brief repeat performances with women who share my take on the whole sex-versus-relationship thing.”
When she didn’t respond, simply because she wasn’t sure how to respond—she was still trying to wrap her mind around Mr. Casanova here and whether she was shocked, offended, impressed, or what—he sighed and added, “You’re the first woman I’ve been friends with, Maddy. And I wanna keep you as a friend. The first thing I do in the mornings is check my email, and it’s the last thing I do at night. I look forward to our talks, our jokes, our end-of-day wrap-ups. Hell, I even like our arguments.”
Warmth spread in her belly like the hot toddies her daddy liked to sip at Christmastime. “Since when do we argue?”
“Uh, every time you try to convince me Silence of the Lambs should rank higher than Shawshank Redemption in a tally of the one hundred greatest movies of all time.”
“Excuse me,” she said, immediately distracted by the old disagreement. “But Silence of the Lambs won five Academy Awards. How many did Shawshank Redemption win?”
“It was nominated for seven.”
“Yes,” she allowed. “But how many did it win?”
“You cannot base the merits of a movie simply on the number of awards it—” He shook his head and karate chopped the air. “Never mind. My point is I like you, Maddy. I know I’m repeating myself, but I’m doing it because I don’t think you fully understand how huge it is for me to say that. I like you. So no matter how much I want you, no matter how much I dream about screwing your brains out”—That sounds good; let’s do that—“I refuse to do anything about it because I value your friendship more than I want another hot roll in the hay.”
She was missing something. The pieces were there, but she had yet to put the puzzle together. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we do both? Why can’t we be friends and screw each other’s brains out? Isn’t that how most—”
“’Cause you’re gonna want something more than that. You’re gonna want a relationship.” He said the word like it was foul. “And I’m not gonna give it to you. Ever. I’ll never be your boyfriend, much less anything more.”
Wow. And there it was. The truth. Finally.
You asked for it, her conscience reminded her.
Yes. Yes, she had. Which proved she was an idiot.
A hollow feeling opened up inside her, yawning and stretching, filling her up and emptying her out at the same time. Not wanting him to see how off balance she was, she said flippantly, “Well…when you put it that way, I guess I see your point.”
He blinked at her for a full five seconds. Then the tension in his shoulders relaxed. “So,” he said, “friends then?”
She pasted on a false smile. “Friends,” she agreed, extending her hand.
He looked down at her offering like it might be a turd floating in his cereal. But after a moment’s hesitation, he grasped her fingers in his warm palm.
The second he did, she understood his reluctance. Sparks, baby. Huge, massive, immediate sparks that ignited her blood and dizzied her brain. He quickly released her hand, and the skin on her palm tingled with phantom sensation.
“Good thing this friendship of ours is usually separated by the Gulf of Mexico, am I right?” he joked, once again leaning against the lighthouse, resuming his nonchalant stance, arms crossed, one knee bent.
“I guess so,” she managed even though she was reeling from his recent revelations.
Chapter 16
9:10 p.m.…
“So how are you doing, friend?” Bran stressed the last word.
“Don’t overdo it,” Maddy warned. She propped her back against the cool, black metal of the lighthouse’s facade and mimicked his stance by pressing one foot against the base. She covertly flattened a hand to her chest, hoping to push closed the black hole opening inside her and swallowing all the dreams—pipe dreams, apparently—she’d had for the past three months.
It didn’t work. Which forced her to fall back on her most tried-and-true method of self-preservation: humor. “I’m still tryin’ to get over my disappointment that you’re not goin’ to let me touch your pickle.”
He swallowed like the thought of her hands on him caused his throat to close up. Then he managed to play along. “Never refer to a man’s package as a pickle. It brings to mind a baby gherkin, and that’s not at all flattering.”
“Sausage then,” she countered.
A muscle started ticking in his jaw, and any humor he’d tried to portray drained from his face. Was she completely