Page 113 of Sucker For You

“I’ll meet you at the restaurant atLime & Coconut, Chase.”

“What?”

Call Ended

Beside her, Wes said nothing. Still, Isabel shook her head while she tossed her phone back onto the credenza. She forestalled everything unspoken between them with, “I know. But I need to do this, too.”

“Because of BioPulse?”

“Yes. Could you get my otter fleece, please?” She extracted her pleated midi skirt from her bag, then exchanged her jeans for silk in the bathroom and ran a brush through her hair. Gaze solemn in the mirror behind her, Wes traced three fingers between her shoulder blades for a moment, before he nodded and stepped back, handing over the sweatshirt. She made a neat French tuckabove her skirt’s waistband. She’d present at least some of what Chase expected to see from her tonight.Smart, calculating.But also:myself. She left her blush and lip tints in their cosmetics pouch; her skin was wind-scoured, her cheekbones lightly freckled with sunshine, her mouth chapped, the hair at her temples unruly with exposure to seawater. She’d already chewed the yacht club manicure from her nails. Satisfied, she propped her brush beside the sink and retrieved Chase’s engagement ring. “He’s a high-profile spokesman for the company’s medications. He might have leverage inside BioPulse.”

Maybe she still had leverage over him.

But she left the ring in her skirt pocket later while she laced up her boots at the front door. Wes pulled Baby off the curb and accelerated away from Monterey’s seaside residential streets, past Loulou’s Griddle in the Middle and Old Fisherman’s Wharf, around the coastal curve of Lighthouse Avenue, before rolling onto Cannery Row. The Jeep stopped beside a cypress-flanked pier jutting over the surf; Atlas perched in solitary splendor at its apex. A fine mist painted the restaurant’s windows, sunset blinding the glass and spraying iridescence across the parking lot. A red BMW gleamed in a valet slot. At the doors near an exterior gate that opened to a walkway along the pier and ended on an ocean-view deck, an attendant was welcoming diners—no, here they wereguests—to a marina dinner experience.

It was seven (Lime & Coconut) o’clock.

Chase was already inside the building.

Isabel forced a hard breath. “I’d rather repeat all the worries of my encounter with Brianne than smile for him.”

“Squid slime and all?”

“Squid slime and all. But I’ll do this, too.” She reached for her seat belt.

“I know you will. I know you can.” Wes touched a finger to her chin and stalled her work on the buckle. His lips slanted once over hers, brief and fierce and warm, with a hint of sharpness. Teeth and a promise. He murmured, “Get what you want. Then give him hell.”

She nodded, their noses brushing, his eyelashes tickling her cheek.

Breathe.

She would.

“Remember—I’m here, Isabel. If you need me, I’ll be out on the deck with a drink or some fancy fries.” His dark eyes crinkled, ringed in gold. “Just in case. Always.”

“I know.” She did. She stepped down from the Jeep. “I’ll see you soon.”

The interior of Monterey’s Atlas restaurant was rich in dark, glossy wood, bronze finishes, and discreet riffs of jazz piano, with intimate dining booths curved to frame a waterfront vista and a bar backed by an illuminated aquarium. Tropical, of course. No kelp. Spires of coral bloomed and clownfish swam behind top-shelf liquors and jars of maraschino cherries. It was a beautiful, garish display, even if the calcium carbonate had begun to bleach around the coral’s lacy frills. Nothing could match the wide white shine of Chase Meyer’s grin, however. He was waiting for her on a padded stool with a glass of Sazerac and that dazzling smile, a blazer folded over his elbow, as if he’d strolled straight from the St. Francis Yacht Club to this seafood spot.

Asshole.

“Hello, Chase.”

“Babe!” He stood, pushing aside his drink.

She remained by a stack of cocktail napkins at the far end of the bar and watched his approach.

Would he try to kiss her?

Sometimes he had, in public. To make a point. To everyone watching, and also to her—if her pretty mask had slipped.

But tonight?

Between strides, his gaze darted from her sun-freckled flush, to her sweatshirt, her skirt, her steel-capped boots—and to her bare fourth finger. No, he didn’t try. Instead, he swiveled his smile toward a hostess in a black sheath dress and perfect lipstick. He motioned for the woman to guide them to a reserved booth. While they settled into the plush burgundy leather and a slightly chilly distance over the table he’d chosen, he said, “You should’ve let me drive you here. We could’ve come together.”

I could’ve told you to change what you’re wearing.

Not a sweatshirt and boots, no matter the silk skirt.