Barefoot by the Sea

Chapter Twelve

Two days later, Tessa lounged on her back porch, angling her laptop screen so the afternoon sun didn’t cause a glare. That way, she had a perfect view of the gorgeous lines of the dreamy, feminine, lace-layered wedding dress on the home page of All Gussied Up, the Web site run by the wedding consultant with pink hair.

She’d meant to spend this quiet Sunday boning up on each of the VIP guests, but for some reason she’d yet to click to Gussie McBain’s bio, staring at the dress instead.

“You’d look amazing in that.”

She jumped a foot and stabbed the Escape key, spinning around at the man’s voice. And not just any man—the man she’d spent the last two days allowing far more of a hold on her thoughts than he should have.

But look at him. And look she did, devouring the white T-shirt molded to substantial muscle, the faded jeans clinging to powerful thighs, his honey hair tangled from the wind and face shadowed with unshaved stubble, his hand clutching—a duffel bag?

“Hey, what’s up?” she asked, going for casual and friendly but getting a nervous hitch in her throat that she cleared away.

“I’m moving in.”

Her eyes widened and he laughed, the sound rolling right through to her toes.

“Next door,” he said, half lifting the bag in the direction of the bungalow that used to be Zoe and Pasha’s. After Pasha died, Zoe and Oliver had moved off the property and the bungalow had been empty. So of course Lacey would offer him the house built for sole purpose of housing Casa Blanca’s top staff.

But why hadn’t Lacey told Tessa?

“Well there goes the neighborhood,” she quipped, repositioning the laptop and sitting up so she wasn’t flat on her back in front of him.

He grinned, climbing up the single stair to her deck as though she’d invited him. There was one other chair, but he dropped the bag and sat down on the chaise next to her, taking his time to check her out from head to toe.

“Nice.” One syllable, one smile, one long look. “To see you,” he finally added.

“You, too.”

“It’s been thirty-eight hours. Did you miss me?”

Her jaw loosened, then she laughed. “You’re counting hours?”

“Mmm.” He leaned forward like he might kiss her but took the laptop instead, turning it to face him, opening and clicking. “Wedding dresses?”

“Research on our important guests,” she shot back.

He studied the Web site but she studied him, counting golden lashes and remembering how his lips felt.

After a second, he closed the computer and carefully put it on the cocktail table next to her. Then he leveled her with his direct attention, placing his hands on either side of her to pin her on the chaise.

“How many times did you think about me?” he asked.

She laughed again, shaking her head. “I lost count after two.” Hundred. “You’ve got a big ego.”

“I’ve got a big…” He leaned lower and she braced for something sweet and dirty. “Crush.”

She closed her eyes. “That’s not what I thought you were going to say.”

He brushed her cheek with his, chuckling low so she could feel his chest rumble. “Come to the kitchen with me,” he said into her ear.

“I thought you were moving in.”

“I am.” He leaned up, jutting his chin to the duffel bag. “There’s my stuff.”

“That’s it?”

“I travel light.”

Because he had no roots. “Isn’t the kitchen closed after brunch now?”

“Yep, but I have my own research to do. I want to get the lay of the land, try a new recipe, and”—he ran a finger over her arm—“hang out with you.”

There was no way to say no. After she showed him around the bungalow next door, they walked through the gardens toward the resort.

“One thing about living in the employee bungalows,” Tessa said as they rounded the property of the northernmost villa to see the full vista of Barefoot Bay, “the commute doesn’t suck.”

John blew out a low, slow whistle, taking in the glorious horizon, awash with the first tinge of pink and plum, promising a breathtaking sunset later.

“I haven’t been up this far north at this time of day yet. That’s quite a view.” He slowed his step and looked along the gentle curve of the Gulf inlet. “This is a beautiful property. This was in Lacey’s family, I understand?”

“Some of it. Her grandparents were part of the original founders of Mimosa Key, and they claimed much of this inlet when they helped build the island. After they died, she and Ashley lived in an old house her grandparents had built, but it was destroyed by a hurricane a little over two years ago. She bought the adjacent lots for next to nothing from landowners who wanted out after the storm. From there, she built this.”

He nodded, mouth turned up in approval. “She’s a driven woman.”

“Two years ago, Lacey would have guffawed in laughter over that statement. She was the original self-doubter. But then…” She smiled, thinking of her closest friend’s remarkable transformation. “Clay Walker showed up on this beach and she’s been a firecracker ever since.”

“Ah, the love of a good man and all that.”

The comment slipped under her skin, and it shouldn’t have, so she nodded, pretending to enjoy the view.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Pretty much from the beginning. My divorce was final around the same time as the hurricane and we—Zoe and Joss and me—all gathered here to help Lacey. I liked the area and decided to settle here and start the gardens and oversee a lot of the landscaping. Now Joss and Zoe are here, so…”

He gave her a sideways smile. “So there are a lot of roots taking hold around you, aren’t there?”

Asked the man who moved in with a weekend’s worth of clothes as all his belongings. She attempted a shrug in response. “It’s great to live near my friends. Like I told you, they’re family to me.”

He didn’t respond to that but put a warm, strong hand on her back to guide her to the stone trail that cut through the property.

“As far as your commute,” she said, “you have two choices to get to work. This path, which will take you through the entire resort to the main building.” She gestured toward the canopy of live oak trees mixed with several different kinds of palms that lined the wide walkway, meandering more or less parallel to the beach. “Or cross the bridge and walk the beach.”

“Which do you prefer?” He took her hand, the most natural move that sent the most unnatural thrill through her.

“Depends on my mood,” she said.

“What kind of mood are you in now?”

She made no attempt to unthread their fingers. “Let’s see. Unsure? Surprised? Maybe a little tense?” And happy, excited, and wary.

He brought those joined hands a little higher, closer to his mouth. Was he going to kiss her hand again? “Tense? You’re taking a walk. It’s perfectly harmless.”

“Harmless?” She gave a soft snort. “No one could look at you and call you harmless.”

“I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“But you could destroy a woman’s heart.”

The slightest shadow of a reaction darkened his eyes. It was gone before she could grab hold of it, but she knew what she’d seen. Guilt. He’d probably thought all about the baby issue, and decided to…

Come and hang out with her.

She waited a beat, so he could contradict her accusation, but he didn’t.

“Points for not denying the truth,” she said softly.

“I wouldn’t destroy a woman’s heart on…” His voice faded.

She laughed softly. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—even say “on purpose.” “I’ll give you this, John Brown. You’re not a liar. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your honesty.”

He bit his lip, letting out an exhale, that darkened expression clearing again. “What I am,” he finally said, dragging his gaze to her face, “is interested in everything you have to say and do.” He lifted their hands again, and this time he did put his lips on her knuckles, holding her gaze as he kissed.

Just relax and enjoy, Tess. She smiled at him, listening to her mental instructions and those of her friends for the past, well, thirty-eight hours. The girls had pronounced him perfect, utterly focused on how nurturing he was with Elijah.

Maybe they were right and she’d rushed him with the baby talk. Spooked him again. He was looking for sexy time and there she’d gone proclaiming her baby dreams one more time.

Vowing to keep those dreams in the background, she gave him a purposely coy smile. “You want to see my pride and joy?”

“Yes.” The answer, without a second’s hesitation, earned him more points.

“Then we’ll take the path and start right here.” She pointed to the shrub bursting with fuchsia-and-white blooms. “Because it shows some of my best work.”

“Is this a hibiscus?” He fingered one of the flowers, the petals appearing delicate in his large, masculine hands.

“Actually, no, but that’s an understandable mistake. And to be honest, anyone could grow hibiscus in Florida; it’s just this side of a weed. But this isn’t.” She touched a flower. “This is rockrose, which is the name of that villa.” She indicated the cozy one-bedroom villa about twenty feet away. “All of the villas at Casa Blanca are named for flowers, herbs, and spices that are indigenous to Morocco and North Africa.”

“The inspiration for the architecture and the name?” he asked.

“Exactly. And I took it as my personal challenge to grow each one of the plants outside of the villa that bears its name. And, let me tell you, it was a challenge growing some African plants in Florida. But every single one is thriving.” She tugged his hand, pulling him down the path to the next villa. “Come see the best one.”

They wound around the curve of the path to the gates of the next villa and she pointed to the twenty-foot-long bed where she’d spent an inordinate amount of time trying to coax the purple crocuses to life. About a dozen blooms remained, but two months ago there’d been almost a hundred. “They’re not as robust as they were in September, but still…” She kneeled in front of the flowers. “I’m proud of those blooms.”

He crouched next to her, touching the withered petal gently, then sniffing. “Saffron?”

“Exactly, and that’s the name of this villa.” She beamed at him. “Of course a chef would recognize that.”

“One of my favorite ingredients, living in Singa—” He shut his mouth quickly, flinching almost imperceptibly. “Saffron is one of my favorite spices.”

She frowned, certain he was going to say “Singapore,” but there’d been no mention of that city when he’d given her his life’s history at dinner or on his resume. “Did you live there?” she asked. After a beat of silence, she added, “In Singapore?”

“Very briefly.” He studied each petal of the crocus intently, as though he’d never seen one so close before. “Between California and Nevada.”

“That’s quite a detour between those states.” Living in the Far East was a fairly major piece of a person’s background. Why not mention it? “How long were you there?” she prodded.

“Not very. It was more like an extended vacation. Too short to count as actually living there.”

Except he’d just said he’d lived there.

“Do you use this in the kitchen?” he asked quickly, brushing the orange stigma with a feathertip touch. “Or are these for show?”

“I can’t grow enough to dry the stamen for cooking, but I have a good supplier if you really want saffron in your recipes.” She stood slowly, the oversight on his past still pressing a familiar hot button: secrets. Not to mention men who lie about where they’d spent time.“Why didn’t you mention living in Singapore when you told me your life story?”

He didn’t look up. In fact, she could have sworn his fingers stilled. “It didn’t seem that important.” He flicked the flower. “Were these hard to grow?”

Did he really care about the flowers, or was this a way to keep her from asking more questions?

“Hard enough. How long were you there?”

“I’ve heard they travel deep in the soil and lots of people think they’re dead when they’re just deep.”

She frowned at him, processing the comment on one level, but stuck in Singapore on another. “That’s exactly what happened,” she said. “I thought I’d failed completely when I couldn’t find one bulb with life. But when I went to dig them out and start over, I realized the bulbs must have grown legs because the roots were deep in the soil.”

He still didn’t look up, working his way to the next blossom. Something about this conversation was way, way off.

“It wasn’t that long.” He looked up at her. “That I lived there, I mean.”

Her heart rose with relief. At least he’d acknowledged the question. “I was wondering,” she said.

“Your friends told me you hate secrets.”

“Generous of them,” she said dryly.

“No, I asked.”

“If I hate secrets?”

He stood slowly. “Zoe wanted me to know your soft spot.”

“She would. And get graphic, too.”

He laughed, taking her hand and pulling her closer. “I can find that spot on my own.” Easing her all the way into him, he lowered his head nearer to her face. “If you’ll give me another chance.”

Relief made room for hope. The girls were right. She’d pushed him too hard, too fast. “I’m giving you a chance right now.”

This close, she could barely focus. Hell, she could barely stand, let alone wait much longer. He smelled like sunshine and sea breeze and a hint of sweet and spicy saffron clinging to his fingertips. He smelled sexy.

“Do you hate surprises as much as secrets?” he asked.

She considered that and lifted a shoulder. “Don’t keep any and we’ll be fine.”

He closed his eyes and brushed her lips.

“John?” she murmured. “Can you make that promise?”

He barely kissed her, but it was enough to send some hot sparks through her and make her want to lean in and kiss more. She could kiss this guy for hours. “Can you?” she breathed into the kiss.

He flicked her lower lip with his tongue, then added some pressure to her lips. “I like kissing you,” he murmured.

“Mutual,” she kissed back, the breath trapped in her lungs.

When he ended the kiss, he placed his lips against her ear. “Tessa?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve missed you.” And when he kissed her again, he stroked her back and she felt every muscle in his body harden against her. Everything felt so good. So right. So absolutely perfectly delicious.

She opened her mouth and kissed him back, long enough that she almost forgot that he didn’t actually make the promise she’d asked for.