Chapter 2: Saltwater & Stolen Touches
The salty air hit them like a physical presence as they stepped onto the restaurant patio, replacing the lingering scent of the car’s leather and Joey’s aftershave with brine, grilled fish, and woodsmoke from the flickering tiki torches. The rhythmic crash and sigh of the ocean was a constant, soothing counterpoint to the lively chatter and clinking glasses around them. Pete guided Stacy forward, his hand returning possessively to the small of her back, a familiar anchor point she felt keenly after the charged drive. Joey followed close behind, his cop’s eyes scanning the crowd, then inevitably settling back on the sway of her hips beneath the summery dress she’d changed into.
Their table was prime real estate: edge of the patio, overlooking the dark expanse of the ocean where moonlight painted a shimmering path on the water. Pete held Stacy’s chair, a gentlemanly gesture that felt weighted with unspoken meaning tonight. As she sat, the breeze caught the hem of her dress, swirling it lightly around her knees before settling. Joey took the seat directly opposite her, his gaze sweeping from her face down to her bare shoulders and the hint of cleavage revealed by the dress’s neckline.
"Place hasn't changed," Joey remarked, leaning back and draping an arm over the empty chair beside him. His eyes, however, never left Stacy. "Still smells like money and misery for the lobster." He grinned at his own joke.
Pete chuckled, opening the menu. "Best crab cakes on the coast. Stacy’s got a weakness for them." He glanced at her, a warm, knowing look passing between them. "Figured we’d start with the coconut shrimp, share it?"
"Sounds perfect," Stacy said, her voice steady despite the awareness thrumming under her skin. Joey’s presence felt larger than life across the table, his earlier comment about her 'fire' replaying in her mind.
The waiter came. Drinks ordered – beer for the men, chilled Chardonnay for Stacy. The conversation flowed easily at first, a current of old stories and shared laughter. Pete regaled Joey with a tale from their Air Force days, the kind that got funnier with retelling. Stacy smiled, adding quiet observations, feeling Pete’s foot nudge hers gently under the table, a silent check-in. She nudged back. I’m okay. I’m yours.
The coconut shrimp arrived, golden and fragrant on a shared platter nestled on a bed of greens, placed strategically in the center of the table. Pete speared one immediately, popping it whole into his mouth. "Dig in, Joey. Stacy? Don’t be shy."
Stacy leaned forward slightly to reach the platter, the neckline of her dress dipping a fraction. She felt, rather than saw, Joey’s gaze intensify. She selected a shrimp, the crispy coating yielding beneath her fingers. As she pulled it towards her plate, Joey reached across simultaneously for his own.
His movement wasn’t clumsy, but deliberate. His large, calloused hand, the hand of a cop used to gripping a weapon, a steering wheel, a suspect’s arm, brushed against the bare skin of her shoulder. Not a glancing touch, but a slow, deliberate slide. The roughness of his skin, the heat radiating from him – it was startlingly intimate. It lingered. A full heartbeat longer than necessary, his knuckles grazing the sensitive curve where her shoulder met her neck.
Stacy froze. The shrimp hung forgotten between her fingers. Her breath hitched, catching in her throat. Every nerve ending on that patch of skin screamed, the sensation echoing the path his gaze had taken earlier. Her pulse, which had been a steady drum under the conversation, suddenly kicked into a frantic gallop right where his touch had been. Thrum-thrum-thrum.
The ocean roared in her ears, louder than before, a sudden wave crashing onto the unseen shore. Heat flooded her face and chest. She couldn’t look up. Couldn’t look at Pete. Couldn’t look at Joey. The entire noisy patio seemed to recede, narrowing to the point of contact still burning on her skin.
Across the table, Joey didn’t pull his hand back immediately. He held it there for that crucial, stretched second, his fingers curled slightly, as if savoring the texture, the warmth. His dark eyes, when she finally dared a glance upwards through her lashes, were fixed on her face, watching the flush bloom, reading the startled dilation of her pupils. A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips, almost imperceptible.
Pete was watching too. Not Joey. Her. He hadn't missed a beat. He took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze resting on Stacy’s flushed cheek, the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin fabric of her dress. His expression wasn’t angry. It was… focused. Interested. Darkly amused, like a man enjoying a private, complex joke. He saw the pulse hammering in her throat. Saw the way she couldn't quite meet his eye yet.
Joey finally retrieved his hand, picking up a shrimp with exaggerated nonchalance. "Oops," he murmured, the single word low, rough, and carrying absolutely no apology. He dipped the shrimp in sauce, his gaze flicking from Stacy’s shoulder back to her eyes, challenging, assessing. "Slippery little things." He popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.
Pete set his beer down with a soft thud on the wooden table. The sound snapped Stacy slightly out of the trance. She managed to place the shrimp on her plate, her fingers trembling faintly.
"Careful there, Joey," Pete said, his voice deceptively light, almost conversational. He leaned back, stretching an arm along the back of Stacy’s chair, his fingers brushing the nape of her neck. A counterpoint. A claim. "Wouldn't want you getting singed touching something that belongs to someone else." He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which remained watchful, calculating. "Especially something as finely tuned as my good girl. Needs a gentle hand."
Joey just grinned, wiping his fingers on a napkin. The intensity in his gaze softened fractionally, replaced by something more speculative. "Gentle ain't always what reveals the most interesting reactions, Pete," he countered, his voice still pitched low enough to be intimate over the ambient noise. He looked directly at Stacy again, a spark of something unidentifiable – admiration, challenge, pure masculine curiosity – in his dark eyes. "Sometimes you gotta test the metal." He paused, letting the ocean fill the silence for a moment. "Soft," he added, the word dropping like a stone into water, seemingly about the shrimp he’d just eaten, yet his eyes remained locked on the spot his hand had touched on Stacy’s shoulder. "So damn soft."
Stacy felt Pete’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on her neck. A silent command. A reassurance. An undeniable thrill shot through her, cutting through the shock. The game Pete had hinted at in the car wasn't just talk. It had just begun, out here under the torches and the indifferent stars, and Joey’s touch had been the opening move. The lingering heat on her skin wasn’t fading. It was sinking in, spreading, a promise and a warning. She picked up her wine glass, needing the coolness against her lips, knowing both men were watching her every move, waiting to see what her reaction would truly be. The waves crashed, relentless, and Stacy understood deep in her bones that the calm of the evening was over. The real tide was just coming in.