The Guy Next Door - By Lori Foster, S Donovan, V Dahl Page 0,57

never do that. Could she?

Gail sighed heavily. It was a sigh of longing and deprivation.

The smiling waiter glanced her way, pen poised. “So you’ve decided?”

“Decided?” Gail snapped. “What do you mean by that?”

“Uh,” the waiter said, his eyes big. “Dessert?”

“Oh! Of course.” Gail ignored the girls’ questioning stares and reviewed the dessert menu. She didn’t want anything, but she felt she had to provide a cover for that embarrassing sigh. She picked the first item that caught her eye. “Just give me this double-fudge chocolate multiple or—” Her voice failed her. Her face went numb in embarrassment.

The waiter laughed. “So you’re up for a multiple orgasm tonight?” he asked.

Holly gasped then hid her face in her hands. “Shoot me now,” she mumbled.

All Gail could do was nod.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE WAITED AT THE TALL wrought-iron gate in front of the Hemingway Home & Museum, checking her watch again. The brochure said to be there at precisely 8:00 a.m., with cash or credit card, wearing comfortable shoes. It said not to be late. Gail had done all those things, yet she was alone on the sidewalk and it was now 8:04.

The airport cab driver had warned them that Key West operated on Margaritaville time. Apparently, he wasn’t joking. Now it was 8:05.

She heard laughter from the other side of White-head Street and turned. Gail squinted through the soft morning light, not quite sure she could trust her eyes. An elderly couple was making slow progress along the crosswalk, with the sexy captain at the woman’s elbow, gently guiding her toward the gate. He wasn’t wearing his jaunty cap that morning, and his thick black hair curled around his ears. The earring was back. And so was a hint of the salt-and-pepper fuzz. And he was smiling—a big, glorious, white-toothed smile she was seeing for the first time.

Gail gulped in air. She pressed her butt against the high stone wall that surrounded Hemingway’s house and hoped she could fade into the background. She held her breath. But Jesse looked up, and Gail could see that he recognized her instantly. She watched surprise flash in his eyes, followed by irritation, just like when he’d caught her staring at him the day before. Clearly, Captain Jesse might have big, bright smiles for little old ladies, but only a suspicious frown for her.

“I’m just here for the tour!” Gail busted out with that pronouncement before he’d even reached the curb, as though she needed to explain herself. Which was silly. She had nothing to apologize for. She might have fantasized about her gorgeous neighbor just a tiny bit the night before, in the privacy of her bedroom, with the blinds drawn, but it wasn’t like she was stalking him or anything.

“You’re here for the 8:00 a.m. walking tour?” Jesse dropped the old woman’s elbow and stared at Gail warily. “The ‘In Hemingway’s Footsteps’ tour?”

“Well, yeah.” Gail clutched her straw shoulder bag to the front of her body, as if protecting herself. “What’s it to you?”

That’s when she heard it for the first time—Jesse’s laugh. Its rich resonance penetrated her flesh and bone, causing her to shudder with pleasure. The intensity of that reaction startled Gail. Why did this guy affect her like this? How did he reduce her to a fool while setting her on fire inside? She didn’t like it much. It made her feel as if she wasn’t in control of herself.

Jesse shook his head, letting go with a deep sigh. “Then the gang’s all here, I suppose.” He gestured to the elderly couple. “This is Pete and Lana Purdy of Little Rock, who are celebrating their sixtieth wedding anniversary, and this is—” Jesse stopped in midsentence, his scowl deepening. “I’m sorry, Gail, but I didn’t get your last name.”

“Chapman.” Gail released the grip she had on her shoulder bag and shook the couple’s hands. “Dr. Gail Chapman from Beaverdale, Pennsylvania.”

Jesse exploded with a strange sound somewhere in between coughing and laughing. It figured, Gail thought. Deep down, the erudite captain was just another eighth-grade boy who thought anything with the word “beaver” in it was absolutely hilarious. She ignored him.

“Oh, how marvelous!” Lana Purdy said, beaming. “Pete here had a GP practice for fifty-five years. Delivered nearly six hundred babies, didn’t you, dear? And what is your specialty?”

This happened a lot. Gail smiled down on the pudgy little lady with short white curls. “I have my PhD in literature. I’m an associate professor at a small liberal arts college.”

Lana smiled. “How perfectly lovely!”

“Just great,”