Barefoot by the Sea (Barefoot Bay)
Page 14
“Waiting,” he murmured, eyes still closed.
“Watching,” she replied.
He opened his eyes and held her gaze. “Watching what?”
“You.” She leaned a little closer, so attracted to his mouth she couldn’t even pretend to not want to kiss him. But she slipped the chocolate onto his tongue instead, and before he tasted it, he closed the space and kissed her lightly.
Bathed in sunset, warmed by chocolate, close to a man who made every cell want to dance, Tessa grabbed the two seconds of pure bliss and tucked them into her heart, to be relived soon and often.
After a moment, he nudged her. “So? What’s the problem?”
“Ashley asked me not to tell her mother about him.”
“Difficult for you, I’d imagine.”
“Mmm.” She nodded, combing the sand next to her and closing over the duck-clam shell she’d dropped when she saw him. “Very difficult.”
She ran her nail along the shell’s ridges, mentally counting in tens, then multiplying that by a hundred. “What’s five thousand divided by three hundred and sixty-five?”
He looked surprised. “Why do you need to know?”
“Didn’t you say you do math like that in your head?”
“I did, and the answer is about thirteen and a half.”
She nodded, impressed. “You are a math whiz. Who’d guess that from a man with long hair, big muscles, multiple tattoos, and drives a motorcycle built to race off into the sunset?”
“Those may be things that terrify you, Tess, but none of those things says I can’t do simple division.”
“You’re right.”
“About the things that terrify you or simple division?”
“Both.” She held up the shell. “But, for your information, you figured out that for thirteen years, a sweet little mollusk called this home and lived in it, protected from all the dangers of the sea, until he was forced out to be food for some big shark.”
He looked equally impressed. “And you are a shell whiz.” He reached for the seashell but took her hand instead, clasping both in a strong, straightforward grip. “Who’d guess that from a woman with soulful eyes, sinful lips, no visible tattoos, and drives a truck big enough to haul a half ton of dirt.”
She laughed at the echo of her words. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”
“That’s the fun part.” He got closer. “So, are you going to tell Lacey her daughter was making out with the line cook?”
Taking a deep breath, she managed to pull her gaze from the crystal blue of his eyes and look at the sunset, which was only slightly less breathtaking. “I don’t know. Let’s keep flirting instead.”
“Done and done.” He fingered some of her hair, twirling it slowly, a habit she was starting to like a lot. “You’re even prettier when you’re pensive.”
She closed her eyes, tilting her head back, giving him more hair to play with. “God, you’re good. Like world-class, you know? Where did you learn how to work a woman like that? California? Nevada?” She turned to look at him. “Singapore?”
She could have sworn he paled, but that might have been the changing light. “I was born with this curse. Just like you”—he tipped her face toward him—“were born with a very big heart.”
“How do you know that?”
“You love living things,” he said with absolutely no hesitation. “You love fruits, vegetables, flowers, and shellfish.”
And babies. “And I love that girl.” She tipped her head toward Lacey’s house. “So I don’t want her to do something monumentally stupid or dangerous.”
“You think Marcus is trouble?”
“I think he’s a condom-carrying twenty-year-old boy who is taking advantage of a girl who…” Maybe he didn’t need to know all the details of that little family problem Ashley had described. He didn’t need to know his new boss was slightly overwhelmed by life’s responsibilities.
“Who what?”
“Who’s still young and probably feeling a little squeezed for affection right now.”
He nodded. “Yeah, the new baby. Kids’ll do that.”
Wow, perceptive. In fact, something in the way he made that statement was so laden with familiarity it took her by surprise. “That sounded like the voice of experience.”
“God, no.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Marcus doesn’t seem like a bad guy,” he added quickly. “Maybe has a bit of a chip on his shoulder. Wanted to be the chef and resents my appearance, but he’s smart enough to know he can learn from me. Not easy to be the low man in the kitchen.”
More experience speaking, but this time it made sense. “Will you talk to him?”
“Not sure he’ll listen.”
“She didn’t listen either. Still, I really want to respect Ashley’s request. In a weird way, I understand what she’s going through and maybe she has to work it out for herself. Or maybe Lacey…” The thought formed and wrapped around her heart. “Needs to see what she’s doing to her daughter.”
He frowned. “Because she’s preoccupied with a baby and a brand-new business? Can hardly blame her, and Ashley isn’t exactly a child.”
So, so perceptive. “You can’t ignore a kid because of another kid. Or because of your job.”
“Speaking of sounding like the voice of experience.”
She turned to the sand, finding a tiny white cockleshell, the kind that were on Barefoot Bay in the millions.
How had he gotten there already? How had he spent a few hours with her and managed to dig right to a place that she never, ever shared with anyone—not even her closest friends?
“I have to figure out what’s the best thing to do about Ashley.”
“I think you should keep her secret.”
“Why?”
“Because if you tell her mom, shit will hit the fan and she’ll keep seeing him anyway, but on the sly and then they really might get into some trouble. If you keep her secret, Ashley’s got an adult she trusts and then you have a chance to talk to her, to advise her, and give her the kind of attention you think she’s not getting. She’ll confide in you, and you can be more help to her that way.”
She considered that, the wisdom of his words pressing on her chest. “You’re right,” she admitted. Absolutely, dead-on right.
“And in the meantime, I’ll get to know Marcus for you and find out what his intentions are. Although his pocket change tells me exactly what they are.”
“And maybe you can keep him from doing anything stupid.”
He laughed. “A twenty-year-old with raging hormones? Unlikely, but I’ll give it my best shot if it’ll make you feel better.”
She leaned back to get a good look at him. The sun, almost below the horizon now, cast indigo blue in his eyes. “You really are amazing,” she whispered, unable to keep the hint of awe out of her voice.
“’Bout time you noticed.” He closed the rest of the space between them. “So are you, by the way. Are you so fond of sea creatures that you won’t eat them?”
That made her laugh. “I’ll eat them.”
“Good, because I have made you the best shrimp scampi you’ve ever had and I found a great bottle of sauvignon blanc that I’m happy to have taken out of my first check. It was in the wine vault, where not a soul was liplocked, but”—he stood, tugging her up, but she stayed on the sand—“we can change that.”
She didn’t rise when he added some pressure.
“No?”
“Yes, I mean…” She laughed, dropping her head back in surrender. “I’m trying not to be so easy.”
“You’re not easy, trust me.”
“I’m an open book.”
“Not completely.” He gave another gentle yank on her hand. “There’s lots you haven’t told me. Like how you know so much about seashells.”
“Shelling has become one of my favorite pastimes.”
As she rose up, he pulled her right into his chest, melting her into the sweetest embrace. He nuzzled her neck with a fe
w kisses and then slipped up to her ear. “I want to be your favorite pastime,” he whispered.
A million chills exploded all over her, her legs almost buckling at the sexy sound of such a harmless request. “There you go again.”
“You told me to flirt.”
“I didn’t tell you to turn me into a helpless mess of brain-numbing female hormones.”
“Is that what I do?” he asked innocently. “I’ll stop immediately.” He took a step back, but she reached for his hand, bringing him to her side.
“’Sokay. I can handle it.”
“Good girl.” He slipped his arm around her back and guided her down the beach. “Now, teach me about your seashells. Which is your favorite?”
“The junonia.” The word popped out without a moment’s hesitation.
“A junonia.” He dragged the word out, rolling it around his mouth like a piece of sticky candy. “Never heard of that.”
“Well, if you hang around here long enough, you will. She’s the pride of the Gulf Coast barrier islands. Find a junonia and you get your picture in the paper and become the envy of all the shelling professionals.”
He laughed. “There are professionals?”
“Of course. And lucky beginners.”
“I bet I could find one.”
“Oh, the cockiness of a newbie. And if you do, I’ll kill you.”
“What’s it look like?”
“About this big.” She indicated about four inches with her thumb and index finger. “A spindle shape that’s technically known as a fusiform. Like that.” They stopped and she picked up a Florida cone, the most common spiral on the beach. “But the junonia has the most distinctive spots, like little brown squares, and it reminds me of a giraffe.”
“Really?” He hesitated and frowned. “That’s rare?”
“Oh, I know you think you’ve seen them, but a real junonia is nearly impossible to find, and goes for up to fifty bucks in a shell store. Also, because of its unusual shape and the fact that it doesn’t have this little ridge like other pillar shells”—she took his finger and ran it along the inside of the shell—“that’s called an operculum or a trap door. Anyway, it’s an amazing texture, and there’s a lot of folklore about it.”
“What kind of folklore?” He tucked her deeper into his side, a protective, interested, precious gesture that made Tessa almost tilt her head back and reach up for a natural, delicious kiss.
“Well…” Should she tell him? Would it scare him off? Would he think she was crazy? He already knew what she really wanted in this life and the very conversation had brought things to a fairly sudden halt twice now. But why lie? The last thing she wanted was a friendship or romance built on lies.
“It gets its name from Juno, the Roman goddess…” Of marriage and childbirth. “Who is generally considered a protector of women.”
“Ah, I see.”
But, he didn’t, of course. Not really. “So, I’d like to find one, because if I do…” She slowed her step and took a breath, finally looking up, her face at the perfect angle for that kiss.
“Yes?” he waited.
Then I will have a baby. “Then my…” She couldn’t say it. He’d slip through her fingers again, running scared and far, and right now, she couldn’t stand that.
“Then your what?” he prompted.
“Then my every dream will come true.”
He tucked her deeper into his side. “Sounds like a fairy tale.”
Maybe it was. “Like I said, finding one is really rare and almost never happens.”
“But not impossible.”
The way he said it made her light-headed with possibilities. She gave in to the sensation because, right that minute, nothing seemed impossible. Not hope. Not love. Not even finding a junonia.
Chapter Fifteen
The Batphone buzzed. Right in the middle of a sodding lunch rush.
Ian slipped the device from his pocket, knowing who’d sent the text before he looked; only Henry Brooker could reach him on this line and the only outgoing call the phone could make was to Ian’s government liaison. That made every contact urgent.
The text was simple, and short: Call me now.
Ian looked around the kitchen for help that wasn’t there, but then he’d only been running this kitchen for a few days. Still on abbreviated hours for food service, he was far too shorthanded to walk out. With one prep cook/dishwasher peeling and dicing and Marcus on the line, Ian was far more than an expediting head chef in this operation. He was up to his ass in crabcakes and steaks and no time to breathe, think, or take a piss, let alone find a quiet corner and make a critical call.
Orders from the floor were coming in at a steady clip, the small kitchen finally thrumming with something close to a solid heartbeat. Well, too bad. Nothing, no customers, orders, or rush, could keep him from calling the man who held the key to Ian’s future with his children.
Marcus cruised by, carrying a pan of veal chops from the oven. Anthony, a silent, hardworking prep cook who’d clearly been in a lot of restaurants but had near zero ambition, was head down, dicing ingredients for more pineapple salsa, an unexpected hit on the rum-soaked chops.
“Hey, Marc, can you cover this grill?” Ian asked. “I have to run out.”
The young man whirled around, disbelief in his midnight eyes. “Out?”
“Emergency. Can you flip these steaks to order and finish the crabcakes?”
Marcus raised the dish of veal, along with his eyebrows. “Got four orders for these and those customers are getting antsy as shit.”
They had been waiting, Ian agreed silently, scanning the room again to weigh his options. He could ignore Henry and get the orders up. He could threaten, cajole, or otherwise strong-arm Marcus and risk the chop customer’s order. Or he could walk and get fired.
In his pocket, the phone vibrated again. He knew what it said but looked anyway. One word, clear message: Now.
A cold sweat marched up Ian’s back and iced the nape of his neck. Left hand on the crabcake pan, right-hand thumb out, ready to check the temperature of the steaks, he bit down hard on his jaw.
“Got the fresh parsley and extra pineapples!” Tessa’s voice rang through the noisy kitchen as she sailed in the back door, carrying a bushel-sized basket of greens and vegetables.
Instantly, Ian felt better. He didn’t know why, because she certainly wasn’t the answer to his immediate problems, but that was what she did. She made him feel better. Until he got into bed at night and felt like shit on a stick for lying and pretending and totally fucking with her heart and head.
He squeezed his eyes shut. One problem at a time.
He glanced to the side to catch her distributing her garden goods. The instant they made eye contact, he felt the zing down to his toes and, from the look in her eyes, so did she.
At least he didn’t have to pretend that part. Didn’t pretend to like kissing her or holding her hand or making her laugh or listening to diatribes about seashells and saffron. He had to pretend to be someone he wasn’t and convince her she wanted to—
The phone vibrated again.
He checked the steaks and gauged the rest of the orders. If he could get these out and then—
“You look shell-shocked.” Tessa came up next to him, her cheeks flushed, her hair mussed, her smile as fresh as the food she carried. He didn’t return the happy grin, too torn by the vibrating phone, the half-cooked food, and the need for a savior right now.
“In the weeds.”
“I’d offer to help, but—”
“I’d take that offer.” He tapped the crabcake pan. “Can you flip them for me?”
“Now?”
“In a minute.” He angled the fork to the steaks. “Do you know how to test for doneness? Use your thumb. I have two medium rare, one rare, and one a hint under well with a bit of color left in it.” He waited a beat as the words hit her, clouding her eyes with confusion. “Tessa, can you cover for me?”
“Me?”
She lifted her brows. “He asked the vegetarian.”
“You don’t have to eat it, just cook it.” His voice grew gruff with frustration. “I have an emergency.”
She hesitated one second, then shooed him away. “I can handle it. Go do what you need to do.”
An unexpected wave of affection rolled over him at her attitude. “Thank you,” he said, taking one second to brush her cheek to let her know how much the assist meant to him.
“No problem.” She waved the spatula. “Off with you.”
No questions, no argument, no complaints. Another tsunami of affection threatened, inexplicable but real. “I’ll thank you later,” he promised, taking a step backward but still holding her gaze.
“You better hold that gratitude in case I totally wreck your work.”
“You can’t. Turn the cakes in thirty seconds, dress them with that remoulade and a few sprigs of your unparalleled parsley. The rare steak’s done now. Be back.”
She winked at him. “Hurry.”
God, she was sweet. Just…perfect. He was so, so wrong to think he could bamboozle her into some meaningless marriage to help him out of a jam.
One more vibration had him darting through the kitchen to the dry-goods pantry. The door didn’t lock from the inside, but he put his whole body against it, and that was as good as any lock. With remarkably steady hands, he tapped the phone and Henry answered on the first ring.
“What took so long?” the gruff Brit asked.
“Work. What’s up?”
Henry didn’t answer right away, but blew out a maddeningly noisy breath. “There were some arrests in Brixton last night.”
An imaginary band squeezed Ian’s chest, stealing his breath or ability to reply. Brixton, the gang-ridden south London neighborhood where the last of the N1L members purportedly lived and worked. A group of murderers, thieves, drug dealers, addicts, and the scummiest of the world’s scum who proudly called themselves “No One Lives” and made sure that was true for anyone who got too close to the operation.