrigan, but after driving home and burying myself in my art, I realized that was a very bad thought for a nice boy like me to be having. In addition to it not being respectful to Keane, what would really happen if Kerrigan found out I’d slept with his dad?

He’d flip. (That’s putting it mildly.) And I’m not in the mental space to deal with that. I have more important things to focus on. Like running the bed-and-breakfast my wacky aunt left me.

At last, Keane seems to make a decision and holds out his hand. “C’mon. Let’s get both of us something warm to drink. We can take it to go, and you can come back to my house and we can talk some more. I’ll give you something dry to wear.”

The fact that he’s not rejecting me off the bat sends butterflies fluttering around my stomach. Because the truth is, I do want to spend time with him, even if it can’t mean anything more.

So I smile and nod gratefully. “Sure.”

I slip my hand into his, and we dash across the street.

I’m in so much trouble.

CHAPTER 4

KEANE

Henry Carter is the cutest damned thing, and he’s so off-limits, it’s not even funny.

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