Finally, he dragged his hands up to her cheeks and inched back so she could see his expression. And it was…raw and real.
He held her face in his two strong, capable hands and stared at her. “I’m not very good with words. Not like you are. But I have something to say to you, and if you’ll come with me to the bedroom, I will show you how I feel. I will make love to you…and mean it. Nothing fun, fake, or playful. Just real love.”
Forget drowning in a wash of emotions. This was a tidal wave, swamping her, knocking her over, and making her forget that every time she bought into the fairy tale, it wrecked her.
The perfect family…then Dad left.
The fairy-tale wedding…then Kyle left.
And now, Mark. Magical, wonderful, spectacular Mark, who made her believe she was capable of anything. Mark promising…love.
“I’m so scared,” she whispered.
He just tipped his head and smiled. “Not my Emma. She’s not afraid of anything.”
He slipped his arm around her and walked her slowly to the French doors and the big bed and the future that looked so bright, she had to close her eyes.
* * *
Mark knew the difference between making love and having sex. He had, in fact, known it from a pretty young age when he and Julia planned their mutual loss of virginity with tremendous thought to the details and an actual night in a real hotel, so there was no backseat of the car or quickie on the patio while her parents slept.
Those came later. But when he and Julia did it for the first time, it had been making love.
And this—
“What are you thinking about?” Emma touched his face, no doubt feeling the sheen of sweat that clung to him as he lay spent and satisfied on top of her.
And thinking about his first time, damn it. “Who can think after that?”
“Oh, you’re thinking. I can tell.” She added some pressure on his shoulder to push him up so they could see each other in the dim light. “When you start thinking, you breathe differently.”
“I do?”
“When you start to really consider something, your breath gets shallow.”
Wow. “You really…know me.”
“And that bothers you.”
He inched higher. “Why would you think that? Didn’t I just show you what I couldn’t say?”
“You did,” she conceded. “Three times, and that last one was just unfair. Like a bowl of M&M’s after cake and ice cream. Is that what you’re thinking about?”
“M&M’s?”
“Whatever it is you can’t say but want to show me.”
On a sigh, he lowered himself and slowly pulled out of the nest that had become like home to him. She released him and let him roll to the side, where he immediately lined them up and didn’t leave a space between them.
“Do you really want to know what I was thinking about?”
He saw her swallow. “I don’t know. Do I?”
“I was thinking about the difference between having sex and making love. And I was thinking about…” He stroked the curve of her waist, the touch light and, he hoped, tender enough to take the sting out of what he was about to say. “My first time.”
He felt her shudder a little against him. “With Julia.”
He closed his eyes. “Yeah. And, for the record, we were already in love. We did it with all kinds of romance, and it was a great first time.” He didn’t open his eyes, bracing for something like… Well, that’s nice, how fun to talk about sex with your late wife in bed together. Can we go back to not talking about her in too much detail like we’ve managed to do for a week?
“I would expect nothing less from you.”
Emma’s words hit his heart because they were so not what he expected. “It was her idea,” he said. “She wanted it to be meaningful.”
She didn’t say anything but nodded, as if she understood and couldn’t question that desire.
“That’s why I was thinking about it now,” he said, surprised at how thick his voice was. “Because sometime in the last few days, or hours or minutes, we stopped having sex and started making love. And it’s…meaningful.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I felt it with every kiss and touch.” She pressed her hand on his cheeks. “And I can taste your fear over that.”
He gave a soft laugh. “You can? Hey, two more times and we’ve conquered that fear.”
“Nothing is going to conquer that,” she said. “You are terrified of letting go of her.”
He huffed a breath and let his head turn on the pillow. “Emma, this isn’t fair. I don’t want to lie here in bed with you and talk about my feelings for my dead wife.”
She took his chin and forced his face back to her. “I do.”
“You do?”
“I want to talk about feelings. Whatever they’re for. I don’t want to joke anymore or play alliteration word games or talk about my new job or your last sky-diving adventure. I mean, I do,” she said quickly. “Tomorrow. Later. On the way to the baseball game or over breakfast. But right now, we have to talk about feelings. That’s what makes this meaningful.”
He searched her face, lost in the determination he saw in her eyes. She wanted him whole. She wanted him healed. She wanted him, period. And until he became whole and healed, she couldn’t have him.
They both knew that.
“You want to talk about feeling even if those feelings are for someone who died sixteen years ago?” he asked.
“Especially if they are.”
He stared at her, that thickness in his throat getting worse with each second.
“Have you ever told anyone your feelings for Julia?” she asked. “Like, why she was your soul mate? What you loved about her from the beginning? Why it worked for you two? What you miss most about her?”
Each question stabbed his heart. “Of course not.”
She sat up higher. “Why not?”
He pulled her back down. “Because it doesn’t matter to anyone but me. I’ve never been close enough to tell someone that stuff, and if I was, like I am now, it would just hurt.”
“Hurt who? Me or you?”
“You, of course. I just showed you the closest thing I know on earth to telling you what you mean to me, and you want me to close out the night with a diatribe about how awesome Julia was? What kind of a brute do you think I am?”
She studied him for a minute, thinking, wetting her lips, readying her thoughts. “You know what I think you are?”
“A jerk for bringing this up?”
“I brought it up,” she corrected. “And I think you are one great big, incredibly handsome, ridiculously kind, impossibly wonderful biscuit can.”
He blinked at her. “Excuse me?”
“And you, Mr. Biscuit”—she poked his chest—“are ready to pop from the pressure, and until you do, you’re just a container of deliciousness that no one can enjoy until they get all that stuff out of you. Even if that’s a little scary.”
He just stared at her, on the hairy edge of laughing and crying. “I’m a…biscuit can.”
She snuggled back into him, satisfied. “And guess what I’m about to do?”
“Bang me against the counter?” He couldn’t help smiling.
She settled her head against him and tapped his chest, lightly at first, then a little harder, right over his heart. Then with enough force that her fingers made a thud on his breastbone. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
And Mark closed his eyes against a sting of tears, took a deep breath, and started.
“I met her in algebra in tenth grade,” he said softly. “She sat next to me on the first day, and she had knee-high socks on with a skirt, and I’d never seen anything so damn cute in my whole life.”
Against his chest, he felt her smile. “It was the eighties.”
“It sure was. She was not that great at math, so I started tutoring her on Monday nights…” He stroked Emma’s long, dark hair with one hand, a steady, slow rhythm that helped pull the memories out o
f the recesses of his brain. With each revelation, he discovered long-forgotten moments in time that were like lost coins and paper receipts found in pockets.
He brought each one out for Emma, turned it over, and let light shine on it. She listened, appreciating each, asking some questions but mostly just letting him…pour out a lifetime of feelings.
She held him, and cried with him, and finally, an hour or more later, slept soundly next to him. And as he heard her steady breathing, he realized what an incredible gift she’d just given him.
Of all the rocks he’d climbed and caves he’d dived into and planes he’d jumped out of to be free of the grief…none had liberated him. Until now. Until tonight. Until…Emma.
He pulled her sleeping body closer and felt the urge to say one more thing. For the first time in more than thirty years, he needed to say the words that he’d only ever spoken to Julia.
He pressed his lips against her sweet-smelling hair, closed his eyes, and whispered, “I love you.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything quite like this.” Emma held a hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun, scanning the acres of the Barefoot Bay Bucks Baseball Complex. “A baseball stadium and…a petting zoo?”
Holding her hand, Mark guided her into the shade of a decent-size baseball stadium that held at least five thousand people. They passed vendors selling drinks and food, some baseball souvenirs, and, of course, all things goat. Goat’s milk soap. Goat’s milk. A sweet little stone gift shop and restaurant that looked like it had been lifted from the hills of Tuscany.
It was definitely one of the most unusual baseball parks he’d ever been to.
“When I was in high school,” Mark told her as they paused at a picket-fenced area with five or six goats bleating inside, “we used to come up here to this part of Barefoot Bay on Friday nights looking for a place to hang out and have parties. This whole area was owned by an old Italian guy named Cardinale.”
“It’s still owned by an Italian named Cardinale.” A woman with long, dark hair inside the pen knelt in front of a tiny black goat with a white blotch on its forehead. “That’s me. I’m Frankie Cardinale. Well, Frankie Becker now. My grandfather was the old Italian guy who owned the land, and La Dolce Vita—which is the name of this part of the park—was his dream.”
“With a minor league baseball stadium?” Emma asked.
The woman laughed, standing and brushing the remnants of goat food from her hand as she came closer. “The baseball part was my husband’s dream. Well, his along with a few friends.”
Her husband…Becker. Mark thought about the name and realized this woman must be married to Elliott Becker, one of the billionaires who’d dropped into Barefoot Bay almost two years ago and decided to build their dream team.
“Come on in and pet Daisy,” she said, opening the gate and gesturing toward the goat she’d been feeding. Instantly, two other goats who weren’t even knee high came trotting over. “Or Agnes and Lucretia.”
“They’re so small!” Emma got down on one knee to ruffle the fur of one of them.
“Pygmies,” the woman said. “Are you a local or a tourist?”
“I’m…” Emma looked up. “Just visiting now, but…” She stood slowly. “This island is a great place. I suppose you’ve lived here all your life, then.”
“No, just for a few years when I was growing up, then I came back to take care of my grandfather’s farm, but…” She turned and smiled at a long, lanky man in a cowboy hat who was pouring water into a drinking trough. “I fell in love.”
“That’s Elliott Becker?” Mark asked with a quick laugh.
Her smile widened when the man looked up and silently tipped his hat, not the least bit fazed by the humble job he carried out.
“He’ll clean up and get into the owner’s box before the game starts,” she assured them.
“But I have to take care of the bucks,” Elliott said, dumping his water and sauntering over to them. “Have you seen the buck pen?” he asked. “When you do, be sure to check out Becker, my namesake. He’s a beast, and I birthed him.”
Mark chuckled at the thought of a billionaire birthing a kid goat, but he could see nothing but pride in the man’s eyes, and love when he looked at his wife.
“Okay, we birthed him,” Becker corrected. “But I was there.”
Frankie rolled her eyes, but they both laughed in a natural, clearly loving exchange. The kind of thing that usually made Mark sad or a little jealous. But nothing felt sad today. He couldn’t conjure up a shred of sadness and jealousy.
He tucked Emma closer to him, shooting her the hundredth smile of appreciation today.
Becker’s goatherd wife was pretty, but Emma? He glanced down at her and pulled her closer, getting a warm smile in response, her eyes glinting like they had in bed a few hours ago.
“So have a blast while you’re here,” Frankie said. “Enjoy the game and be sure to go to the store and get our romance line of goat’s milk soaps. Perfect favors…” She gestured toward Emma’s left hand. “If you’re planning a wedding.”
“I named every soap we have,” Elliott added. “Even the corny ones.”
Frankie tapped her husband on the arm, nudging him back to the trough. “Quit bragging and get going. The game starts soon.” She looked over her shoulder at Emma. “Best of luck to you two.”
Alone, they shared a look. “We can’t keep lying to strangers,” she whispered. “Half the time I forget we’re supposed to be engaged.”
Really? Mark thought. Because half the time he couldn’t think about anything else.
He stared at her, the sun beating down, the goats circling, the crowd cheering as the pregame festivities got louder inside the stadium. If this wasn’t the stupidest place to make a declaration, he didn’t know.
But everything was different today. He was different. They were. Who cared if they were standing in a petting farm?
“It doesn’t have to be a lie,” he said, his voice surprisingly raspy.
She just looked up at him, her mouth opened into a stunned little o shape.
“Emma, I really—”
“Emma! Mark! There you are!”
They turned to see Lacey Walker, with her husband, Clay, and a red-headed toddler between them hanging on to their hands.
“Hi, Lacey.” Emma sounded a little less than enthusiastic to see her possibly future boss. “We were just…”
Getting real, Mark thought. He tamped down his own disappointment. He’d find the right moment, and they wouldn’t be surrounded by goats or people.
“Hey, bud,” Mark called to the little boy. “You want to come and pet the goats?”
“Go ahead, Elijah,” Lacey said, opening the gate. His face brightened as he came barreling into the pen. “You better stay with him, Clay,” she said to her husband, who was already following his son to the pygmies.
“Yep,” he said. “I got this.”
She reached out a friendly hand to Emma. “I’m so glad I saw you. I didn’t know if we’d get a moment to talk today. Want to walk to the soap store with me, you two?”
Emma threw him a quick look, and he read it instantly. She was torn, but duty—or the chance of it—called.
“Sure,” he said. “The goats are all yours, Clay.”
The other man laughed but was on the heels of his lightning-fast son, while the three of them left the petting area and made small talk on the way to the store.
It didn’t matter that his moment had been squashed. He’d tell her tonight. In the villa, in bed, alone, together.
But he didn’t want to horn in on Emma’s opportunity to forge that personal relationship with Lacey right now, either.
“Actually, I’m going to wait out here,” he said as they reached a split-rail fence that surrounded grass outside the store. “You ladies go ahead and buy some of that romance goat’s milk soap.”
Emma shot him a grateful smile as they disappeared into the st
orefront. Mark leaned against the rail and looked around at the crowd of tourists and locals. Mostly tourists, he’d guess. Which was remarkable. This island had really changed. It was home, but it wasn’t. He could actually see himself—
“Hey, I know you.”
Mark turned at the sound of a man’s voice, instantly recognizing those narrow shoulders and horn-rimmed glasses. Son of a bitch, it was Kyle Chambers.
“Lacey’s judgmental friend.” Kyle took a slow step closer, a woman next to him looking at Mark as if he was one of the animals in the petting zoo.
“Hi,” she said with a friendly smile. “I’m Rachel. How do you guys know each other?” She was tiny, not five-two, with blond curls and big blue eyes. She looked like a Kewpie doll, all bright and cheery.
“We don’t,” Mark said, his mind spinning through all the options for how to get out of there, with Emma, and away from these two.
“What is your problem, man?” Kyle asked, not moving but looking hard at Mark. “Are you some kind of spy for Lacey Walker?” A whiff of beer came at Mark, and reddish eyes narrowed.
Great, the lying scum was drunk.
“Nope.” Mark took a step closer to the door, eyeing the opening to make sure Emma didn’t walk into the middle of this.
“Every time I turn around, you’re there,” Kyle said, coming too close. “What is up with that?”
“Gosh, Kyle, you don’t have to be a jerk,” Rachel said. “He’s just standing here minding his own business.”
Mark moved away, walking purposely inside the store without making another second of eye contact. Surely the woman would lead Kyle away, and Mark would keep Emma in the shop as long as he could.
The store smelled like a woman’s lingerie drawer, a mix of sweet and spicy fragrances. He glanced into the crowd, past groups of people around bins and stacks of soaps, spotting Lacey and Emma at a display near the door.
“Hey,” he said, putting his hand on Emma’s back. “I decided to look around a bit after all.”
She turned, surprised, and maybe just a tad annoyed at the interruption, which he couldn’t blame her for. “Why?”
Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1) Page 21
