Sonny tried to wipe the silly grin off her face, but it was Christmas, and she had nothing pressing on her schedule. Grant wouldn’t even expect her to check in. Her boss would be spending time with his
Before the run, Sonny gave Carly her first self-defense lesson as a warm-up. The girl was lithe and limber, and would have been a good student if she’d taken the subject seriously. But she was a typical teenager, naive and optimistic, confident in the assumption that she would always be safe.
Ben, on the other hand, was a very quick study. He was able to flip her over, off her feet, after less than five minutes of training. It unsettled her, but she reminded herself that he was a world-class athlete, a powerful man in top condition.
She cut the lesson short before he got too cocky.
Carly was a better runner than a grappler, having natural grace, legs like a gazelle, and energy to burn. She lacked drive and endurance, however, so she tired more quickly than Sonny or Ben. After a couple of miles, she let them go on ahead, taking a break to sit on the sand.
Sonny gave it her all, but Ben beat her easily. In a contest of self-defense, he was no match for her. In one of raw athleticism, she was the loser.
Gasping for breath, she collapsed on the sand, totally spent, conceding her defeat. She hadn’t pushed herself so hard in a while, and it felt good, although winning would have felt better. Gloating, he sat down beside her, pulling his T-shirt over his head and using it to wipe his face.
“Oh my God,” she said, when she saw his chest.
He looked down, running the T-shirt over himself absently, mopping his sweaty abs. “What?”
“Your body,” was all she could manage.
“What about it?”
In a wetsuit, he was spectacular. In jeans and a T-shirt, a suit, or a sweater, he was gorgeous. But bare- chested, he was…wow.
“It’s hideous,” she said, smiling.
He smiled back at her. The sexy, off-center smile, the well-toned body…it was like a double whammy. “I’ve been told that before.”
“I’m sure you have. Put your shirt back on. You’re scaring little children.”
He laughed.
She rested on her side, facing him, one hand against her cheek, bent elbow supporting the weight of her head. The other arm, draped across her stomach, made slow, lazy circles in the sand. “How often do you jog?” she asked.
“I don’t.”
She sat up in disbelief, no longer relaxed. “How could you beat me, then?”
“Surfing, swimming, paddling out. It keeps you in shape.”
Her eyes wandered over his chest. “I can see that. You must lift weights.”
“Nah.”
“Sit-ups?”
He clenched his stomach muscles self-consciously. “Never.”
“You are such a liar,” she accused, insanely jealous.
“What do you do?” he asked, giving her body a similar examination.
“Me? I do everything.”
His eyes darkened.
“I mean, I do cardio and strength training. I have to work so hard to maintain what little muscle tone I have.” She flexed her own bicep, feeling it, comparing it to his. He didn’t have that overworked, over-stylized look some men spend hours every day in the gym to achieve. He was just tight and hard and perfectly toned.
Her hands itched to test every inch of him for firmness. “I can’t believe you get all that from surfing.”
He shrugged, making those gorgeous muscles dance in the morning light. “I have to work to keep my muscle mass lower, actually. It’s better to be quick and light on the water.”
“Is that why you’re so health-conscious? To keep from bulking up?”
“Yes. Nobody thinks it’s strange when an Olympian has a strict diet regimen, but because I’m a surfer, I’m supposed to live on burgers and French fries. It’s a stereotype.”
“You make a pretty good-looking poster boy for clean living,” she decided, letting her eyes fall over his flat stomach, down to the silky line of hair that dipped into the waistband of his shorts.
“You’re embarrassing me.”
Her gaze returned to his face. “Am I?” She grinned, enjoying his discomfort. “Sorry, I forgot. Being worshipped by women is tiresome. You’re so over it.”
“I’m going to throw you in the ocean,” he growled.
“Go ahead and try,” she said, delighted with the suggestion.
And he did. Or she let him. By the time they came out of the icy surf, laughing, dripping, soaked to the skin, and covered with sand, neither was sure who had gotten the better of whom.
When Carly caught up with them, she was horrified by their childish behavior. “I am not walking down Windansea with a couple of wet dorks,” she said. True to her word, she kept her distance, trailing a hundred feet behind them the entire way back to the house.
In contrast to the playful, easy ambience of the morning jog, Christmas with the Fortunes was a tense, quietly antagonistic celebration.
Ben’s father was a physically imposing man, tall and distinguished-looking, decades older than his wife. A retired criminal court judge, he was also loud, supercilious, and critical.
Ben’s brother, Nathan, brought a vintage bottle of burgundy, a friendly smile, and his boyfriend, Peter. Judge, as everyone called him, drank the wine, ignored his younger son, and flat-out refused to acknowledge Peter’s existence.
Ben, on the other hand, was treated as though everything he touched turned to gold. It was strange, as he’d done nothing to earn his father’s approval, from what Sonny could ascertain. He’d chosen surfing over football, crushing his father’s greatest vicarious dream. He also dropped out of school to follow the endless summer, a move that had been even less popular with his folks. And when he finally went to college, he majored in Philosophy instead of Prelaw.
Despite these disappointments, Judge gave Ben his deference, and his respect.
Nathan was the one who’d followed in his father’s footsteps at Harvard Law. Having done a background check on him already, Sonny knew Nathan was a public defender, and he’d also played college ball. Lacking Ben’s size and natural athleticism, he’d gone far on guts, pride, and the steely determination of a second son desperate to prove he was good enough.
He wasn’t, and he never would be.
In the courtroom, Judge wouldn’t have discriminated against a person based on race, religion, or sexual orientation. It was a shame he couldn’t allow his son the same courtesy.
The Fortunes had their differences, but one thing was clear: they all adored Carly. When she wanted to be, the girl was like a ray of light.
Sonny figured they would use the holiday as an excuse to spoil her rotten. She was wrong. For a family of considerable wealth, the gift exchange was completed with very little fanfare, the items more thoughtful than lavish. Carly, for instance, gave Ben a philosophy book, and he presented her with a set of crescent wrenches that sent her into raptures.
Sonny accepted a gift with surprise, reading the card aloud. “To Summer. Love, Ben,” was written in dramatic, feminine script. She put a hand over her heart, as if deeply touched. “I didn’t know you felt this way,” she teased, much to Carly’s delight. When she opened the package, the smile fell from her face. “It’s beautiful,” she said, lifting the necklace up to see the stone in the sunlight. It was the most elegant piece of jewelry she’d ever seen. “Thank you.”
“Carly picked it,” he said brusquely.
It was no less than she’d suspected, but hearing him say it out loud, in front of everyone, made her chest tighten and her throat close up.
