All I Want Is You Read online

  This . . . was a condition. One she already knew she couldn’t fight. And even as Anna was advising her to be brave with Jack, she grew more fearful—­because she had no idea where this would lead, but it also felt doomed.

  Because once you let a man think you were only about money—­could he ever really believe you were about anything else?

  “And now, which of these finger-­posts

  ought I to follow, I wonder?”

  Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass

  Chapter 12

  JACK LEANED back in a folding chair, the fishing rod he’d rented balanced on the pier’s railing and held loosely in his hand. It was a damn beautiful day for fishing, something he’d done a lot of with his dad growing up, but not much in recent years. And it was a nice-­if-­mixed-­bag group of men he found himself out here with. Next to him, Charlie had already caught three healthy-­size snook in just the first ­couple of hours. And Duke had pulled in one so far—­but John Romo and Jack were striking out. Even so, it was a peaceful way to pass the time, and Charlie seemed to be enjoying himself, which made Jack feel good. He liked the old guy and found him easy to be with.

  Until, that is, Charlie looked over at him and said, out of the blue, “My Christy . . . she’s a good girl.”

  Oh boy. What was this about?

  Jack met the old man’s eyes, but then felt forced to draw his gaze down—­in case he was about to be accused of something. “I, um, know.”

  “What I mean,” Charlie said—­though now he looked absently out over the water, “is that she’s got a good heart.”

  “I . . . I—­she and I are just friends, Charlie, and I would never do anything to hurt her.”

  “That I buy,” he said. “At least the part about not hurtin’ her. I like you, Jack. And that’s why I’m tellin’ you that . . . if, out of concern for takin’ care of me, she led you have any negative beliefs about who she is, they’re wrong.”

  Jack still wasn’t sure he understood what they were talking about. But did it have something to do with Chisty’s rich man hunt? And was Charlie trying to shove them together? As if Jack weren’t already having a hard enough time keeping his hands off her, now her grandfather was giving him the green light?

  “I . . . think the world of your granddaughter,” Jack answered. “I wouldn’t be on this trip with her otherwise.” And he decided to just leave it at that.

  “Well,” the older man said in response, “that’s good then.”

  Jack simply nodded and felt happier when they were quiet again, and happier still when a hard tug came on his fishing line and he could turn his attention to reeling in the bite he’d gotten. A few minutes later, after a slight battle and some encouragement from his companions, he pulled a small black sea bass up onto the pier and was thankful they now had something else to focus on besides Christy.

  Not that his mind wasn’t still on her. It was almost always on her these days.

  But he didn’t feel any closer to answers, and so he just tried not to think about it, as much as possible anyway. Which was easier when he had something simple to concentrate on—­like this fish.

  As for what he’d do later, when he was with her again . . . well, he supposed it would be like every night lately—­he’d suffer and wish he was touching her, moving with her. And then he’d roll over and fall into an unsettled sleep fettered with frustration and hope all these complicated feelings just somehow went away.

  He knew it wouldn’t really be that easy, but maybe at this point he’d begun to think: If I can just keep myself from taking her to bed until the trip is over, this will fade away. She’ll start dating rich dudes again and remind me why it was good I held back. And I’ll find a way to get comfortable being only her friend again. And maybe she’ll even marry one of the rich dudes—­and then I’ll know for sure it was best not to let myself go any further with her, and she’ll be gone from my life.

  But the funny thing was—­that whole line of thinking was supposed to make him feel better, and in fact, it made him even more miserable than he already was.

  “If that bass is ruining your day or something,” Duke Dawson said from his place farther down the pier, “I’ll take it off your hands.”

  Jack flinched. Shit. Clearly he was standing there looking miserable, too.

  “Nope, I’m happy as can be,” he claimed, trying to appear more normal.

  But he caught Charlie’s eye on him just then, and their gazes met for a second before Jack could pull his away, and he knew the old man wasn’t falling for any of it.

  AFTER Christy and Anna parted ways that afternoon, Christy showered and dressed in a pretty, flowy gauze skirt and a crocheted tank Bethany had given her for her birthday. Then she wrapped up the remaining pieces of jewelry she hadn’t sold at the pier and put them in her straw bag. After which she looked in the mirror and said out loud, “You are an artist. You can do this.” And she realized, again, that she really felt that way. From the sales she’d made. From her Grandpa’s belief in her. From Jack’s belief in her. She didn’t quite understand it completely, but she saw herself differently than she had before arriving in Coral Cove.

  Of course, she also grappled with what she’d figured out at the beach a few hours ago about Jack. She’d known she was pretty wild about him, but falling in love . . . that was a whole other situation. And it meant a huge, monumental change in everything about their relationship—­whether he knew it or not.

  Peeking back up into the mirror, she realized that now she looked . . . frightened. Shell-­shocked. And a little flushed.

  Okay, you’re in love with him, but you’ll just have to deal with that later because right now you’re setting out on a very important mission. And you can’t let yourself be distracted. Or terrified. Or worried. About him or Grandpa Charlie or anything else. Right now is all about you. And maybe your entire future.

  Departing the Happy Crab on foot, she headed north on Coral Street, the main thoroughfare that passed through the small beach town, along the short stretch laden with souvenir stores and ice cream shops. While some businesses like the Happy Crab and the Hungry Fisherman seemed to be suffering from the influx of large resort hotels up the beach, others that were more retail focused continued to thrive—­particularly in the evenings, she’d noticed—­when the tourists from the large hotels were drawn to this area for the Sunset Celebration.

  She’d seen the storefront for Beachtique and thought it looked like a more upscale shop than most in Coral Cove, so now she decided to make it her first stop. She took a deep breath as she walked up and reached for the door handle.

  Stepping into the air conditioning brought ­relief—­it was hot if you weren’t right on the water this time of day—­even if at the same time her stomach swam with nervousness. Looking around the place, she caught sight of sophisticated-­looking sundresses and appealing beachwear—­as well as a sizable jewelry counter. Pay dirt. Maybe. Take another deep breath. In. Out. You can do this.

  It was then that an older woman, tall with a rather queen-­like air about her, entered the shop through a doorway covered with white curtains. “Welcome to Beachtique,” she said as she came up behind the sales counter. Her tone held a certain brashness—­like someone who wanted to be nice but didn’t quite know how—­and Christy knew she had to draw upon her courage even more than she’d expected to. But I can do it.

  Arriving at the opposite side of the counter, she put on her best smile, the one she’d gotten used to using with shoppers on the pier. And she reached into her bag as she spoke in her most confident voice. “I’ve been admiring your shop and I’m wondering if you do any consignment.”

  The tall woman bristled slightly, her back going more rigid as she said, “Oh—­no, I’m afraid we’re not interested in that type of arrangement.”

  And normally that probably would have sent Christy on her way right b
ack out the door—but she’d already laid a rolled-­up swatch of velvet on the counter and begun to unroll it. So she paused at the woman’s words, not quite sure whether to stop or proceed with only two bracelets currently visible on the dark velvet. The woman’s eyes dropped there, as well. And as Christy stood waffling between pressing forward and just accepting defeat, the woman said, “But I suppose I’d be willing to look at your pieces.”

  It felt like a flower blooming in Christy’s heart—­the sweet relief of suddenly being welcome. “I take old pieces of jewelry and rework them,” she explained, then revealed the rest of what she’d brought. “I’ve been doing quite well at the Sunset Celebration, so I decided to start looking for consignment opportunities, as well. Your shop is the first one I wanted to offer my work to.”

  “How much have you been selling them for?” the woman asked. “Because I’d need to take at least twenty percent, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable pricing any of these any higher than one fifty or two.”

  Crestfallen, Christy just blinked her disbelief. Was the woman serious? “A dollar fifty?”

  And just when she thought the Beachtique lady never smiled, a loud peal of laughter tore from the woman’s throat. “No, my dear, of course not,” she said. “A hundred and fifty. Which would make your profit one twenty.” After which the woman went all serious again. “But if you feel you need to make more, then I can’t do it.”

  Christy barely knew what to say. She’d been selling these same pieces for fifteen to thirty dollars apiece so far. And while part of her wanted to let her astonishment run free and ask the woman if she really felt ­people would pay that for them, instead she just smiled and made a joke. “Well, that’s more like it.”

  Now Beachtique Lady wore a big smile, too. “Of course, I’d also have to ask that you not consign elsewhere within the immediate area. I like to offer unique pieces and I don’t want to compete with a neighboring business.”

  “Of course,” Christy said, nodding, still amazed at this turn of events.

  “Though,” the woman said, leaning closer, suddenly acting like Christy’s new best friend, “I’ll give you a tip. The shops at the resorts up the beach might be willing to work with you—­many of them like to showcase local artisans and handmade goods. And though I do share a customer base with them, my friend Louise works at a shop in the Sand Dollar Resort and we find that the tourists who shop within the resort tend to stay there, on the grounds, for the bulk of their visit. So we don’t believe our shops compete directly, and I’d have no problem with you placing some pieces with them so long as you promise to keep my supplies up.”

  Still trying to hide her shock, and still nodding profusely, Christy said, “Yes, absolutely, and I appreciate the insider info.” In fact, she was trying not to sound too excited about it.

  A few minutes later, she and Beachtique Lady, whose name turned out to be Lydia, had worked out a deal and Christy left numerous pieces behind to be displayed in the glass jewelry case she’d noticed upon coming in.

  And much to her continued joy and astonishment, after taking a cab a few miles up the road to the resorts, she soon had a similar deal with the second shop she visited there, which just happened to be inside the Sand Dollar—­and though she didn’t meet Louise, the clerk she dealt with acted almost as if she felt the pricing Beachtique had suggested was too low.

  Christy spent the cab ride back to the Happy Crab elated. She was an “artisan” now. And though there was no guarantee her jewelry would sell in either spot at the much higher prices, the confidence of the shop ­people left her feeling confident, too. Even if still stunned.

  She couldn’t wait to tell Jack! And her grandpa! And she’d have to call Anna! Oh, please please please let Jack be back at the room when I get there. It was all she could do to contain her excitement over the miraculous turn her day had taken. She’d hoped for a consignment deal or two, but she’d never dreamed her jewelry-­upcycling could be as lucrative as now suddenly appeared possible.

  Her heart lifted—­she could have sworn she felt it rise physically in her chest—­when she paid the cab driver, then got out to find her car, which Jack had driven today to pick up Grandpa Charlie, back in the parking lot. It was fairly late—­dinnertime.

  Digging her room key—­attached to the plastic crab-­shaped keychain—­from her bag, she shoved it in the door and burst in to see Jack standing near the bathroom in a pair of blue jeans, no shirt, wet hair.

  “You won’t believe what’s happened!” she said, letting a big smile unfurl as she gazed on her oh-­so-­handsome roommate.

  His eyes widened in curiosity, even as he teased her. “I was getting ready to say, ‘About time?’ and ‘You could have at least texted me’—but I’ll wait and decide how much to scold you based on what you’re so excited about.”

  She kept right on smiling, unable to contain her enthusiasm, as she said, “You’re right—­I should have texted. But I didn’t realize how long I’d be gone. And honestly, I’m not used to anyone caring where I am. But what happened today is—­I’ve arranged consignment deals on my jewelry with two upscale shops, and they both think they can sell my pieces for a ­couple hundred dollars. Each!”

  She appreciated the wonder in his eyes as he blinked. “Seriously? Wow! That’s . . . freaking amazing, Christy!”

  If it was possible, she got even a little happier then—­simply because he was calling her Christy again instead of Alice. “I know,” she said, still gushing. “I couldn’t believe it. And they both want more than I have on hand, so I’m glad I brought my tools and supplies and can make some new pieces while we’re here. Of course, this means no more selling at the Sunset Celebration, but this seems like a much bigger opportunity and like it will be better in the long run, right?”

  He nodded. “Absolutely.” And he tilted his head a little, and his eyes looked so very blue and so very . . . well, she couldn’t think of a word for it, but she saw something in them that seemed deeper than ever before, seemed to show her some new part of his soul she hadn’t yet seen. And her heart beat a little faster because of it.

  But she kept going, kept talking. “And maybe it’s too soon to be this excited, but to have ­people believe so much in what I create just feels . . . important, you know?”

  “I know,” he said, and she could have sworn he really understood what she was saying, that he really got it. “And—­damn, honey, can I just tell you how proud of you I am? For just going out there and doing this? Because I know that took guts. And I’m sorry if I acted like making a living with your jewelry was too big a thing to shoot for—­because maybe you really can.”

  Her chest contracted, partly in her continued excitement and partly because . . . Jack’s belief in her, his approval, meant something to her. More than she would have guessed up until this moment. She wasn’t sure why, but somehow it created a whole new bond between them that hadn’t existed before.

  “Thanks,” she said, the word coming out too softly, her breasts heaving slightly within her bra at the effort. Then she bit her lip. Felt a little hot inside. And said, still quietly, “So . . . are you going to scold me?”

  “No,” he breathed with a slight shake of his head.

  “Good,” she said.

  “I’m going to . . . kiss you,” he said. And with that, he let the towel he still held fall from his hand and stepped toward her.

  Christy sucked in her breath, her entire body tingling with anticipation. And then his hands were on her, one wrapping around her waist to pull her to him, the other rising to gently cup her cheek.

  His mouth, as it came down on hers, was no less than delicious. She knew she hadn’t been waiting terribly long for this to happen again—­and yet it felt as if she’d craved this for a lifetime. Because I’m in love with him.

  She’d somehow succeeded in mostly blocking out that still-­stunning bolt from the blue as she’d p
eddled her wares this afternoon. Or . . . maybe the knowledge—­both magnificent and horrifying as it was—­had somehow added to the confidence she’d mustered as she’d approached the shopkeepers. Because of that funny thing she’d already learned about being in love. That even if it wasn’t returned, it still made you feel incredible and full of light inside. It made you see the world through new, brighter eyes.

  Either way, she was remembering it now—­it was hitting her full force—­and she was pretty sure nothing on earth was as amazing as being kissed by a man you loved.

  She let her hands rise to his chest, at once shocked and delighted to be reminded that it was bare, his muscled flesh warm beneath her fingertips. She kissed him back with all the passion she’d been storing up inside her—­she wanted him to know, to feel, how much she cared for him, how much she wanted him. Being bold had worked for her earlier today and she saw no reason to hold back now.

  The longer they kissed, the more fervently their bodies pressed together. It wasn’t a decision for Christy, just a thing that happened. And when the hardness behind his zipper connected with the part of her body that most sizzled and longed for him, she felt closer to heaven than she’d ever been before. Even that night in Georgia. Because they’d spent so much more time together now. She’d let him see so much more deeply inside her soul. The way she’d felt she was seeing into his just before he’d kissed her.

  She didn’t fight the heady urge to move against him, to grind the crux of her thighs against that enticingly rigid part of him. She wanted him inside her so badly that she could barely breathe. She kissed him harder, let him know.

  Even though surely he already did. Surely he could read every signal her body was sending him. And that maybe even her heart was sending, too. Would it be so awful if he knew? How she felt? Maybe . . . maybe by now he felt the same way, too. Maybe the time they’d spent here at the beach had changed and deepened things for him, as well. God, please let him love me back.

  When his hand finally rose to one aching breast, she gasped and, without forethought, leaned closer, pushing the soft mound of flesh deeper into his grasp. After a mind-­numbingly long round of feverish making out, they finally stopped kissing, and their foreheads came gently together, touching, both of them letting out ragged, labored breath. They stayed that way, frozen in desire—­except for Jack’s thumb, which stroked across her beaded nipple through her crocheted top and bra. Again. Again. Ohhh.