Children of the Sea 01 - Sea Witch

smiling languidly. “I told you I was tired of waiting.”
     
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Ten
     
    CALEB LAUGHED AND WRAPPED HIS ARMS AROUND her.
    His erection lodged against her belly.
     
    It was surprisingly sweet to be held so, Margred mused, supported by his strength, surrounded by his warmth, his scent. She nuzzled his shirt.
     
    He pressed his lips to her hairline—gently—before tipping back her head to study her face. Her heart expanded uncomfortably. “What am I going to do with you, Maggie girl?”
     
    Her hand wandered down his uniform slacks. “I would have thought that was obvious.”
     
    His eyes half closed in pleasure. He swelled against her hand. But then he drew back. “If I try to take you now, standing, I’ll dump us both in the sand. Not to mention lose the use of my legs for a week.”
     
    She arched her eyebrows. “So?”
     
    His rare grin flashed. “So, we still have to haul ass up the cliff to get to the Jeep.”
     
    Margred frowned. She had never cared particularly about the sexual satisfaction of her partners. Still, she was piqued Caleb could deny himself, and her, so readily.
     
    He stroked a strand of hair back from her forehead, the gesture so tender her heart gave another quick, inconvenient lurch. “Besides, the next time I make love to you, it will be on a bed. And I’m taking off my pants.”
     
    “You could take your pants off here.”
     
    “Not unless I’m willing to pay five hundred dollars for public indecency.”
     
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    She arched her eyebrows. “I did not realize your nakedness came at such a price.”
     
    “Honey, you can see me anytime for free. But not here.” He set her at arm’s length. “Where are your shoes?”
     
    “I do not have any.”
     
    “Lucy didn’t loan you a pair of sneakers?”
     
    “She tried.” The memory made Margred smile. “Your sister has big feet.”
     
    “She grew into them. How about flip-flops?”
     
    They rubbed the webbing between her toes. Margred shrugged.
     
    “Right, then.” Caleb tucked in his shirt, glancing from her bare feet to the rocky path. “I’ll go up, drive around, and meet you.”
     
    Taking care of her again.
     
    She was grateful . . . and unexpectedly annoyed.
     
    “I can walk. I walked here.”
     
    “Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound impressed. “Show me your feet.”
     
    When she didn’t move, he reached for her ankle and raised it himself. Margred curled her foot to hide her toes. Caleb didn’t appear to notice, focusing instead on the battered sole. Human legs were built for walking. Human feet . . . Well, the walk from the cottage had put Margred forcibly in mind of the human story about the mermaid, the one who wished to become a mortal woman and then felt as if she were dancing on knives.
     
    Caleb studied her bruised and bloodied foot, his face expressionless.
    “I’ll pick you up at the beach access. We can drive to Wiley’s, get you a few things you need.”
     
    Buy her things, he meant.
     
    “I have no money,” Margred said.
     
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    His mouth compressed. “I’ll make you a loan.”
     
    “And how will I pay you back?”
     
    He released her foot, brushing the sand from his hands. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
     
    “I’m sure you have. You think of everything.”
     
    His gaze pinned hers. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
     
    “Just that . . . you live very much in your head. You are always considering consequences—what is logical, what is next, what is the right thing to do. I do not live that way.”
     
    “And you think it’s wrong.”
     
    “Not wrong,” she corrected. “But it makes us . . .” She raised her hands, let them fall. “Different.”
     
    He stood very still, his eyes steady on hers. “Maybe it makes us a good match.”
     
    Maybe . The possibility curled around her heart. But there were other differences between them, differences he could not guess at.
     
    Differences that made any lasting relationship between them impossible.
     

     
    Antonia Barone slammed a tray on the steel counter and glared at her daughter. “I don’t need you to tell me how to make lasagna. I’ve been making lasagna since before you were born.”
     
    Regina’s frustration bubbled like the pots on the stove. Usually she could keep the lid on. Not today. Not when they were short-staffed and Antonia had waltzed out in the middle of the lunch rush, leaving Regina to deal with a horde of wet and disgruntled tourists on her own.
     
    “I’m not