Beach House for Rent

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Heather’s eyes were wide with curiosity when she spotted Bo trotting back toward the truck. She smoothed her dress as he opened her door then lifted his hand to help her out. Everything felt more formal tonight. They were both on their best behavior. He tucked her arm in his and they’d begun walking toward the house when a voice called out.

  “Bo Stanton? Is that you? Come on over here and introduce me to your young lady.”

  Heather’s heart skipped a beat, and she swung her head to look over toward the cottage. There she saw an old woman sitting on the front porch in a white rocker. Her hand was in the air, and she waved them closer with an unmistakable air of authority.

  Bo lowered his head and said softly, “I didn’t expect this. But it’s okay. You’ll love her.” Then he lifted his hand and called out, “Coming, Miss Marietta!” As they approached the cottage, Bo explained, “This is Mrs. Muir. She’s Taylor’s wife’s grandmother and lives in the cottage now. This used to be her house.” They walked up the stairs to the porch. Bo stepped closer to the old woman and kissed her cheek.

  “Nice to see you, Miss Marietta. I hope we’re not bothering you. Taylor and Harper said we could use the dock tonight.”

  “You’re not bothering me in the least,” Mrs. Muir said in the kindest manner. “Harper told me all about it. She said you’re going to have dinner out there. How simply wonderful!” She brought her hands together, and looked at Heather. “And who is this lovely lady?”

  Bo stepped aside and held out his arm to guide Heather closer. “Ma’am, this is my friend Heather Wyatt. From Charlotte.”

  Heather’s heart was pounding in her chest, but her manners were ingrained. She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Muir,” she said in a soft voice. She forced herself to look Mrs. Muir in the eyes and she was glad she did. The old woman’s pale blue eyes gleamed with welcome.

  “Welcome to Sea Breeze,” Mrs. Muir said. “I wish my granddaughters were here to meet you. They’re close to your age.” She turned to Bo. “Someday you’ll have to bring Heather back and we’ll have a dinner together. Won’t that be fun?”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “But for tonight,” Mrs. Muir said pointedly, “I’ll say good night. I’m going inside and will retire early.”

  They bid the regal woman farewell, and as Bo led her back around the great house, Heather couldn’t help but think that the world was conspiring to give her and Bo their privacy.

  “Taylor and I met working together on house projects with his dad. That’s how we became friends. Taylor’s moved on to other business, but his daddy still owns his own construction company. We keep in touch.”

  Heather sucked in her breath when she saw the back of the house. It was even more beautiful than the front. The house was built to get the maximum view of the winding cove that stretched far out to the Intracoastal Waterway. From here she could see against the radiant colors of the sunset, the double arches of the Ravenel Bridge from Mount Pleasant to Charleston. In the soft light it looked like two great sailing masts, a perfect symbol for the historic port city.

  Three decks led down to the long dock that stretched out over the winding water. As they descended the stairs in the lavender light, Heather caught sight of a covered dock aglow with the flickering of dozens of candles.

  “Oh, Bo,” she gasped, clutching his arm tighter. “It’s breathtaking.”

  He patted her hand, pleased with her response, and guided her down the narrow wooden dock to where the night was shimmering with candlelight. Under the canopy he’d set up a table and two chairs. Instead of heavy damask linen, however, the table was covered in newspaper. She had to cover her mouth with her hand to hide her smile. On top were two small wooden mallets, a bottle of hot sauce, and a roll of paper towels.

  “Come sit,” he said, pulling out her chair. “It should be a magnificent sunset. I ordered it just for you.”

  He hurried to the cooler, where he pulled out two champagne glasses and a bottle. He returned to their table and she watched as he expertly teased out the cork. It emerged with a satisfying pop. She clapped her hands. Bo poured the wine and handed one flute to her and raised his.

  “To all things great and small, especially postage stamps,” he toasted, a twinkle in his eye.

  Heather laughed and they clinked glasses as she met his gaze and sipped the cool, bubbly liquid. She was grateful for his support over the past weeks. It spoke loudly to the man he was. Bo was her biggest cheerleader. Knowing this made the wine taste especially sweet.

  “Now you sit back and let me get dinner.”

  “I can help.”

  “I’ve got it all under control. Besides, I’ve seen how hard you’ve been working to make your deadline. Tonight you get to relax. Watch the sunset,” he added, gesturing to the surreal explosion of sienna, purples, and gold in the sky beyond.

  Bo removed his jacket and slung it over the back of his chair. Then he rolled up his sleeves and got busy being chef, waiter, and sommelier all at once. It was, indeed, a magical night. She leaned back and listened to the sound of water lapping the wood pilings, the moist breeze off the water caressing her cheeks. It smelled of salt and sea and crabs cooking. From somewhere out in the cove she heard a loud splash and wondered if a fish had jumped or if it was a dolphin. While she sat and sipped champagne, Bo pulled crabs from the steamer, one by one, and set them on a wooden platter and carried it to the table. From a box he withdrew a long baguette wrapped in foil.

  “Careful, they’re hot,” he warned. He made several more trips to the cooler for the salad, dressing, and lemons, back and forth until the table was overflowing with food. Last of all, he flicked on the music. The silence was filled with the soft crooning of Randy Travis. Heather caught her breath—she’d told Bo once that “Whisper My Name” was her favorite of all Randy Travis’s songs, and that was the melody that washed over them now. Finally he took the seat across from her. He switched from champagne to beer and raised his can.

  “Let’s dig in!”

  Heather sipped her wine, looking at the pile of steaming crabs uncertainly.

  “What do I do?” she asked. “Is it like lobster?”

  Bo put his beer on the table. “You’re kidding me. You’ve never had steamed crabs before?”

  She shook her head, wondering if he thought she was backward.

  “You must’ve wondered why I had newspapers all over the table,” he said with a laugh.

  “Well, I just thought you were being creative.”

  He barked out another laugh. “Or cheap! No, honey, this is a classic lowcountry meal. I caught these crabs off this here dock earlier today. It’s a delicacy and you’re going to love it. I’ll show you how it’s done. See, first you pick out a crab.”

  He lifted one from the top and showed her a large crab with blue-tipped claws and a pale, creamy underside. “This here’s what we call a Jimmy. That means it’s a male. We can tell by the pointed markings on the underbelly. Kind of looks like—well, like the Washington Monument.”

  Heather smirked. “The spitting image. What do you call females?”

  “A Sook. They have a rounded apron on the belly. Hold on. . . .” He poked through the pile of crabs, then pulled one out. “Here, this is a Sook.” He flipped the crab over to reveal a rounded curve on the shell.

  She looked at him, feeling very much the Sook to his Jimmy.

  As the blaze in the sky faded, Bo taught Heather how to use the mallet to break the shells, how to dig with her fingers to find the sweetest, most succulent meat she’d ever tasted under the shoulders and in the claws. It was messy work and she was awkward at first, gingerly picking at the crabs, frequently glancing at Bo making sure she was doing it right. She worried she looked unladylike as she pounded the shells and ate the tender morsels with her hands. But Bo was ripping into the crabs with gusto and taking no notice. The Old Bay seasoning coated her fingers, flavoring every bite. It was pure heaven. It wasn’t long before she was laughing when her spli
ntered shells flew into the air and lifting the meat to her mouth with her fingers like a true lowcountry girl.

  They talked long after the crabs were finished and cleared from the table. Past the last dregs of the champagne, until the stars shone and the moon took her place in the velvety sky. They talked until there were no more words to say. Yet their eyes continued to communicate a shared knowledge of an appetite not yet sated. Their hands entwined on the table, his thumb gently stroking her palm. Her skin thrummed with anticipation.

  Bo stood and offered her his hand.

  “Are we leaving?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” he said as he reeled her up into his arms. “We’re dancing.”

  “I don’t know how to dance,” she said, feeling a flush of anxiety sweep over her.

  “Everyone can dance. Come on, I’ve seen you dance when you think no one’s looking.”

  Heather felt heat rush to her face as she slapped his arm. “You spied on me?”

  “Not exactly. I just watched you through the window while I worked. Girl, you’ve got moves.”

  She blushed and turned her head toward the water, smiling, unable to step away because he held tight to her hand.

  “Well, I’ve never slow-danced,” she said.

  “Relax,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “There’s nothing to learn. Just hold on and follow me. Like this . . .”

  He slipped one hand around her waist and took her hand with the other. He brought it close to his chest, then lowered his cheek to hers. “See? It’s easy. We sway in time to the music.”

  At first Heather felt like a marionette, stiffly following Bo’s movements. Gradually she relaxed and caught the rhythm of the music. He’d selected slow songs by some of her favorite country singers—Blake Shelton, Brad Paisley, the Dixie Chicks. Their music filled the dark night. She was enveloped in love songs. The balmy breeze coming off the water ruffled her hair and lifted the skirt of her dress; Bo’s hand gently caressed her back, his humming in her ear. He pulled her closer and she felt her body mold to his. They fit together perfectly. Hip to hip, they swayed. Left, right. Left, right. Easy and slow.

  His lips lowered to begin a scorching trail across her neck, to her ear, then her mouth, their breaths mingling, the sweet taste of bubbly champagne mixing with the spices. Bo moved his head to gaze into her eyes. Still dancing, he sang the lyrics of the Randy Travis song close to her ear:

  I’m gonna love you forever and ever

  Forever and ever, amen.

  Heather clung to Bo even tighter and felt the heat between them, felt the wine floating in her brain, felt she was living in a dream.

  A new tension was spiraling between them. I’m tipsy, she thought, but this time she didn’t fear it. There was nothing to fear. Not with him. She lifted her head off his shoulder and leaned back in his arms to look into his eyes. She reached up and gently traced a line from his temple over the sun-roughened planes of his face, gently trailing her nail along his bottom lip.

  Bo’s eyes sparked. “Let’s go.”

  THE BEACH HOUSE was dark when they entered.

  “Where’s Cara?” Bo whispered. “Asleep?”

  “She went next door for a sleepover.”

  Behind her she heard a soft, low laugh. “That was thoughtful of her.”

  Heather felt her cheeks flame with both titillation and shyness. She’d never brought a man back to her place before. She’d lived at home, and though she had a suite of rooms, she’d never felt that she was truly alone. More than that, it had never felt like the right thing to do with any of the men she’d dated before.

  Yet it felt so right for Bo to be here with her. He was the one for her; she knew that with every fiber of her being. Heather had always trusted her intuition, and she knew that Bo was someone she would love for the rest of her life.

  “Do you want something to drink?” she asked, her sense of heightened anticipation triggering her innate hostess manners.

  Bo turned her to face him and slid his arms around her, kissed her softly on the lips, silencing her inner critic. Their kiss deepened and she leaned into him, feeling her inhibitions slide away and dissolve in the rising heat of passion.

  Still in her dreamlike trance, she let her hand slide down his arm to take his hand. This time Heather led the way, across the hardwood floors to her bedroom. The four-poster bed loomed large, full of promise and import. She raised her fingers to his shirt and began unbuttoning the buttons, one after the other, while he stood quiet, watching, his breaths coming short. His skin felt warm beneath his shirt as she reached up to his shoulders and let her palms glide across the broad, muscled expanse of them, sliding his shirt off his body.

  Bo turned her around by her shoulders. She heard the hum of the zipper in the darkness, then felt his hands as they ran along her body, nudging the dress off until it fell in a pool at her feet. His hands moved smoothly, with experience, to unsnap her bra, and his hands reached around from behind, gently caressing her breasts.

  He slowly turned her again to face him and lowered his head to kiss her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, her ears, until she felt her own breathing shorten and heard a soft sigh escape her lips. Leaning down, he gently kissed between her breasts and slowly let his tongue play with her nipples. Her hands dug into his back as she arched into him, filled with new sensations. Her hands moved to his pants, fumbling, as she undid the buttons and slid them down his trim hips.

  He laid her back on her bed and they came together in what felt like slow motion, his body against hers, skin on skin. She closed her eyes and was awash in sensation. She felt his lips everywhere, searching, finding, bringing her pleasure she couldn’t have imagined. She felt a tension growing deep in her body, luscious and demanding, coiling tighter and tighter.

  “Heather.”

  She heard her name and drew herself back from somewhere far away to open her eyes. Bo was arched over her, his eyes burning as bright as fire.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  He knows, she thought. He knows he’ll be my first. She’d expected to feel shy. Maybe even embarrassed. She was twenty-six and still a virgin. But she felt none of this. She desired him. She wanted Bo, only Bo, to be the first, and she was glad of him knowing it.

  Heather parted her lips and drew his head to hers. Slowly, deliberately, her tongue traced the inner rim of his lips, moist and tremulous. Immediately his tongue probed in response, gently touching hers. A whimper rose in her throat, a final cry of surrender, and in a rush she wrapped her arms around him.

  “Yes.”

  Bo kissed her hungrily, possessively, as he moved to blanket her with his body. Nothing was slow now. They came together like the rushing tide—resolute, turbulent, white-capped with passion. Heather buried her face in his neck, her mouth open. She heard his panting and, excited, matched it with her own, drowning in sensations as he moved against her. Her naïve, tender body finally found his rhythm and began to move with him in a dance lovelier, more nuanced, than the ones they’d danced before out on the dock. Faster they danced, keeping the rhythm, he and she together, nothing to fear, until with a final cry she relinquished, not with a whimper of defeat but with a soaring cry of triumph.

  BO WOKE THE next morning to the sounds of birds chirping. The light coming in through the shutters reflected the blue-gray color of dawn. He pushed back the hair from his face and looked around the room, blinking, taking stock. Then, as he remembered the night before, a slow grin eased across his face. He let his hand drop to the opposite side of the big four-poster bed.

  It was empty.

  Where was she?

  He tore the top sheet from the bed and wrapped it around his waist, then walked out of the bedroom into the dim front room. There was no light on in the kitchen, either, no scent of coffee brewing. A sense of dread filled his chest. Perhaps she was off somewhere regretting the events of the previous night, wishing it—he—had never happened. That thought nearly brought Bo to his knees. He’d never hurt Heather,
never wanted to do anything that caused her distress. He ran his hand through his hair. Had he missed some sort of signal? Gone too fast, pushed too hard?

  The faint sound of humming came from the sunroom. He swung his head around, and his breath caught.

  Heather was perched on a stool in front of a large canvas, one knee bent with her foot propped on the rung, the other leg stretched out long for balance as she leaned forward, paintbrush in hand. She was wearing nothing but his shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, her long blond hair loosely collected at the nape of her neck. The silhouette of her slender body was visible in the morning light.

  Later Bo would become aware that that was the precise moment he fell in love with Heather. She was all that was beautiful and radiant and right in the world. He could not imagine a day not waking up to her beside him. In his bed. In his home. In his life. With a primeval surge, he knew. His.

  He crept up behind her and slid his arms under the shirttails, his hands locking around her bare waist. She startled and jumped with a high-pitched yelp, then laughed and leaned back into him. His hands moved up to caress her bare breasts as his lips burrowed into her neck. She arched against him with a soft moan. He turned her around on the stool to face him. Her blue eyes were bright with amusement, curiosity, and something Bo recognized as unmistakable lust and, yes, even more. Bo took the brush from her hand and let it fall onto the drop cloth below. Then he lifted his hands and gently smoothed the hair from her face so he could look into her expressive eyes. He had to tell her how he felt. When a man felt as strongly as he did, when he was so sure, he couldn’t wait for a so-called perfect moment. That moment was now.

  “Heather, I love you,” he said.