Desire and the Deep Blue Sea Read online

  Finally, she stirred beneath him, and he lifted up to see a pleased, lazy smile on her gorgeous face. A new expression, and his favorite, bar none.

  “Thomas?” She flicked his earlobe with a gentle forefinger. “Sometimes your single-minded concentration is a really, really good thing.”

  When he laughed, she laughed too, and he had to discover how that tasted on her lips. And then how the rest of her tasted.

  Good thing they had three more days in a hotel.

  He intended to spend every single moment of them in her arms.

  Epilogue

  The timer clipped to Thomas’s pocket went off, and he silenced the beeping. Then he looked up from the microfilm machine in search of Callie.

  They hadn’t worked together as much this past year. At least twice a week, though, the two of them made sure to ask for the same shifts, and Bridget had proven accommodating. In part because she knew that Thomas, despite his best efforts, still paid more attention to his beloved fiancée than any of his other colleagues.

  Callie was standing behind the desk, pinned there by a line of four harried-looking historical interpreters, their buckled shoes tapping. Her gaze caught his, and she nodded.

  He turned to his patron. “I’ll need to keep working on this later today or tomorrow. Could you give me your contact information, and I’ll let you know when the copies are ready?”

  Less than a minute later, he was hustling to the desk and checking out three books for a man in a navy waistcoat and rolled-up sleeves. Then helping the next woman, her ruffled neckline wrinkled in the summer heat, find books on the material history of colonial America.

  When the line had disappeared, Callie smiled at him. “Thanks, babe. Can you man the desk alone for a while? I have a question that’ll take some digging.”

  He smiled at her. “Off you go.”

  She squeezed his arm as she headed for the archives, and he followed her progress across the library. Hopefully that department was fully staffed today, because otherwise she might have to wait a while. Which he didn’t mind, but Callie got anxious when she was gone for too long, worried that her partner on the desk might need her help.

  Especially him, because multitasking still wasn’t his bailiwick.

  But soon, she wouldn’t have to worry about covering for his continued lapses. The archives department had gladly hired him to replace their most recent retiree, so he’d be out of her gorgeous hair within a month.

  At least at the library. At their apartment, there was no getting rid of him, and that was precisely what she wanted. Which he knew, because he often asked what she wanted—and because she’d trained herself to discuss any discontents she might have, at home or work.

  A scowling patron appeared in front of the desk, tricorn hat tipped back.

  “I received a notice that I have an overdue book.” The man seemed to consider this a personal slight against him, entirely caused by Thomas. “But I know I returned it already, so—”

  With his usual limited success, Thomas tried to eject Callie from his thoughts and get back to work. Because, as the past year’s experiences had taught him, such patrons required a lot of effort. The book, in all likelihood, would not be sitting in the stacks or on the shelving carts. Tricorn Man would insist angrily that the library had lost it.

  And then Tricorn Man would return it within several days, probably via the drop box.

  Callie called it the Drop Box of Shame and Regret because of such occasions, as well as its exclusive use by patrons whose cats had urinated on the library’s books.

  As always, she was hilarious and acute. A marvel.

  He couldn’t wait to marry her and spend two whole, uninterrupted weeks on Renaissance Island with her, sans camera crew, for their honeymoon. But he could hold out three more months. Probably.

  Half an hour later, she came bustling back to the desk, that snug suit and fancy bun making her look like the sexiest and most successful CEO on all seven continents.

  He abandoned the computer monitor in favor of a better view, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Did you acquire several Fortune 500 companies while you were gone?”

  She snorted out a giggle. “Sadly, no, despite my best efforts and most corporate attire. But I got what I needed from the archives.” Her lips still curved, her brown eyes still bright with mirth, she gave him a discreet pat on the ass. “So you can get going again, babe. Thanks for the help.”

  He reset his timer for another ten-minute stint and returned to the microfilm machine.

  And did so thinking, as he always did, that his entire conception of happiness was encompassed in one word and one image.

  Callie, and that beam of a smile directed his way.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading Desire and the Deep Blue Sea. ♥ I hope you enjoyed Callie and Thomas's story! Please consider leaving a brief review where you got this book. Reviews help new readers figure out if a book is worth reading!

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  Teach Me

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  LOVE UNSCRIPTED

  Desire and the Deep Blue Sea

  Tiny House, Big Love

  Preview of Tiny House, Big Love

  Prologue

  Cowan paused the video footage on his monitor—small, as befitted a lowly intern at the Home and Away Television Network—and turned to Irene. “This dude’s definitely a serial killer.”

  She glanced up from her tablet, where she’d been answering texts and messages from various HATV staff. “He looks normal enough to me.”

  As he’d discovered over the past weeks, her standards for applicants to Tiny House Trackers were simultaneously more and less stringent than this. When they screened submissions, she weeded out anyone she considered boring, even people he considered acceptable options. Accountants, data entry clerks, lawyers: all dismissed with a flick of her wrist.

  Potential murderers, however, did not appear to constitute a problem for her.

  “He was very insistent that his tiny house have large storage areas with sturdy locks on the outside and no knobs on the inside. Also room on the walls for his meat hooks.” Cowan shuddered. “God help any census taker who stops by during fava bean season.”

  She didn’t look convinced. “Maybe he hunts wild boar or sasquatches or something.”

  “Sasquatches don’t exist.”

  “I’m a city girl.” She shrugged. “All wildlife seems mythical and exotic to me.”

  “I don’t think the greater ease of Sasquatch hunting is the reason he wants to live alone in the woods.” He leaned forward, ready to click to the next interview. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s a no.”

  Her stylus tapped against the edge of her tablet as she considered the matter. “Not so fast. Featuring him might help goose our ratings. Maybe we could even propose filming a follow-up special, Tiny House of Terror.”

  She might have begun her internship with HATV only a few months before him, but that time had clearly jaded her.

  “Forget it.” He typed NO into his applicant spreadsheet, letting the rare all-caps refusal express his strong feelings on the matter. “I’m not going to be responsible for any tiny house carnage.”

  “Suit yourself.” She turned back to her messages. “But don’t blame me when we end up featuring yet another cash-strapped single with four enormous dogs who wants full-size appliances, a bathtub
, and a king bed in less than a hundred square feet for a budget of about twenty bucks.”

  He cringed at the mere thought of it.

  Right now, the two of them were sitting in a forgotten corner of the HATV studios, occupying a room of approximately that same size. Only a couple of chipped desks, two computers, and stained tan carpeting filled the space. Yet even without a single refrigerator, bathtub, or mattress, the force of Irene’s presence made the room feel tight.

  He couldn’t imagine trying to fit an entire household into such a tiny footprint. But that’s what people had been clamoring to do, and they wanted to broadcast their tiny house search via HATV. Which meant interns like he and Irene spent way too many hours sorting through applicants.

  With a sigh, he clicked on the next possibility, a thirty-something woman named Lucy Finch. “Better a boring participant than someone who hunts villagers for sport.”

  She snorted. “After another month of this, you’ll think differently. Trust me.”

  When Lucy Finch filled his monitor, he groaned. “Oh, Jesus. Another latter-day hippie type.”

  “Told you,” Irene said.

  He began to take stock of the woman. White. Blond hair. Brown eyes. Tortoise-shell frames for her glasses. Long, frizzy curls that tangled with her dangling peace-sign earrings. No makeup. A nose stud and a wide, tentative smile. Some kind of flowy tie-dyed top, and if he wasn’t mistaken…

  He looked closer, squinting as she wiggled in the chair to get herself settled.

  Yup. No bra. Certain viewers would definitely appreciate that.

  “Tell us about yourself,” urged Martha, the woman who conducted all the interviews for Tiny House Trackers. “Your name, your job, and why you need a tiny house.”

  “I’m Lucy Finch.” The woman was fiddling with something in her palm, rubbing her thumb in circles against it again and again. “I’m a licensed and Board-Certified massage therapist in Marysburg, Virginia. I used to manage our local Massage Mania, but I was just promoted. Now I’m going to help open new locations around the country and train their managers and employees.”

  It seemed Ms. Finch possessed a certain amount of professional ambition, which he duly noted in his spreadsheet.

  With her free hand, she tucked a hank of curls behind her ear. “I’ll be moving frequently. I decided living in a tiny house that could move with me made more sense than month-by-month rentals or hotel rooms. And I liked the idea of paring my belongings down to the minimum and leaving a smaller carbon footprint.”

  “Why did you choose to apply to Tiny House Trackers?” Martha’s warm voice came from behind the camera. “What factors played into your decision?”

  The woman winced. “Well, to be honest, it wasn’t really my idea. My friend Allie convinced me.”

  A rustling of papers offscreen. “And Allie is your real estate agent?”

  “She said she could find me a great tiny house in the area. I’m not quite sure what I want yet, but—”

  “A yurt.” Irene was still perusing her tablet. “That type always goes for a yurt.”

  “You don’t know that.” He gestured to the monitor. “She might choose a cabin in a forest where she can hug trees whenever she wants. Or a converted train car that she’ll paint with peace symbols and decorate with tie-dyed scarves and posters of Jerry Garcia. There are lots of possibilities.”

  “Mark my words. There are yurt people and non-yurt people, and trust me, kid, she’s a yurt person.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “I’m actually older than you.”

  “Maybe in years. Not in wisdom.”

  Lucy Finch was still talking. “—room to store my massage table when I’m not using it, in case I see clients on the side. A bathroom big enough for those clients to change. If I have a loft, steps instead of a ladder, so my dog can—”

  Blah, blah, blah. Sweet smile and braless state notwithstanding, her story wouldn’t grab viewer attention, not enough for their ratings to draw even with their competitor’s tiny house show, and she didn’t seem like the type to break down or throw a fit on camera. Not good fodder for unscripted television.

  He made a few more notes in the spreadsheet and prepared to reject yet another potential participant. Dammit, Irene had a point when it came to Mr. Silence of the Tiny House Lambs. Maybe they could conduct a poll during the episode about whether the man hunted wildlife or hapless tourists, and even add a few tips in a chyron about how to escape from backwoods cabins of horror.

  Martha was wrapping up her questions. “Would you want to include a friend or significant other in your tiny house search?”

  Poised to click to the next interview, his hand stilled on the mouse.

  With that question, Ms. Finch’s whole demeanor had changed. Her smile spread to her eyes, which crinkled appealingly behind her glasses. Her thumb slowed its circles, then stopped altogether. Her shoulders lowered, and she sat back in her chair.

  “If you chose me as a participant, my friend Sebastián Castillo would accompany me.” She laughed, the sound warm and low. “Much to his dismay.”

  “He doesn’t want to help you?” Martha’s voice had sharpened, but not with impatience. With interest, as she sensed the same shift Cowan had.

  “He likes to keep a low profile. He’d rather break a limb than be on television.” She wrinkled her nose. “I felt terrible about asking him, but I need his support and input. I trust him more than anyone else I know. And when I offered to bother someone else, he said that wasn’t necessary.”

  Beside Cowan, Irene had raised her head to watch Ms. Finch. “Huh.”

  “How long have you and Sebastián known one another?” Martha asked.

  “Since high school. His family moved from California to live closer to relatives in the D.C. area, and we became friends almost immediately. Even after graduation, we stayed in touch through letters and phone calls, and we saw each other whenever he came to visit his parents. When he moved back to Marysburg last year, we became close again.”

  She’d set aside the object in her palm, placing it on a nearby table. A rock, he now saw. A worry stone. And as she talked about Sebastián, she gestured with both hands, her face lit with enthusiasm.

  “Have you two ever dated?”

  “No.” Ms. Finch paused, and her smile turned wistful. “No. Although I always wond—” She cut herself off. “No, we haven’t.”

  “Would Mr. Castillo’s spouse object to his assisting you? Or a significant other of some sort?”

  Clever Martha. Cutting to the heart of the matter in the guise of professional concern.

  “He’s not dating anyone right now.” Ms. Finch bit her lip. “He broke up with his last girlfriend shortly after I moved to Marysburg.”

  “I just bet he did.” Irene had shoved her tablet to one side and was drumming her fingers on the desk, as she always did when excited. “Cowan, switch to his interview.”

  Lucy Finch’s brows had drawn together. “But I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. Our relationship has never been romantic in any—”

  Sebastián Castillo’s face replaced his longtime friend’s on the monitor.

  Golden-brown skin. Black hair, short along the sides, longer and a bit choppy on top. Either dark brown or black eyes. Thick brows. Clean-shaven. A crisp button-down shirt, his tie slightly loosened and askew.

  Unlike Ms. Finch, he didn’t bother to force a smile. He wasn’t frowning, either, though. Instead, his face revealed nothing. No nervousness. No impatience. No emotion whatsoever. His expression was as smooth as Ms. Finch’s worry stone.

  It remained so as he answered Martha’s initial question.

  His hands lay flat on the table before him. “I’m thirty-three. A mechanical engineer. I help my company modify our engine designs to meet upcoming emissions legislation.”

  Martha didn’t waste any more time on irrelevant topics. “And why did you agree to help Lucy with her tiny house search?”

  Irene had leaned forw
ard, her green eyes sharp on Mr. Castillo’s face.

  Cowan returned his attention to the interview just in time to see the transformation.

  Sebastián Castillo’s stony façade cracked at the mere mention of Lucy Finch’s name. His countenance softened, his fingers curled into loose fists, and the corners of his mouth tucked inward. An abortive smile? A frown of worry? Cowan couldn’t tell, but it was something. Something that might make for very, very good television.

  “She needs me.” That was all Mr. Castillo said. For him, it was clearly enough.

  “And you’d do anything for her?” Martha prodded.

  At that, an almost indecipherable smile stretched his lips, affectionate and a touch sad. “Anything. Even go on a cable reality show.”

  Irene whistled. “He’s hot as hell when he smiles.”

  Cowan let out his own slow breath as he battled irrational annoyance. “He’s also half in love with Lucy Finch, unless I miss my guess.”

  “I think the feeling’s mutual.” Her head tilted, and her fingers resumed drumming against the table. “Although I suppose they could just be really good friends and nothing more.”

  “Maybe.” With reluctance, he pointed out the obvious. “She’s about to buy a yurt and move away from him.”

  His coworker reached for her tablet and opened a new document. “Maybe that’ll depend on how the tiny house hunt goes.”

  He slanted her a warning look. “We can’t sabotage the houses she sees.”

  “That’s correct. But my guess is that the options are limited in her corner of Virginia.” Irene’s gamine face, so familiar after weeks of working side by side, stretched into a grin. “And we don’t have to help her real estate agent find better ones. We can also give a heads-up to the crew.”

  Any certainty he’d briefly possessed was crumbling into doubt. “I’m not sure we should mess with people’s lives for the sake of good TV.”