"How's it going, Curtis, Bobbie." She'd gone to school with them in the
dim, distant past. Now they worked for her father, packing seafood.
"Usual?"
"Yeah, a couple of drafts." Curtis gave Grace his usual--a quick pat on
her bow-clad butt. She'd learned not to worry about it. From him it was
a harmless enough gesture, even a show of affectionate support. Some of
the outlanders who dropped in had hands a great deal less harmless.
"How's that pretty girl of yours?"
Grace smiled, understanding that this was one of the reasons she
tolerated his pats. He always asked about Aubrey. "Getting prettier
every day." She saw another hand pop up from a nearby table. "I'll get
you those beers in just a minute."
She was carting a tray full of mugs, bowls of beer nuts, and glasses
when Ethan walked in. She nearly bobbled it.
He never came into the pub on Saturday night. Sometimes he dropped in
for a quiet beer midweek, but never when the place was crowded and
noisy.
He should have looked the same as every second man in the place. His
jeans were faded but clean, a plain white T-shirt tucked into them, his
work boots ancient and scuffed. But he didn't look the same as other
men--and never had to Grace.
Maybe it was the lean and rangy body that moved as easily as a dancer
through the narrow spaces. Innate grace, she mused, the kind that can't
be taught, and still so blatantly male. He always looked as though he
was walking the deck of a ship.
It could have been his face, so bony and rugged and somewhere just at
the edges of handsome. Or the eyes, always so clear and thoughtful, so
serious that it seemed to take them a few seconds to catch up whenever
his mouth curved.
She served her drinks, pocketed money, took more orders. And watched out
of the corner of her eye as he squeezed into a standing spot at the bar
directly beside the order station.
She forgot all about her much-desired break.
"Three drafts, bottle of Mich, Stoli rocks." Absently, she brushed at
her bangs and smiled. "Hi, Ethan."
"Busy tonight."
"Summer Saturday. Do you want a table?"
"No, this is fine."
The bartender was busy with another order, which gave her some breathing
room. "Steve's got his hands full, but he'll work his way down here."
"I'm not in any hurry." As a rule, he tried not to think about how she
looked in the butt-skimming skirt, those endless legs in black fishnet,
the narrow feet in skinny heels. But tonight he was in a mood, and so he
let himself think.
Just at that moment, he could have explained to Seth just what the big
deal was about breasts. Grace's were small and high, and a soft portion
of the curve showed over the low-cut bodice of her blouse.
Suddenly, he desperately wanted a beer.
"You get a chance to sit down at all?"
She didn't answer for a moment. Her mind had gone glass-blank at the way