Page 43 of Shark’s Edge

“How can that be? That’s incredible. Oh my God. Freaking heaven. Right there on my plate and in my glass.”

“I told you, didn’t I?”

“You did. You did,” she said and then tucked right back in for more. “I don’t think I will ever get enough of this.”

After her next bite and swallow of wine, I had to stop her. I had to taste the wine on her lips. I couldn’t stand the torture any longer. I put my hand on her wrist to stop her from lifting the glass back to her lips.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, almost alarmed.

I took the glass from her hands and sat forward to the edge of my chair. “I need to taste your lips.”

Her green eyes widened, looking like jade in the dwindling light of the evening. I watched her features change until our lips met. Much softer than the day we kissed in the park. I licked along her top lip first, tasting the salt and beef stock from the steak. Groaning, I swept in deeper, tasting the heady tannin of the wine mingling with the copper tang from the rare portion of the meat.

I pulled back to look at her, her eyes still closed. She looked like a doll, with her milky skin nearly glowing in the new moon of the evening.

“You are so beautiful, Abbigail.” My voice was husky with need.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she seemed surprised by my compliment.

“Thank you. And thank you for this amazing meal. I’m completely blown away.”

“The pleasure was mine. And will be mine.” I grinned. “But first, we eat, so this doesn’t get cold.”

We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, just enjoying the food and sounds of nature from the backyard.

“Have you always lived in SoCal?” I asked her while cutting a piece of steak.

“No, I grew up on the East Coast. Rhode Island, specifically. And before you ask, no, I don’t miss it. I miss my family that still live back there, but”—she looked around the backyard—“nothing compares to this paradise. Granted, I don’t live like this—not even close—but my place is nice by my standards. And I’m doing it on my own, and that’s the most important thing.”

“Why is that the most important thing?”

“What do you mean, why? Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not really.” I put my hand atop hers. “I’m not trying to make you feel defensive, Abbigail. I’m just trying to get to know you.”

“You’re right. Sorry. I think I’ve always felt like I’ve had to prove something to someone. No matter what stage of my life I was in.”

“Explain.”

She narrowed her eyes at me over the rim of her glass while she sipped. I wasn’t sure why, exactly. Was she deciding how much to open up to me? Did talking about her childhood make her uncomfortable?

Shit, I knew that one all too well.

“Again, not trying to make you uncomfortable. We can change subjects if—”

Abbi shook her head. “No, it’s not that. Not at all. I was letting my cynical side run away with me. I’ve been trying to be better about that, but honestly, being around Rio all the time doesn’t really help in that department.”

“I’ve noticed she’s a bit of a bitter pill. Kind of glad to hear it isn’t just for my benefit.”

She laughed. “You definitely ramp her up, not going to lie. But no, it’s not just you. She has some history. But most people do, right?”

“Definitely. It makes us who we are,” I said, nodding. “No one should ever feel bad about their history. It’s what defines us. At least that’s how I see it.”

“I like that approach. It’s fair. And honest.” She looked at me thoughtfully.

“What is this look?” I asked, trying to interpret it but coming up short. I had a lot of experience with reading people’s body language in business situations, but with personal exchanges, not so much. I’d always limited myself to certain types of personal interactions, and feelings and conversations weren’t part of the mix.

“There’s a lot more to you than I think I expected. I feel”—she paused, considering her word choice—“honored? Yes, I feel honored to share this time with you.” She nodded in agreement with her statement, seeming pleased with the delivery.