Barefoot by the Sea (Barefoot Bay)

by Roxanne St Claire

  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 l
ooked 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.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was the best time in the kitchen. After the resort brunch was served and cleaned up, the restaurant closed for the rest of the weekend, so on Sunday afternoons, the kitchen was dark, deserted, and very, very cozy.

  Especially in the cold and dark dry-storage pantry, where two people could find a corner to kiss and whisper—and share secrets.

  Except Marcus wasn’t sharing anything right now but tonsil hockey. Of course, they hadn’t been together in two days, so how could they keep their hands off each other?

  “Come on.” Marcus tugged at the sleeve of Ashley’s hoodie. “Take your top off, babe.”

  “It’s cold, Marc.”

  He pulled her higher on his lap, right onto an epic-sized boner. “I’ll keep you warm,” he teased. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Ashley laughed softly, repositioning herself into a straddle, enjoying the little fireworks that exploded between her legs as she moved over the firm ridge between his.

  “Let’s just do this,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and humping like they did last time. “It’s fun.”

  “Fun for you.” He slid a hand under her hoodie, finding his way beneath her T-shirt and heading north to her boob. They’d gone this far already, so it wasn’t like she could say no. They were headed…there. Fast. But she wasn’t sure she wanted her first time to be in the dry-storage pantry.

  A different kind of heat slithered through her, making her stomach tighten but not in the way it did when she thought about how much she liked this boy. This was a different tightness. This was an ache. He was definitely the one. It was only a matter of time until she lost her virginity to him.

  He got his thumb right over her nipple and pleasure and pain welled up so intensely she wanted to scream. All she wanted was more. And so did he.

  After all, he wasn’t some stinking high school junior who’d be happy making out and getting the occasional feel. This was Marcus and he was a man, especially since he’d be twenty in two months.

  He started pumping between her legs, his eyes closing, his hands wandering to her other boob. “You’re hot, Ashley.”

  She tried to let the compliment warm her, kissing his face. “So are you.”

  “Take this stupid thing off,” he murmured, fumbling with her bra, underlining the plea with a hard press of his crotch right into hers. Oh, man, that felt good. “I want to see you, Ashley. I want to see your sexy titties.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to decide. She was seventeen, for crying out loud. It wasn’t like it was a huge deal.

  “Don’t you like me?” he asked, coming around the back to her bra snap.

  She wiggled to stop him. “You know I do. But we can just do this today, okay? Like last time?”

  “You came in your jeans last time,” he said, pulling back.

  Oh, she had. And it had felt so freaking good she almost cried.

  “So we are not even, girl.”

  True, she hadn’t returned the favor. Yet. “You can come in your jeans,” she offered, kind of hoping he didn’t want to take her up on that. But what was the alternative? She knew the alternative. Maybe she could just kiss him and not put the whole thing in her mouth.

  He took her hand and dragged it down there, making her rub his hard-on over his jeans.

  “C’mon, Ash. Touch me. Put your—” He jerked away, pushing her back. “Did you hear that?”

  She hadn’t heard anything but the blood pounding in her head and way too many questions that didn’t seem to plague any of her friends who did all kinds of smexy stuff with their boyfriends.

  “Listen, Marc, we—”

  “Shh!” He held a hand up to her mouth. “Someone’s in the kitchen.”

  Her mother! “Shit.” She scrambled off his lap, ice-cold fear replacing red-hot sexy in a blink.

  “Quiet!” he demanded. “They might not come in here.”

  “They?” she whispered? Her mom and Clay? Shit monkeys! Life was over. She listened for the telltale sound of a baby’s cry, because they wouldn’t go anywhere without Elijah. Not anywhere, including the volleyball parents’ meeting they’d missed and the parent-teachers’ conference they blew off last week. Not that they needed to know she was majorly effing up calculus, but—

  “It’s John,” Marcus said. “The new chef.”

  She scowled. “He’s moving into his bungalow today. What would he be doing here?”

  “Be quiet, Ash. Maybe he’ll leave.”

  Ashley stayed right where she was on the pantry floor, staring at the door handle, taking silent breaths of flour and fear. Would the chef come in here? Would she be in trouble? Would he tell her mother what she was doing and who she was with?

  Because this new boyfriend was probably not going to go over big.

  Ashley brushed her hands over her top and jacket. At least she hadn’t gone any farther.

  The door handle moved, then stopped. She heard a voice, but couldn’t make out what he’d said. Who was he with? Aunt Tessa? She’d die if Tessa saw her here. And of course her mom would find out and blow a gasket.

  “Go.” She pushed Marcus. “Go tell him you’re working or something and don’t let him see me.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause he’ll think I’m, like, a slut or something.”

  Marcus looked at her. “Who cares? He’ll fire my ass if he catches me in the kitchen now.”

  Who cares? She did. But she didn’t want Marcus to get fired, either. “Then tell him you’re doing inventory. You’ll get promoted, not fired.”

  He looked at her, a mix of fear and hope in his dark, dark eyes. God, he was cute. “Please, Marc.”

  The handle moved again and, to his credit, Marcus shot up, taking two long strides and opening it himself, using his body to block any view of the pantry. Ashley pushed to her feet and slipped out of vi
ew behind shelves.

  “What are you doing here?” Marcus asked, sounding like the guiltiest person on earth.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Um, just…” Inventory, you moron! “Working.”

  Ashley closed her eyes and let out a silent grunt.

  John pushed the door farther open. “Working on what?” he demanded, accusation in the question.

  “You know, like, stuff that needs to be done.”

  “In the pantry?” John asked. “What exactly are you doing in there?”

  “Nothing, man. You don’t have to be a dick—”

  “Marcus?”

  Oh, gawd. Aunt Tessa was here.

  “What’s going on?”

  Marcus didn’t answer, but glanced to his side, where Ashley stood. Why not scream my name, pal? She gave him a pleading look and put her finger to her lips.

  “I’m counting inventory,” he finally said.

  “Counting inventory?” John definitely wasn’t buying it. “Or stealing inventory?”

  “I’m not stealing anything!”

  “Then let me in to see what you’re doing.”

  Marcus stood frozen. “Tell him it’s cool, Tessa. I come in and do inventory a lot on Sundays for overtime.”

  “Are you alone in there?” she asked.

  Ashley almost slid back to the floor. Shit, shit, shit.

  “Yeah,” he said, about as convincingly as a two-year-old with chocolate on his face. He started to step out of the pantry, carefully keeping them from coming in. “I’m done anyway.”

  “You want to show me your jacket pockets?” John demanded.

  Ashley’s jaw dropped. He really thought Marcus was a thief? Would Marcus subject himself to a search or sell her out? That would really tell her what he was made of, wouldn’t it?

  “Eff you, John.”

  “That’s Chef John to you. Empty your jacket pockets.”