Beach Colors by Shelley Noble

care.
    She tried to grab hold of her rational self, shake it awake. This was so wrong. How could she be standing here so close to another man, someone she didn’t even know, and feel drawn to him? Want to lose herself in him—in someone. It had been too long.
    Her eyes swam with unexpected tears. She blinked hard, trying to stop them from overflowing.
    “Margaux, what is it? Are you hurt?”
    He was holding her tight and she wanted to give in to his strength, but she couldn’t. She had to be strong—but on her own terms—on her own. Her life, her livelihood depended on it.
    “Margaux, tell me.”
    She shook her head, a tear flew off and landed on his shoulder. He flinched as if he’d been burned.
    “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “It’s nothing. Something flew in my eye. I’ll be all right in a second.” But her mouth twisted.
    “Let me see.” His hands moved from her arms and he lifted her face up, peering into her lying eyes. He lifted her eyelid.
    His hands were gentle, so unlike the rest of him, hard, unyielding, and powerful.
    “I don’t see anything.”
    She sniffed. “Tears probably washed it out. That’s what they’re for, right? Washing things away?” She laughed unconvincingly. “Thanks.”
    “No problem.” His hands had moved back to her arms as if he thought she might float away if he let go. But she was caught in one of those time stretches; seconds or minutes passed, Margaux didn’t know or care. She just knew she wanted to stay right where she was, give in to the strength of this stranger and feel safe if just for a few minutes.
    His hands eased around her back and he pulled her closer, lowered his head.
    Margaux closed her eyes.
    “No. Sorry.” He dropped his arms so quickly she almost stumbled. “If you’re okay, I’ll, uh . . . It’s been nice to see you . . . again. Enjoy your sketching.” He slid back into the water and looked up at her, a slight frown creasing his brow, his eyes deep and dark.
    “You might want to put some sunscreen on. Your nose is turning pink.”
    Margaux’s hand went unconsciously to her nose.
    He turned and splashed back to the little triangle of pebbled beach, snatched up his shoes and shirt, and headed up the narrow path.
    Margaux stared after him, feeling deflated and more alone than ever. She watched him until he was swallowed by the trees. She was rattled; alarmed at her reaction to this man she’d met once and who’d given her a speeding ticket. Horrified at the ease with which she fell under the spell of the moment. At what she was feeling.
    Desire.
    She sat down, her mind reeling. She had forgotten what desire felt like. Why now?
    Maybe it was seeing him in all his unnerving masculinity or sitting so close that his dark eyes seemed to pierce her soul. Or because . . . She stopped herself. She was not going to follow that train of thought. It was out of the question. Ridiculous to even contemplate. How could she feel desire when her life was in shambles?
    It must be some kind of fatal attraction. Because he was nothing like her ideal man. Too rough, too muscular, too . . . heavy-handed. The chief had no finesse, not in body or personality. He was there; a presence, uncompromising. And she didn’t need that kind of man, she didn’t need any kind of man. God knows she’d had a husband for better and definitely for worse and she certainly didn’t plan to go down that road again.
    And besides, she’d cried in front of him. Hopefully he’d bought the old insect-in-the-eye bit.
    It was not that big of a deal, she tried to convince herself. She’d just have to tough it out next time they met. If they had to meet at all.
    Of course they’d meet. Even with the additional summer people, Crescent Cove was too small a town not to run into each other all the time.
    She wouldn’t burst into tears every time she saw him. He’d just caught her in a fragile moment.
    Hell, she never had fragile moments. And she’d be damned if she’d start