Page 67 of Tourist Trap

“To get my girl.”

“Thank God,” Benny yells as I move toward the door.

“I’ll settle my tab tomorrow,” I say with a wave.

“You get that girl, and we’re even.”

I smile at the old man, that fuck-ass pipe in his mouth, and nod.

“Got it.”

And then I go to get my girl.

TWENTY-THREE

CLAIRE

“Excuse me, we’re on a date, Miles,” Brad says, his voice tight, but I’m not looking at him at all.

My eyes are locked on the man before me, his hand outstretched, waiting for me to grab it. Miles finally breaks his gaze from mine, shifting it to the man sitting at the table with me, and looks at him as if that’s the first time he’s seen him before he shakes his head.

“Not anymore. Sorry, my girl’s just trying to prove a point, aren’t you, baby?” he asks.

I want to be annoyed. I really, really do because is heseriousright now? But then he steps forward, his outstretched hand moving to the back of my neck and burying his fingers in the hair there, gripping and shifting so I have to look at him, and his touch makes my brain short-circuit the way it always does.

“I don’t know, I’m kind of enjoying myself,” I lie, staring into his eyes with a small smile on my lips. I sense more than see Brad’s chest puff out.

“See? Get out of here before I have to call someone.”

“Claire, I fucked up,” Miles says low, only for me to hear, looking at me, and any pretense of trying to prove a point in front of Brad falls away, and I see him.

It’s not jealousy and possessiveness in his eyes.

Well, okay, yes it is, but it’s not the first thing I see. The first thing I see on his face is a gut-clenching level of regret. Beneath that is a level of pleading I don’t think I’ve ever seen from another person, much less this man who is so self-assured and so self-sufficient, it looks out of place on him.

His hand reaches down for mine, and I give it to him without a second thought, letting him pull me up to stand next to him.

“Claire, this is crazy, we—” Brad starts, but his words turn into mumbles like the Charlie Brown teacher, as Miles pulls me in tight to him, my chest pressing against his.

I want to be annoyed—hell, Ishouldbe annoyed—but when his head dips, pressing a barely-there kiss to the now-exposed skin between my shoulder and my neck, his mustache grazing along sensitive flesh, I can’t find it in me.

A shiver runs down my spine as he whispers his next words.

“You’re right: I’ve been too scared. I fucked up, and I want to fix it.” He pulls back, looking in my eyes. “Come home with me.”

“Miles, I can’t go.” His face falls, and I’m pretty sure Brad speaks to continue to argue in my defense, but I can barely hear it as I smile up at Miles. “I’m in heels. There’s no way I can walk through that sand,” I say as if that’s the only reason I can’t just leave a date.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gaze burning over my skin as it skims down my body, down my legs, landing on the four-inch sandals I slipped on.

He smiles wide.

“I can fix that” is the last thing I hear before he bends down and drapes my body over his shoulder.

Then he steps over the barrier in the sand back onto public property.

Brad stands, clearly irritated by the turn of events, but I just wiggle my fingers at him.

“Sorry, Brad! It was nice seeing you!” I shout over Miles’s shoulder as he walks back toward the house.

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