Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) (7 page)

Like mother…like surrogate daughter.

Pushing that thought away, she hit the stairs and then the pavement in a hard trot, one more glance up the street before she crossed, and then she worked her way through the little neighborhood that formed the southern tip of Mimosa Key.

It was cool enough that she could have used a sweatshirt, so she increased her speed and stretched her stride, a comfortable pull on her hams and glutes.

Starting a rhythm of breathing that filled her with fresh oxygen, Willow looked around at the little bungalows and beach homes, waiting for that sense of happiness and contentment she always got from her new life in Florida.

Tonight, they both eluded her. So she looked even harder.

Pleasure Pointe was a true neighborhood, a lovely residential area south of town about a ten-minute drive from Barefoot Bay at the opposite end of the island. Not just
a
neighborhood, but also
her
neighborhood now. Where they knew her—Willow Ambrose—and not a soul would stop her on the street to coo over who her parents were or how much weight she’d lost. Here she was anonymous.

Or she had been before today.

As she worked her way through the narrow streets to get to the eastern shore and start her two-mile route, Willow looked over her shoulder one more time. She wasn’t afraid for her safety; a person could run naked down the main drag of Mimosa Key and be safe. Oh, they’d get talked about at the next town council meeting or when they stopped into the Super Min for gas and bad coffee, but there was very little crime here.

No, Willow was checking for headlights going to her house.

Damn hope again. She drummed it out by getting her heart rate up, pumping her arms and puffing out noisy, even breaths. The sounds of the night and the breeze in her ears were almost enough to drown out the sound of Nick Hershey’s flirty invitations that he should have saved for someone who didn’t care.

No, no. She meant someone who cared.

Because she didn’t care about him. So he was sexy as sin and sweet as pie. She never ate pie, and sin was not generally on her personal menu, either. She certainly didn’t want to date a guy who’d known her…
then
. And made it extraordinarily clear what he thought of her.

No, he hadn’t insulted her when she’d gotten a little too close that night, put her hand on his leg, and made the most pathetic attempt at flirting in the history of womankind.
I’m a virgin, Nick.
Oh, God, what possessed her to say that? Of course she was a virgin! Anyone could tell that by looking at her.

Then he’d quietly moved her hand, shaken his head, and said…

This is a bad idea, Willie. I can’t…you deserve…no, we better say good night
.

The sting of that rejection had been enough to keep her from ever making that mistake again. Once bitten, twice…lonely.

She reached the eastern shore, assaulted by the salty air and humidity that hung over this side of the island, away from the gulf breezes. Here, there was no beach, but instead, craggy inlets of saw-grass river water highlighted by the twinkling lights of Naples on the mainland of Florida.

Why
had she said yes to that date? Why had he asked?

She hadn’t even told Gussie and Ari, only because she didn’t want to field a quadrillion questions about their past or listen to Ari obsess about how the universe worked. Maybe her apartment could be dark and quiet when they came back, and they would head right up the side stairs to their own places, no questions asked.

Or not. What else were friends for if not a good man-bashing?

Willow finally reached the end of the beach, the southern-most tip of the island where the land was no more than thirty or forty feet wide, where a person could stand and look left and right and straight ahead and see nothing but water.

Sucking in the cloying scent of a nearby gardenia bush, Willow closed her eyes to listen to the music of the breeze. A distant ping of a sailboat’s rigging against a mast matched the rhythm of her well-exercised heart beating against her ribs.

She put her hand over her chest, but not to measure her heart rate as she usually did at this point in her run. No, she wanted to protect that poor organ that had worked overtime today.

“Oh, come on, Willow.” Lifting her face to the sky, she let out a grunt, hating her self-pity. She was a world-class
temptation avoider
.

Of course, when temptation failed to show—or call or text or send a freaking smoke signal—then avoiding it just got a whole lot easier.

On that thought, Willow jogged off, clearing her head and focusing on nothing but the satisfying feeling of running and moving and scoring a victory over the body that, for so many years, had beaten her.

Once she hit the sand on the western-facing beach, it was a little more like Barefoot Bay. Real sand, real beach, flat and wide enough that she could haul ass back home.

And haul she did, running at a good clip, a sheen of sweat cooling her, the wind over her ears the only sound she heard. Her mind went stone-cold blank. She didn’t think of food or calories or scales or temptations or dates or men nicknamed…
Kiss
. Just muscles and cells and chemicals shooting off to places that could only get better. She ran and ran, away from the past, as always.

By the time she reached the last quarter mile, she was drenched in sweat, every muscle quivering with the effort. She slowed her step, bent over to catch her breath, and closed her eyes against the sting of perspiration.

She walked up the driveway in that position, hands on her hips, taking the steps to the porch two at a time because, damn it, she could. She could do anything. She could run miles. She could get stood up. She could—

“You ate roof tiles for lunch?”

—not breathe. For real.

Please, God, this is not happening
. Nick Hershey was not sitting on her porch
reading her food journal
. A cold dribble of sweat meandered down her back.

“Wasa crackers,” she croaked between pants. “Same thing.” She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, trying to catch a breath that did not want to be caught. “You’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” The simple, plain, and remarkably genuine apology reached her bruised heart, but failed to grab anything.

“Hours late.”

He leaned forward, making the swing creak, the street lamp forming half-shadows on his cheeks while the light in the living room behind him added a halo.

Which he so did not deserve.

“I was writing, Willow,
really
writing. I had no idea what time it was, and I’m sorry. Did you eat dinner yet?”

“You should know,” she said, still hesitating to go up the stairs into those shadows or near that halo or even one inch closer to that man. “Since you’re reading an account of every bite I put in my mouth.”

He lifted the journal. “It was open, and I thought you might have left me a note. Sorry.”

“You’re full of sorry tonight.”

He stood, coming around the table to the top of the stairs. “I mean it. I would never have blown you off. Can we still go out?”

“Now?” Was he kidding? Did he think he could just show up hours late, and she’d run to the shower, throw on some makeup, and they could…rewrite history? “No.”

He took one of the three steps down so he loomed over her, so tempting he might as well be a waiter offering a tray full of crème brûlée.

“Take a shower.” It was an order, delivered with enough edge to make her knees nearly buckle.

“It too late to go out, Nick.”

He took one more step.

“Any closer and”—she held up her hand to physically ward him off—“you’ll smell me.”

He sniffed, and she leaned back, but he did the opposite, coming closer, grinning. “I can cook. Got anything besides”—he lifted her journal—“roof tiles and almonds? Or was that the last seventeen of them in the house?”

She angled her head and gave him a tight smile. “I don’t think you actually realize what you’re up against.”

He reached for her hand. “I realize what I’d
like
to be up against.”

She jerked out of his touch.

“Come on, Willow. Let me make you dinner.”

“I already ate.” A banana, but that counted. “And you seem to be pretty stuffed with crow.”

“I am. Sorry, I mean.” He managed to snag her hand, inching her closer to the one step that separated them. “I swear, I’m never late, I never miss appointments, I can’t even tell you how…how out of step it is for me to do that. My only excuse is that I was writing and got lost.”

Looking up at him, she let the sensations wash over her, familiar, even comfortable sensations. The ache to take, the itch to own, the mouthwatering
want
that battered her willpower. She could fight food, but him? Wide shoulders made for a woman to grip and glittering dark eyes as delicious and inviting as a whole box of Godiva Dark Decadence?

She closed her eyes as if that could stop the onslaught of Nick Hershey’s heated touch and the smell of the salt air that clung to him.

It would be so…damn…good.

But so would the gallons of ice cream, bags of chips, and too-many-to-count Reubens she’d sacrificed in the name of control. Finally, she looked up at him.

“My answer is no. You’re late, I don’t want to get dressed, and I can’t be sweet-talked when I’m this mad. Good night, Nick.”

She brushed by him, grabbing her food journal from the table before she reached for the front door. As she pulled it open, she lost the urge not to look over her shoulder.

“Is that what shell-shocked looks like?” she asked, fighting a satisfied smile at the utter disbelief on his face.

“This is what determination looks like. What’s it going to take to change your mind?”

“Tonight? Nothing.”

“Tomorrow?”

She just laughed and opened the door. “Is another day.”

She slipped inside before he could come after her, latching the door and leaning against it, her food journal in her hand.

Definitely an A for today. But tomorrow was looking shaky.

Chapter Six

Using the thick envelope that had arrived on his doorstep that morning, Nick tapped on the open door of the Barefoot Brides office at noon the next day, determined to win this time.

“Anyone here?” He stepped up to the door, meeting two gazes, but not the Wedgwood blue and pewter gray eyes of the woman he came to see.

“Hello, Nick.” Ari, whose desk was closest to the door, stood immediately and flashed a bright smile. With long dark hair and ebony eyes, she was the most exotic looking of the three, with a hint of either Latin or American Indian in her striking appearance. “Of course we’re here on a Saturday, although we don’t have a wedding this weekend.”

He tried not to be obvious as his gaze shifted to the third—and empty—desk in the room, working not to show his disappointment.

“She’s in the kitchen,” Gussie said, proving that he’d probably failed.

“She’s going over some new catering menu items with the chef,” Ari said. “I’m not sure if it’s the best time to bother her.”

He raised his brows. “You think I bother her?”

Gussie winked. “That’s why they call it hot and bothered, right?”

“We weren’t expecting you or Misty today,” Ari said. “You know this is your day to enjoy the resort, but if you have any questions, we’re here to help.”

“His question is, ‘Where’s Willow?’” Gussie rose from her desk chair, her pixie-like features fixed in a happy expression framed by pink-tipped platinum hair. Always with the wigs, that one. “Am I right?”

Why lie to her closest friends and business partners? Anyway, there was nothing a soldier needed more in a battle than buddies. Even if they had pink hair. He gave her a slow nod. “You are correct, ma’am.”

The two women shared a look and a silent message that he was clueless to decipher. “Any chance I could talk to her?” he asked.

Ari angled her head. “Only if you’ve come to beg her forgiveness for showing up hours late last night.”

So they knew everything. “Even better,” he said, holding up the envelope. “I come bearing free spa treatments.”

“Why would I want them?”

He spun around at the surprise attack from the back, swearing at his damn pathetic non-working ear. In that nanosecond, she snapped the envelope from his hand, spearing him with a playful and pretty look. “This is all for you, as our guest.”

“A hot nautilus shell massage and steam brush facial for men?” He looked skyward. “What Navy SEAL doesn’t want to spend his day like that?”

“You’re forgetting the men’s pedicure.” Willow managed to slip by him, slender enough to slide into the office without letting their bodies touch.

He watched her walk to her desk in jeans that showed off a tight, curved ass to mouthwatering perfection. Damn. How had she gone from the young woman he knew in Sproul Hall to…

Seventeen almonds and a roof tile,
that’s how
.
And workouts that no doubt rivaled BUD/S training. Which was almost as much of a turn-on as the way her tight T-shirt tucked into the jeans and showed off her waist.