Tempest Rising by Tracy Deebs Page B

feeling a little sick.
    Was it just my mind playing tricks on me or was something going on with my senses? Was the change starting to happen?
    “You ready to go?”
    Mark was staring at me with an unusual exasperation, and when I looked at the table I realized why. He’d finished the pizza and paid the check, all while I was taking a little side trip to la-la land.
    I grabbed his hand and let him pull me to my feet. “Sorry I haven’t been the best company lately,” I murmured lamely as he guided me out of the restaurant.
    “I’m getting used to it,” came his cryptic reply.
    “What does that mean?”
    He shook his head. “I don’t want to argue, Tempest.”
    “You could have fooled me.” I felt like a jerk even as I said the words, but I couldn’t pull them back. A part of me was spoiling for a fight and was really hoping that Mark would give it to me.
    But he merely shook his head and started toward his bike, a tricked-out Ducati Streetfighter S that had been his seventeenth-birthday present. He loved the motorcycle, but I knew he’d trade it for my Brewer in a heartbeat.
    “What movie do you want to see?” he asked.
    “I picked last time.”
    “Yeah, but it’s your birthday tomorrow. I figured I could be a gentleman and let you choose tonight.”
    “And then you get to choose the next two times, right?”
    “Three actually. The offer comes with interest attached.”
    I laughed. “Of course it does.”
    He drove too fast, as usual, and we got to the theater in record time. I ended up choosing an action movie that I knew Mark had been anxious to see. There was nothing I really wanted to watch and anyway, it wasn’t like I was going to be able to pay attention. It had taken all my effort to keep up my end of the conversation while we were in line.
    As the movie raged around us with exploding buildings, car chases, and gunfights galore, I cuddled into Mark and simply concentrated on how good it felt to be curled up next to him, despite the prickles of pain caused by the brush of his hand on my bare skin. His arm was warm and comforting around my shoulders, his chest firm against the back of my shoulder. He smelled like pizza and the ocean and the cologne I had had made especially for him.
    I never wanted the movie to end.
    But the two hours flew when I wanted them to drag and after the mother of all fight scenes, the film ended with the good guys bloodied but victorious. If only things were as black and white in real life.
    Mark drove us home slowly, and I tried to stay relaxed, but the closer we got to my house the more freaked out I got. It was eleven thirty. My birthday was less than one hour away.
    Would I change, like Cinderella, as soon as the clock struck midnight? Or would it happen later, in the light of day?
    Would I get a choice, like my mother had promised, or would the mermaid thing just happen?
    “Tempest.” Mark’s voice was impatient and a little annoyed, and I realized we were parked in front of my house. He’d turned off his bike and was waiting for me to climb down. “Hello? Tempest?”
    “What?”
    “You did it again—I swear, you were a million miles away.”
    “Sorry.” I was beginning to sound like a broken record.
    “Do you want to go in, or walk by the beach for a little while?”
    For the first time that I could remember, I didn’t want to be near the water. The idea of walking on the sand and letting the ocean kiss my toes made me tremble—not now, not tonight. It had taken enough from me. The idea of it taking what might be my last moments with Mark was too much for me to handle—or accept.
    “Let’s go inside.”
    He seemed surprised by my answer, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he waited for me to get off the bike, then followed, his arm around my shoulders as we walked toward the front door.
    The proprietary way he held on to me was suddenly annoying, though I wasn’t sure why. Usually I liked the way Mark was a total gentleman—he always held doors for me