Lisa Desrochers - A Little Too Hot

“I’m waiting for my invite, Montgomery,” Jenkins jabs.

Blake drapes the garment bag over the back of the chair on his way to the kitchen. “I’ve seen you eat, Jenkins. There’s enough in this bag for the two of us, or the one of you.”

Jenkins flicks off the TV and hauls his ginormous frame off the sofa. “This place is boring me to death anyway. I’ll go find a pizza.”

“Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” Blake says as he unpacks the bag.

“It’s an elevator,” Jenkins growls, punching the button.

“Later,” Blake says, flicking him a wave without looking up.

“So . . . ?” I ask, leaning on the counter opposite him once Jenkins is gone.

His eyes flick to me. “So . . . what?”

“You’re in a good mood.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “I’m always in a good mood.”

“You are never in a good mood. What’s up? Am I finally getting out of here?”

The playfulness leaves his expression as he turns to unload stuff from his bag into the fridge, and I brace myself for bad news. “Look, Sam. I know how hard this has been for you, so . . .” He turns back and looks at me. “. . . yes.”

I just stare at him for a second, confused. “Yes?”

A slow smile creeps across his face and his eyes spark. “Yes.”

My eyes widen and my heart starts to race. “It’s over?”

He gives his head a slow nod. “For all practical purposes. Arroyo has pled out. His accountant gave us everything we needed. He knew he was going down on something, so he pled to the racketeering charges in exchange for dropping the murder charge.”

“So, what happens now? I mean, if Ben has pled out, what does that mean for me?” My heart thrums in my chest. I want this to be over. I want to go home. And as much as I want those things, I also want to kiss Blake again. If it was over, could I do that?

“The judge accepted the plea bargain. The murder charge is off the table.”

“Which means . . . ?”

“On my advice, the powers that be have agreed to keep you under protective custody for another week, just to be sure Arroyo’s satisfied you’re no longer a threat, but then you’re free to go.”

My heart simultaneously soars and sinks. I’m free. And so is Blake. Will he go back to L.A.?

He steps around the counter, gazing down at me. “So, you said when this was over you wanted to swim in the ocean. Are you ready to face your fears?”

I gape at him. “Oh my God! Seriously?”

“Seriously. It’s all arranged.”

I slide onto a stool, because if I don’t, I’m not going to be able to stop myself from breaking into some manic happy dance. “Diving?”

He nods, giving me a sexy half smile. “Snorkeling.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning,” he says, taking another step closer and resting his hands on the arms of my stool.

I’m simultaneously terrified and excited, and I buzz with the burst of adrenaline. “I guess if a shark eats me, we don’t have to worry about Ben anymore.”

“My job is to protect you from all the things. That includes sharks.” When my eyes find Blake’s face again, his expression is amused. But it’s not amusement that dances in his eyes. It’s something hungrier. More possessive.

I draw a shuddering breath as he leans toward me. Can we?

His cheek brushes mine as he presses closer, his mouth at my ear.

I wait, my heart pounding.

“It’s almost over.” His voice is low and raw, and his breath in my hair pebbles my skin into goose bumps.

He pulls back, his eyes on fire, and I think the answer is yes. We can. But then shrugs off the arms of my stool and moves back to the kitchen.

And it’s a long time before I can breathe.

BLAKE WAKES ME  at eight by waving a travel mug of steaming coffee under my nose. Half an hour later we’re pulling out of the garage.

I wake up slowly as we drive, taking in the scenery. For some reason, today this all feels new to me, even though I grew up only miles from here and traveled these highways hundreds of times. It’s a weekday, but we’re going against rush hour traffic as we make our way over the San Rafael Bridge into the North Bay.

I sip the last of my coffee, wondering if this was really a good idea. “You’ve spent all this time protecting me from Ben, and now you’re seriously just going to throw me to the sharks?”

He flicks me a glance and a smile tugs his lips. “I will admit, you are a tasty morsel, but they know they’ll have to come through me first, and I’m tough and gristly, so I’m pretty sure they’ll leave you alone.”

My eyes slide down his body, and I seriously doubt there’s anything tough and gristly about him. He’s definitely a prime cut. Filet mignon. “Still . . . it would be pretty ironic to get eaten by a shark just when this is all over.”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“I watched Shark Week. There’s a reason they’re, like, one of the oldest living things on Earth.”

He bites his lips and stifles his laughter, and I’m instantly sorry. I like the sound of it. “The fact that you know that means you’ve done your research. You’re ready to face this phobia head on.”

“Pho-bi-a,” I say in syllables. “Have you looked that word up? It means irrational fear. It’s not like you can just turn it off, you know? Logic doesn’t work with something that’s irrational.”

“I won’t make you do this, Sam, but if you do, I promise, I won’t let anything bad happen to you, shark related or otherwise.” He looks at me as he slows for our exit ramp, and his eyes are suddenly sincere, all the humor gone. “I will never let anything hurt you. Ever.”

I pull a deep, shuddering breath as he turns back to the road. It’s a little while later that we emerge from the lush woods of the Russian River Valley onto Route 1. We wind up the Costal Highway and watch the waves beat themselves against sheer stone cliffs and craggy outcroppings. Seagulls soar overhead, and golden grass waves on the hillsides to the east. It’s breathtaking.

When we pull up to a surf shop in a tiny town an hour up the rocky coast, it’s quiet. The door hinges groan as we step through, and a combination of sea salt, mildew, and chlorine mingles in the air. There are surfboards on racks along one wall, and tanks and neoprene on shelves along the other. Sand grits between my flip-flops and the wooden floor as Blake and I make our way across the room.

The long-haired guy behind the counter looks up from the phone in his hand. “What can I do you for?”

Blake drums his fingers on the scratched glass over a display case of scuba regulators and pressure gauges. “We need snorkeling gear: neoprene and fins.”

“What size boots?” he asks.

Blake glances down at my feet. “One small and one large.”

The guy nods and darts around the back, pulling suits, gloves, boots, fins, and masks and setting them on the counter. “One day rental?”

Blake nods.

“Where you diving?”

“How are the abalone off the point?”

“Guy came back yesterday with three ten-inchers,” he says, twisting new mouthpieces onto a pair of snorkels and laying them on top of everything else.

“Then we’re diving off the point,” Blake says.

“Need a guide?”

“No, thanks,” Blake answers, pulling a credit card from his wallet and tossing it onto the counter. “Just the gear.”

“Um . . . have there been any shark sightings off the point?” I ask as the guy scans Blake’s card.

He shakes his head. “We don’t really get them up here. If you want to see the great whites, you’re better to head down to Monterey. There are a couple of guys I know down there who will take you out and chum to attract them. I can give you their card.”

“No thanks,” I say with a shudder.

Blake and the guy complete the transaction and we scoop up our stuff and head to the Escalade. We drive another twenty minutes up the coast, past lighthouses, scrubby pines, and cragged cliffs that drop off into the ocean, and pull into an empty parking lot.

He pulls off his hoodie and takes the gun from his chest holster, locking it in the glove box. I notice under the sleeve of his T-shirt some kind of clear bandage on his arm, but his sleeve is long enough that I can’t see the damage. He unstraps the holster and tugs it off, then just sits behind the wheel for a few minutes, staring out at the vast ocean.

“Your dad used to bring you here?” I ask, remembering our conversation about abalone.

He looks at me, and there’s something deep in his gaze that’s either guilt or regret. “A long time ago.”

Before I can ask anything else, Blake’s out of the car. He moves around back and lifts the tailgate. “Have you ever worn a dive suit before?” he asks.

I slide out and meet him around back. “No. Why do we need one if we’re not scuba diving?” I ask, plucking a snorkel out of the back.

“The water out there’s always cold, so you won’t last long without it. You’ll probably want to keep a T-shirt over your swimsuit.”

I shuck off my shoes and shorts as he sorts his from mine.

He holds my suit open. “Just step in.”

I do, and once my legs are in, he tugs it up around me. I stick my arms through the sleeves, and his fingers trail up my abs as he zips me in.

“Comfortable?”

“It’s fine.” I tug at the hood. “You know I have no idea what I’m doing, right?”

“We’ll spend some time close to shore until you get the feel of it.” He pulls his neoprene on over his T-shirt and swim trunks, then hands me two towels and grabs the backpack and loops it over his shoulders. The hike to the shore is longer and trickier than I expected. It takes us almost half an hour to negotiate the path down the cliff to the water, and I slip a few times picking my way over moss-covered rocks as we get below the high tide line. The path eventually drops us onto a small patch of sand. Jutting out from it is a rocky outcrop.