Page 44 of No Kind of Hero
“You got your hair cut,” he managed to say.
She raised a hand and shoved it out of her face. “That the right response?” she asked. “Or . . .”
He laughed. “Nah. You’re beautiful. You just don’t look . . . it was always in a braid. Or up in that . . .”
“Yeah,” she said, a distinct dryness in her tone. “The French twist. A classic. Or just call it old school. This,” she said, shaking her head again as if she wanted to feel the blond mass that fell to her shoulders in all its golden, honey, and caramel glory, “is a blunt cut. And it’s in style. So you know.”
“Well, it’s not just that.” His smile started slow, and then it spread. “It’s all of you.”
She shut the door, came out onto the porch with a smile that was nothing but radiant, like she’d just found out she was a pretty girl. And then she twirled in the gauzy yellow sleeveless dress and he got a wonderful flash of thigh, because she hadn’t buttoned that thing all the way down.
Her toenails were painted copper today, and her fingernails were, too. And her copper-toned high-heeled sandals tied with fabric bows around the ankles he loved.
“Aw, baby,” he said helplessly, like no sort of casual redneck good time. “You’re so pretty.”
She laughed, and it sounded reckless to him. “Well, I had a date with this really hot guy, you see. So first I was averygood girl. I took Henry for a run, and I cleaned Dakota’s house like I promised. But after that, I went a little . . .” That secret smile. “Wild.”
“Guess I’d better take you someplace nice, then,” he said over the thundering in his head. “Show you off.” He swept an arm toward the van, dumb as it was. Classy he was not. But she took his arm and headed down the stairs on those heels, clutching her lacy sweater like she was Cinderella going to the ball, as if getting into a painter’s van looking like a million bucks was her big treat.
“You look pretty delicious yourself,” she told him with another little smile. She had a fine gold chain around her neck that gleamed against all that soft skin above the V of her dress. She looked delicate, and sweet, and so damn sexy. “Maybe I want to showyouoff. But you know I don’t care where we go. It was just so much fun to shop and get ready.”
There it was—the switch from play-vixen back to Beth. The trouble was, he liked them both. He said, “You say that like you don’t do it,” and opened the door for her, and she climbed inside with another of those flashes of thigh that gave him heart palpitations.
When he’d climbed in himself, she said, “Well, I don’t do it that much. Not much at all. I work a lot.”
He shot a look across at her, then pulled out into the street and headed toward the lake. “How much, exactly?”
“Let’s say that eighty hours a week is not unknown. And sixty is a not-really-acceptable slowdown.”
“You’re kidding. Why don’t they just hire more people?”
“What, and let all that potential sweatshop labor go to waste? That’s the life of an associate at a big firm. That’s how you sort the men from the boys. So to speak. How you grow a partner.”
He swung into the parking lot at the marina and pulled into a spot near the water. “If I worked my guys like that, even with overtime . . . well, I wouldn’t. They’d start having problems. Marriage problems. Injuries. Fights. Wouldn’t work out.”
“Hence,” she said, “the breakdown.”
It was breezy, but it wasn’t. “Come on,” he said. “No, wait.” He jumped down, ran around, and opened her door. “Least I can do,” he told her, giving her his hand and watching the wonderful art that was a beautiful woman getting out of a high vehicle. Pointed toe, delicate wedge heel, those copper ribbons around her ankles. Slim calves, flutter of fabric, the scent of roses mingling with her vanilla tonight, and her hand in his.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I thought . . .” He cleared his throat. There they were, right next to the Yacht Club, and what was he thinking? “That I’d take you to dinner in the boat. Head across the lake, eat outside. It’s going to be a pretty night. Hot today means warm tonight. We could see some stars.”
“Oh.” Her smile bloomed. “Yes. Please. I always loved the boat.”
He scratched his jaw, felt like a fool, and felt like a hero. “I do a little better now than I used to. Come on.”
He held her hand across the lot and down the dock, because those heels might not be the most suited to the wooden boards.I thought you weren’t going to take her on the boat, dude,one part of his mind tried to say.Dangerous waters.That part got shut down fast.
“Oh,” she said when they got to his slip. “I thought . . .”
He stopped walking. “What? That I’d have a yacht?”
“No! No. Of course not. I just remembered . . .” She shook her head and laughed, and yeah, she looked good with all that new bouncy hair falling free. But she was still Beth. “I was remembering you taking me out in the rowboat. I loved that.”
“Ha. Only you would say that.” He had to smile. “Nobody else would think that old rowboat was romantic. Man, I barely had two nickels to rub together back then, did I? That old truck, an even older motorcycle that took everything I had to keep it going, and a rowboat. I was some prize. But come on.” He climbed aboard and handed her carefully down, got her settled in the passenger seat of the little white bowrider. Which might just be his pride and joy.
“It’s so pretty,” she said, picking up on that, maybe. “This isnice.I didn’t know you had this. The boat’s more important than the truck, huh? You must be a lake guy. Do you still have the motorcycle?”
