“I don’t know about a pact,” she reiterated after they’d waved her in with a warm greeting.
“Should we tell her?” Gussie asked.
Willow and Ari shrugged and nodded. “It’s not a secret,” Ari said. “The three of us decided we’d stick with planning and never actually have weddings of our own.”
Lacey looked surprised. “You never want to get married? Not one of you is over thirty yet. You don’t know what can happen.”
“Oh, we might get married,” Ari explained as she pulled out her chair to settle in. “But we don’t want weddings.”
“We’ve seen one too many bridezillas,” Willow explained. “They’re all fraught with anxiety and stress. Wasn’t your wedding stressful?”
Lacey laughed. “My wedding? Well, I thought I was attending the Casa Blanca groundbreaking ceremony when the mayor appeared, Clay proposed, and we said ‘I do’ in the same two minutes.”
Ari pumped her fist in the air. “That’s the way to do it, baby.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go making pacts you might not be able to keep,” Lacey warned.
“We’ll keep it,” Willow assured her. “We are the anti-wedding wedding planners, but please, don’t tell the clients.”
“I won’t,” Lacey said. “And speaking of clients, how can I thank you?”
They all looked perplexed. “For what?” Ari asked.
“For the one-month rental of Artemisia.” Lacey opened the file in her hands and flattened it on the conference table. “This is especially nice for us in the spring when we don’t always book every villa.”
“Misty is staying for a month?” Willow asked.
“No, she already took off in her limo and asked that we let you know the wedding’s a go, and she’ll handle everything by phone or conference call or—”
“Then who is it?” Willow asked, hating that her voice sounded so tense.
“Her man of honor. That hot Navy SEAL that has every female head in the resort getting whiplash when he runs the beach.”
Willow could feel Ari and Gussie grinning. She didn’t even have to look. “He’s…staying for a month?”
“Misty said Nick Hershey could handle the little details that need to be done in person.” Lacey slid the file forward. “I guess he’s a writer or something. Did you guys know that?”
Willow kept her eyes on Lacey, refusing to meet her friends’ eyes. “Yes, I did know that,” she said.
“Apparently, there’s something in the air in Barefoot Bay,” Lacey said with a laugh.
“Something.” Ari spoke under her breath, but Willow heard her.
“He’s had a creative breakthrough.”
“Is that what they call it now?” Gussie whispered.
“So he doesn’t want to leave,” Lacey continued with a huge smile. “We love long-term bookings, so thank you. You guys are such an awesome addition to Casa Blanca.”
While the others turned the moment into a little love fest of mutual appreciation, Willow nodded, still not sure of her voice.
He was staying for a month? No one, not the strongest woman on earth, could avoid temptation that long.
Then maybe she shouldn’t.
Lacey wasn’t five feet down the hall when Ari made a dive for the candy on the desk. “I won that bet! There will so be a second date.”
“Double or nothing on a third,” Gussie said.
“You guys.” Willow nearly stomped her foot. “Stop and let me deal.”
“What’s to deal?” Gussie asked. “He’s staying to write his book. Whatever happened yesterday must have really inspired him.”
Willow fought a smile, the idea of Nick staying for a month settling slowly on her heart. Would it be that bad?
Ari looked positively satisfied as she opened the candy. “The universe is speaking. It is demanding that you come to terms with your past and give this guy a shot.”
Without responding, Willow gathered Lacey’s file and flipped it open, reading the information.
Nicholas S. Hershey
Gussie leaned over her shoulders. “S for Smokin’.”
No, Spencer. But she didn’t tell them she knew that many details about him. That would just fuel their gambling habit. “I think I’ll go talk to him,” she said.
“Does that count for date number two?” Gussie asked Ari, but Willow didn’t stick around for the answer. She was out the door before they made the next wager.
Chapter Nine
The pounding sounded like gunfire. Nick dug deeper into sleep, unwilling to let the sounds of distant firefights steal the shut-eye he so desperately needed. He’d been up all night, fighting.
They’d gone to a farmhouse, backing up Marines who’d been pinned by enemy sniper fire.
Hadn’t they? Or did he dream that? The rat-a-tat got louder. An AK? They’d seen insurgents by the river, and Charlotte had insisted on taking pictures. He’d yelled at her. She’d smiled at him.
“Don’t make me use the master key again!”
What did she say? He grunted in his sleep, his face flat in the pillow, the material…way too mushy for a vacant house in the middle of Iraq. Too silky. Too soft. Too…much like a woman in his arms.
The voice invaded his dreams. A woman. Charlotte wasn’t here. They’d made her leave when the insurgents—
“Nicholas Spencer Hershey, I’m coming in!”
Not Lieutenant. Not Nick. Not Kiss. His whole name. Like an eagle’s talons were dragging his lids up, he managed to open his eyes, then instantly closed them again when daylight assaulted. Instinctively, he flipped the pillow over his head, smashing it hard to block everything. It smelled like flowers or mint or the purple soap his mother put out for guests. On a pillow?
A pillow? There was no such thing in combat.
Instantly, he threw the puffy mass off his head and sat up, blinking and rising to consciousness, a punch of relief followed by the hot splash of an adrenaline dump. He’d been dreaming.
A door latch snapped. “I’m in, and you better be dressed this time.”
Willow. The resort. The book. Reality crashed like a six-foot wave at Redondo, rushing over him with a sweet and satisfying pressure. This was so, so much better than a bunker and a battle.
“I am,” he called, his voice rough from deep sleep. “Sort of,” he added in a whisper he knew she couldn’t hear.
The click of heels on hardwood echoed through the villa. His villa. For a whole month. He had his own writing oasis, and here came his—
“You’re staying?”
His inspiration. He squinted at her, still not used to the outrageous sunlight because he’d forgotten to close his blinds at dawn. Maybe it was the light, but she was a study in hues of lemon yellow, a tall blonde in a buttery dress, a beautiful Willow.
“Man, your parents gave you the right name.”
Her eyes flashed a hundred different emotions, none of them very…nice. “You’re staying for a month?” she asked again, with not too much joy in the question.
“Yeah.” He dragged the word out and gave a sleepy smile, sitting up on the bed, suddenly aware of how big that bed was. And how much he wanted to throw back the sheet and fill it with Willow. “Is that not the shitz?”
She frowned but didn’t answer.
He gestured toward the laptop still open on a small desk. “It works here, Willow. My writing just works. I don’t know why, but it’s good.”
Her brows furrowed some more, and she lost a fight not to let her gaze slip to his bare chest. “That’s…great.”
“It is,” he insisted, even though it was obvious she didn’t agree. “It’s so huge.” He pushed the sheet back and threw his legs out, seeing her eyes widen at his naked body, which was the only way he slept when not deployed.
“Yes…it…is…” She pursed her lips and tried valiantly to look anywhere but at his dick. “Huge.”
As she flushed, he felt an erection stir, probably from waking up. Maybe from being this close to her. Grabbing sw
eats he’d dropped on the floor, he stepped into them, still smiling at her. “And you can help me.”
“Help you?” Her voice cracked as she finally found his face. “With planning the wedding?”
He laughed. “With writing.”
“How?”
Judging by how gray and stormy her eyes looked, that prospect didn’t exactly thrill her. So he took a few steps closer, eyeing her since she refused to look right at him. “I was on fire last night, Willow.”
Her gaze dropped over his bare chest, eyes widening. “Really.”
“The book is…” He shook his head, not wanting to jinx it with bragging. He didn’t know if what he’d written was good or not, only that the words and story felt so damn right.
Would it all be different this morning?
Turning to the laptop, he tapped the keyboard, firing up the screen to the last scene. He scrolled through the pages, getting another head rush at how much progress he’d made.
Last night, for the first time, he’d believed he could finish this book and it could be good.
“You want to read the kiss scene? I know we joked, but that kiss, our kiss, it really did help. I want you to be the first reader.”
“I don’t…” When her voice trailed off, he looked over his shoulder at her.
“Sure, you do. It doesn’t suck. Well, if it does, you can tell me. We can talk about it while we do all those wedding errands together and—”
“Nick.” She crossed her arms, and he could practically hear those heels digging into the wood. “You can’t just decide I’m going to read your book and help you run wedding errands and…and…be here for you.”
He flinched at the tone. “You’re right, that was presumptuous. I’ll…pay you?” It came out as a question, and her raised eyebrow was all the answer he needed.
“I already have a job, Nick.”
“Okay, bad idea. But I’m excited and…” He wanted her to be, too. “What’s wrong?”
She arched an eyebrow and looked pointedly at his chest. “Put a shirt on.”
He obliged, snagging a T-shirt off the back of the nearest chair and yanking it over his head. She didn’t look any happier when he popped out. “You don’t want me to stay,” he said, stating the über-obvious.
“I don’t want you to…” She held up her hands as if she could physically stave him off. “I don’t want you to take charge of me.”
“We don’t have to kiss again.” Except they would. And often. Soon, even, if he had anything to say about it. “Or eat ice cream,” he added, hoping for some levity.
“We won’t…we can’t…I can’t.” She swiped some hair off her face in frustration. “Not that I don’t want to.”
There. Now they were talking. “Then, good. We’re good. I’ll work when you’re working, and when we’re free, we’ll”—do everything—“take care of that wedding sh…stuff.” As if he could prove that was true, he glanced around, looking for the paper Misty said she’d leave. “Hang on, let me find her list.”
He didn’t see it and vaguely recalled her saying it would be in the living area, so he held up a hand as if that would freeze Willow in place. “Wait here. Don’t move.”
“You’re big on giving orders.”
“Military training.”
“I thought you took orders in the military.”
He smiled. “If I have to. Hang on.” He slipped by her and went into the living room looking for Misty’s list or folder. He hardly remembered what he’d agreed to the night before. At that point, he was up four thousand words and on a roll like he’d never been on before.
Telling the story—retelling it, actually, and changing the facts so they mirrored what he’d wanted to happen—was an absolute high. He spied a piece of paper folded in half on the kitchen pass-through counter and snagged it, opening it to read the list.
Leaving the F&B entirely up to you. RD & CP (go crazy, it’s on Steven), WP brunch, hd’s & recpt. dinner. Cake. DA brunch. All themed, whatever you and W work out. Will call you and be back soon w/ mf!! xo
Huh? The only thing he understood was “cake.” Thank God for Willow. Heading back to the room, he glanced at the paper, looking up when he reached the doorway. He opened his mouth to joke about how weddings had more acronyms than the military, but froze at the sight of her reading his laptop.
She was leaning over to get closer to the screen, bracing her hands on the desk, and he was torn between the minor thrill of watching someone actually read what he’d written and the major thrill of checking out her backside in a very sexy pose.
Her hips were round, her legs crossed as she tapped one shoe on the floor. Even the slope of her back and the way her hair tumbled over her shoulders turned him on. Whatever magic, denial, or deal she’d made with the devil to get in shape had worked.
She had to see how awesome this month could be. But he didn’t want to interrupt her reading, so he stepped back, and instantly, she turned.
He’d almost forgotten what it was like to hear someone behind you that easily. The thought kicked him a little, but he pushed it away, trying to read her expression and hide his own lusty thoughts.
“You want to read more?” he asked hopefully.
“I have to—”
“Good.” When she laughed, he winked. “I’ll make some coffee. And bagels. Or…fruit. There’s tons of fruit. Would you like that?”
“Fruit’s perfect.”
He held out both hands. “Sit down and read. Enjoy. Will you?”
She laughed again. “I get the impression this is really important to you.”
“It is.” Why lie?
“Okay. Fruit and coffee. And quit staring at me.”
“A and B I can do. C? Not so sure.” He grinned. “You got a nice back view, Willie.”
Her jaw tightened. “Don’t call me that. Ever.”
He didn’t want to push his luck or lose her, so he backed up, nodding, letting her go. “You can scroll up to the top of the document and start from the beginning.”
“I already did.”
His heart slammed with affection. Smiling, he made coffee and cut up fruit from the basket she’d hand delivered, and only checked on her progress three times. The last time, when he asked how she took her coffee, her answer was curt enough that his hope soared. She didn’t want to be interrupted.
He took her raspberries and bananas with a cup of black coffee, then backed away to give her some space to read the pages he’d written so far—eighty-five by computer count—unfold in front of her. He drank his own coffee on the patio, but the minute he was done, he stepped back into the bedroom.
She looked up, narrowing her eyes at him. “Are you going to watch me read?”
Yeah. “No. I’m going to…run. The beach. What page are you on?”
“Thirty-two.”
“What scene?”
“He’s arguing with that moron Mitchell guy about the farmhouse.”
Just the fact that she got Mitchell was a moron did something insane to his insides. “Did you like when—”
She pointed to the door. “Out.”
“Out?”
“To the beach. The garden. The moon. Let me read.”
He felt the smile overtake his face. “You like it?”
“O-U-T.”
“That’s a yes.”
She laughed softly and shook her head. “I would never have taken you for so insecure.”
“I’m not,” he denied hotly, straightening up. “I want you to like the book.”
“Then let me read it.”
“Okay, fair enough.” He scooped up a pair of sneakers from the floor, opting for the dirty socks stuffed inside rather than taking a minute of her reading time to find clean ones. “I’m out.”
“Thank you.” She returned her attention to the screen, and he froze mid-step, drinking her in.
“No, thank you.”
She nodded, riveted on the words on the screen. His words. On an impulse, he slammed his ha
nds on the armrests of her chair, earning a gasp from her as she jerked back.
“What?”
“I said thank you,” he murmured.
“You’re welcome.” Plenty of sarcasm in that, but he smiled and leaned over the laptop, right into her mouth, for a quick kiss. Too quick. The second it was over, he wanted more.
But he resisted, standing straight, kind of enjoying the look on her face, then heading out without another word, hitting the sand with the same fury and speed he had in training, eating up the beach at Barefoot Bay like it was a second breakfast and he was starving.
He was starving. For feedback. And encouragement. And someone he respected to tell him he wasn’t wasting his time and life. That he could tell a story.
Then he could change history, erase his mistakes, and turn them into something good, at least on paper.
He ran up and down the beach, past the exit to the property, along the road that led into town, then all the way back, coming back to the Arte-whatever villa drenched in sweat. When he opened the front door, he half-expected her to be standing there with champagne and a smile, ready to toast his story. He’d been gone well over an hour, long enough to read what he’d written so far.
But the living room was empty, so he went back to where he’d left her. That was empty, too.
“Willow?” he called.
“Out here.”
He went to the French doors and stepped out onto the back patio that led to a screened-in pool, finding her sitting on the ground, feet in the water, her yellow dress pulled up to her thighs.
“Well?” He blamed his racing, slamming, unstoppable heart on the run, but after the kind of training he did, he knew this pulse rate was due to nerves and anticipation.
“Yeah, well.”
He blinked at her. What the hell did that mean? “Yeah, well, what?”
“It’s…” She gave him a tight smile, her eyes turning deep blue now. An apologetic, pitiful blue. “It’s good, Nick.”
Just good. And not a really enthusiastic good, either. More like a…meh kind of good. “Not great?”
Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) Page 8
