“You’re perfect.”
Giselle let the words settle over her for an instant, enjoying their flash of warmth. She didn’t hear compliments very often, particularly from her ex, who had looked at her as if she were simply part of the furniture for the last several years. But then she noted another of Fin’s skittish glances and reminded herself he was probably up to something.
“You must know a million other women.”
“Not old enough.”
Her extraordinary reserve allowed her to keep perfectly still. One didn’t get through excruciating high-school beauty pageants by letting hurt feelings show. Her eyes, however, must have given her away.
“I don’t mean—” Fin lifted his hand. “I just mean I need someone my own age.”
Clearly, he’d missed the mark on this one. “How old are you?” she asked.
“Twenty-nine . . . soon.”
Giselle looked at him skeptically. “When’s soon?”
“Next weekend.”
She raised her eyebrow. Twenty-eight? She had about seven years on him. Although at least he was older than she’d thought. He’d looked boyish from a distance, but up close he had all the strength that brings a man over the threshold from boyish to sexy. He was definitely already there.
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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THE RED BIKINI
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2014 by Laurie Sanchez.
Teaser excerpt by Lauren Christopher copyright © 2014 by Laurie Sanchez.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-15669-2
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / July 2014
Cover photos: Couple on beach © Masterfile; Sunset © lakov Kalinin/Thinkstock.
Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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CONTENTS
You're Perfect
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Excerpt from the next Sandy Cove Romance
For Chris:
Some people say that romance heroes don’t really exist.
But they’re wrong.
Thank you for always being mine.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are so many people who made this book possible, I’m not even sure where to start.
So let me start at the beginning: I want to thank historical author Tricia Lynne, whom I met in a critique group in 2007. She read a very early draft of The Red Bikini and was Fin’s very first fan. She asked for Chapters 7, 8, 9, 10 . . . and begged me to finish the book. She made me believe in this story and my ability to get it published. Tricia has offered so much support and encouragement over the years as the world’s best critique partner—I truly couldn’t have written this book without her brilliant help.
Next I want to thank my amazing and generous beta readers—Debi Skubic, Michelle Proud, Crystal Posey, Kristi Davis, Mary Ann Perdue—as well as my early-version readers, authors Nancy Freund and Michelle Bailat-Jones. All of you provided generous feedback that helped shape this story, and your support and unwavering encouragement helped spur me along.
Thanks to my friend Grace Todd for meeting with me and encouraging me, and helping with the surf culture.
Thanks to my fabulous Firebird sisters—the Golden Heart class of 2012. They’ve been there for me every step of the way, with e-mails of encouragement (thanks, Tammy!), hope, help, inspiration, and sometimes just a funny line to get me through the day. Such a wonderful group of women, always with our virtual arms around each other.
Thanks to my agent, Jill Marsal, who saw something in me and gave me the nudges I needed to get my writing out into the real world.
Thanks to editor Wendy McCurdy and to the staff at Berkley for great editing, copywriting, copyediting, and cover design, making this little idea I had in my head into a real-life book.
I can’t forget all my family and friends, too, who never rolled their eyes or looked at me skeptically when I said I was writing . . . again. They never questioned my dream when I had to forego yet another weekend activity or book-club dinner or family event. They all believed in me until I finally believed in myself. Thank you—all of you!
Thanks especially to my parents, who were there clapping and offering encouragement for every writing award as far back as kindergarten, when my very first yarn-bound, crayon-printed book was on display at the Huntington Beach Mall.
And thanks to my kids, who went without clean socks many a Monday, and who left me to my own devices to write in quietude whenever a deadline loomed.
And last, but certainly not least, thanks to my amazing husband (and biggest fan) Chris, to whom this book is dedicated. This book would certainly not be possible if I didn’t believe in true love. And, thanks to him, I do.
CHAPTER
One
Giselle flung the suitcase on her sister’s tropical-patterned bedspread and let out the sigh she’d been holding since sometime over the air space of Kansas. Or maybe as far back as Illinois. Or maybe even since they’d been in the airport in Indiana.
Sh
e stared at a bright red cloth napkin Lia had left on the bed, next to a note in her sister’s loopy handwriting: “It’s okay. Relax.”
Giselle frowned and lifted the napkin, then felt four strings slip through her fingers.
It was a bikini. How very Lia. How very not Giselle.
It’s okay.
Relax.
She folded the triangles and tucked the package deep into the corner of Lia’s dresser drawer, amid some tissue-wrapped lingerie and a lavender drawer sachet.
“Mommy,” came a breathless voice from behind her, “there’s sand!”
Her daughter flung herself onto the bed, sending the suitcase and all their clothes bouncing and squeaking. “And Aunt Lia left me sandals! Can we go to the water now? Can I put on my suit?” Little hands gripped the edge of Giselle’s suitcase.
“In a minute.” Giselle closed the drawer. “Why don’t you help me unpack?”
Giselle’s fake enthusiasm—held in a false falsetto since Indiana—sounded too breathless, but Coco seemed to buy it, and her little pale legs whisked her to the front room.
Giselle tried to take her twenty cleansing breaths while Coco was gone, but, as usual, she only got to about the seventh. Coco came bumping back through the doorway with a pink Barbie suitcase.
“I wonder how Aunt Lia knew I liked pink sandals.”
Giselle eyed Coco’s sparkly shoes and the tutu she’d worn on the plane. “Probably a good guess.” She lifted Coco’s suitcase onto the bed beside hers.
Lia’s beachside apartment was small—not much more than a box, really—but Giselle felt a wave of appreciation that her sister had opened it to them, and on such short notice. Sandy Cove was the perfect place to escape to for two weeks. But California would have been much too expensive without being able to use Lia’s apartment. Giselle couldn’t use up what was left of her cash reserves.
“What was that song Aunt Lia taught you?” Giselle asked over her shoulder as she yanked closed the bedroom’s palm-colored curtains.
Coco flung one of her blond braids over her shoulder and began swaying her hips. “Stir it up . . .” she began singing. Her toothlessness lent a lispy charm to the Bob Marley song.
Giselle smiled. “. . . Little darlin’ . . . stir it up . . .”
Their hips moved in exaggerated sways, and soon most of Giselle’s worries were tucked away with their T-shirts, shorts, Giselle’s tailored slacks, Coco’s sleep toy Ninja Kitty, and their sensible bathing suits.
While Giselle was sad she wouldn’t get to see Lia, who was tied up with a business trip in New York, she was sort of relieved. The pitying platitudes were exhausting. Especially when coupled with the hushed tones from friends and family in Indiana: Omygod, what will she do? And what will she do without Roy? Giselle knew the way to make the hushed voices stop was to show everyone what she was made of—lift her chin, showcase her strength, saunter into a room with a confidence she might dredge up from somewhere. But she hadn’t quite been able to do that. Maybe she just needed time. . . .
As Sandy Cove’s afternoon light began calming her through the mango-colored shades, Giselle felt relaxed enough to get into Lia’s tiny kitchen and bake. She’d picked up a few staples at the beach corner market to make her raisin cookies. Counting strokes and measuring ingredients always did her wonders.
While she measured and poured, Coco sat at the dining table and told knock-knock jokes until a sharp rap sounded at the door.
“Someone’s here,” Coco whispered.
The tightening began in her neck as Giselle wiped her hands on a towel and made her way to the entryway.
She peeked through the peephole and saw a totem pole of a boy standing on the porch.
He was young—maybe twenty—with a black rubber item folded like a tablecloth in his right hand. Sable brown hair coiled into quarter-sized curls all over his head, and a brown tuft of hair sprouted from his chin in a hippie “soul patch” style. His toast-colored eyes were close together, giving him a comical air. He brought them closer to the peephole, his face distorting in the funny glass.
Giselle opened the door a crack.
“Heeeeey,” he said. His eyes took in as much of her as he could see from behind the door, but the gesture didn’t feel insolent, or even flirtatious—which was good, since he seemed at least fifteen years younger than she was.
Giselle flung the dish towel over her shoulder and tucked a strand of hair back into her chignon as she pulled the door wider. He wore bright orange-and-brown knee-length swim trunks that hung low on his waist, as if there wasn’t quite enough body to hold them up. He stood the same height as Giselle, but was reedier, the outline of his ribs pressing through his tanned skin. His knobby feet were covered in sand.
“You must be Lia’s sister,” he said lazily.
“Yes.”
“You look just like her.” A note of wonder hung on his words.
“Thank you.” Giselle smoothed her skirt.
She was flattered—she thought of Lia as beautiful in every way—but Giselle didn’t see a resemblance. She felt much older, although their age difference was only six years. But she also felt duller, and at least a dress size bigger. Despite the fact Giselle had won beauty contests throughout her teens, her confidence had plummeted when Roy had had his first affair.
“This is for your daughter.” The rubber item unfurled from his fingers. It was a small wet suit. “I’m Rabbit.”
Rabbit? Giselle blinked back her surprise. So this was who Lia had told her about? Somehow she’d had the image differently in her mind: She’d pictured maybe a grizzled old guru who lived on a sand dune with parrots. Or at least someone out of junior college.
Clutching the wet suit against her chest, she held out her other hand in default hostess mode: “I’m Giselle.”
He regarded her hand with amusement, then shook it briefly. “Sweet. You have something cooking in there?” He tried to peek around the door.
“Oh—raisin cookies.” She stepped back, and Coco popped her head around, able to stand it no longer.
Rabbit studied her as she pushed her way through the doorway. “And you must be Coco.” He crouched to the ground, rubbing the tuft of hair on his chin. “I’ve heard all about you from your aunt. How do you feel about being a little grommet this week?”
“A grommet?”
“A young surfer. Lia signed you up for my camp. I have twelve new groms coming.”
Coco’s short, jilting bounces expressed everything.
Thank goodness Lia had arranged this. It would be good for Coco to escape the drama that had become their lives. All Giselle had to do in return was take pictures for Rabbit’s brochure. And go out on one date with a guy Lia knew named Dave or Don or something.
Although it was a pretty close toss-up, the brochure made her the most nervous. Marketing-minded Lia had coordinated it, even though Giselle had insisted she had no brochure experience. In fact, she had no work experience at all, unless you counted posing as the perfect doctor’s wife at charity balls. But Lia had insisted that the photos Giselle took of Coco were excellent. Your photos capture such truth and beauty, her sister had said. Giselle had continued to protest, but Lia reminded her that Rabbit wasn’t exactly a Fortune 500 company. He couldn’t even pay. Except in trade. Which was where Coco benefited.
“I have a surfboard for you,” Rabbit whispered to Coco. He glanced up at Giselle. “Can you come see it?”
Giselle hesitated. The unpacking wasn’t done. She hadn’t taken her twenty cleansing breaths. The raisin cookies had four minutes left. She needed to organize, prioritize, get their lives in order.
But she caught the expression on Coco’s face—one of hopefulness, a trust in adventure—and decided she could take a few cues from her daughter. Giselle did need to learn to relax. She did need to straighten her backbone and garner some strength. She did need t
o learn how to grasp adventure.
“Sure,” she said, shrugging as if she made impromptu decisions all the time. “But I have a few more minutes for the cookies.”
“I’ll wait.” Rabbit grinned.
When the buzzer finally went off, Giselle loaded the entire batch onto a plate to bring to his apartment. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and took Coco’s hand. “Then let’s go.”
She tried not to think of the clothing still on the bed, or the blind date with the man whose name she couldn’t remember, or the twenty cleansing breaths, while she followed Rabbit next door.
Let their new life begin. . . .
• • •
A waist-high gate divided the halves of the second-story patio Rabbit and Lia shared.
When her sister had said that Rabbit lived “next door,” Giselle hadn’t realized how close that would be. No wonder their mother wouldn’t stay here. Having their coiffed, French-manicured mother staying within shouting distance of a barely clad boy like Rabbit, who probably got stoned to the Doors and tracked sand across the patio on a regular basis, would be their mother’s undoing. Eve McCabe typically chose to stay at a Hilton in posh Newport Beach several miles up.
Rabbit strode toward his wide-open door in that rubbery way lanky boys move. Music tumbled out: some kind of folk singer with a mellow, seaside sound. Soon the music swallowed him.
Giselle stalled. She peered around the doorway, but he’d already disappeared.
His place was entirely white and beige, with an empty expanse of stained carpeting. A lone card table was set up where a dining table would normally be, a smattering of potato chips and empty beer bottles littered across its torn top. Beanbag chairs were tossed about the living area, filled with boys with shaggy hair and sandy feet. One was playing a guitar to a song on the speaker.
Along the living room wall were four bright surfboards, each more colorful than the last. One showed off brilliant stripes and flames, two teemed with plant shapes, and the last was in swirls of yellows, oranges, and reds. A fifth, with a bright turquoise stripe down the center, lay across the mottled carpet. One of the boys sat on top, his legs crossed into a suntanned X.
The Red Bikini Page 1
