Barefoot in the Sand (Barefoot Bay)

  She had to do this. Had to. No excuse in the world could stop her from jumping through the opening he’d just made. I like your ideas. Very simple, very honest. A little crow as an appetizer.

  But they just looked at each other, waiting for the other to move first, until the bartender arrived and broke the moment. “What can I get you, miss?”

  “Wine… three white wines.”

  Clay leaned into the bar. “Ronny, put those on my tab.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  He held up a hand to stave off her argument. “And take two of them to those lovely young ladies by the window. Miz Armstrong will have hers here.” Somehow, he combined that southern drawl with easy authority.

  Ronny splashed some yellow liquid into a cheap wineglass and slid it toward her.

  “One drink,” she agreed, settling on the bar stool.

  “That’s all I need,” he replied.

  “To do what?”

  He held up a half-empty glass of beer. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

  “Oh, now you’re not playing fair.” She touched his glass anyway and sipped hers, making a face. “Now that’s a fine-tasting nail-polish remover.”

  He laughed. “So why’d you come in here if you don’t like the booze?”

  Carefully placing the stemmed glass on a cocktail napkin, she flipped through a bunch of possible, plausible answers. None was the truth.

  “I came in here because we spotted you walking in.”

  His brows raised.

  “I’m not a stalker,” she assured him. “I just wanted to say…” She took a steadying breath. “I really loved your sketches and—wow, where did you get the idea for that overhang in the front, because it was… spectacular.”

  “You know what?” He leaned closer and took one ringlet of her hair, pulled it, and let it bounce back to a natural curl, making blue-white sparks snap at her nerve endings. “So are you, Strawberry.”

  Oh, he was good. Young, gorgeous, sinfully good. And even nail-polish-remover-tasting wine could take away a woman’s inhibitions. She took another drink and gathered more courage.

  “Actually, Clay, I think I’m the one who should ask if I’m forgiven for being a total bitch on the beach today.”

  “I might forgive you,” he teased. “What else did you like about the sketches?”

  She closed her eyes, picturing the way he’d tucked the building under foliage that wasn’t even there anymore, and the way he’d captured the essence of what was meant to be built in Barefoot Bay. “I didn’t like the sketches,” she said, getting a surprised look. “I loved them.”

  He grinned. “Then you’re forgiven.”

  She tried to back away but couldn’t. The guy was a damn human magnet. “Although what you drew looks like a much, much bigger place than anything I want to build.”

  “Why not go big?”

  “Why? Because I can’t afford a resort, just a little inn.”

  “Get investors.”

  “I’ve never even run a B and B, so I’d be totally in over my head.”

  “Hire people.”

  “Hey, don’t bulldoze my excuses,” she said on a laugh. “I’m trying to tell you all I have is a foundation and…” A dream. “An insurance check.”

  “You have an architect. That is, if I get the job.”

  Oh, Lord, it would be easy to say yes to this man, yes to a lot of things, some of which had nothing to do with buildings or dreams. Well, maybe some dreams.

  “Do I have it?”

  She laughed. “I thought southern gentlemen were supposed to be slow. You move like a bullet train.”

  “Why waste time?” He leaned a little closer, a whiff of something woodsy and pure shooting right into her brain and directly to her sex hormones. “When something’s right, it’s right.”

  “This is right?” She tried to make it a question, but that smell, that hair, those eyes; her voice cracked in the face of it all.

  “You know it is.”

  “But we have a lot to talk about first.” Like fees and plans and ideas and when they would—kiss. No, start. “I’ll grant you a job interview. How’s that?”

  “I thought that’s what this was.”

  Laughing, she took a sip of lousy wine, which, somehow when shared with the company of this man, didn’t taste so bad. “You don’t have a resume with you.”

  “You saw the sketches. What else do I need?”

  “Credentials. Education. Experience.”

  “I’ve got ’em all, ma’am.”

  She cringed. “Ouch, I’ve been ma’amed.”

  “Southern habit, I swear. And aren’t my drawings creds enough?”

  Oh, he was good. And evasive. “You said you weren’t ‘officially’ an architect,” she said. “What does that mean?”

  “That I don’t have a piece of paper that doesn’t amount to”—he winked—“a hill of beans.”

  “Don’t do that.” She pointed a warning finger at him. “Don’t toss Casablanca quotes. That won’t get you the job. And, honestly, that stuff makes a damn big hill of beans’ difference to me. I wouldn’t go to a lawyer who wasn’t licensed to practice law or a doctor who wasn’t board certified. Why would I hire an architect who isn’t officially approved by… whoever officially approves architects.”

  “The AIA and the NCARB,” he said.

  “No alphabet soup, either. Spell it out in English that a thirty… something-year-old mother of one can understand.”

  “You’re sensitive about your age, aren’t you?”

  “I just think you might be too young for—”

  He put a hand over her mouth, silencing her. “I’m twenty-nine, not too young for anything.” Slowly he removed his hand, turned it, and waved his fingers in front of his face. “I knew I smelled strawberry,” he said with a smile. “It’s your lip gloss, not your hair.”

  “I don’t know what kind of architect you are, but you sure are proficient at changing the subject.”

  “I’m proficient at a lot of things, Lacey.”

  He said her name like… sex. Hell, every time he breathed it was like sex. “I’m only interested in your architectural credentials, Mr. Clayton Walker. Junior.”

  “Ouch. Okay, we’re even for the ‘ma’am’ now.” He inched away, sipped his beer, gave her just enough space to make her want him to come back. “I finished a five-year architecture program at the University of North Carolina.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t an architect.”

  “I am an architect and I’m completely capable of designing any kind of structure or facility you want, and contracting the right people to build it.”

  “Are you licensed and board certified?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Pretty much?” She choked softly.

  He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just that there’s some more, you know, stuff to getting licensed in North Carolina.”

  “Stuff such as…”

  “A two-year internship, which I completed at Clayton Walker Architecture and Design, Inc.”

  “I thought you said you have nothing to do with him or his business.”

  “I’m on my own now,” he said simply. “I learned a lot from working with my father’s company, paid my dues, and sat for one of the licensing exams. Then…” Another way-too-casual shrug. “Anyway, the exam was in planning and design, which, you have to admit, is a great place for us to start. Listen, Strawberry—”

  “Did you just call me Strawberry?”

  He smiled and plucked another curl. “My favorite fruit. I’m telling you, tests don’t make you an architect.”

  She tried to take a breath but got a lungful of man again, the smell of someone who did not take no for an answer. And called her Strawberry.

  “Life gives you enough tests,” he said.

  Like how long could she sit here, inches from the sexiest man she could remember meeting in her life, and not kiss him? That right there was a real test.
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  “True success comes from meeting and beating every one of the challenges you’re thrown.” He inched a little bit closer with every word.

  Words that, she realized as she stopped inhaling and admiring and started listening, were as hot as he was. If he meant what he said and wasn’t just handing her a load of BS.

  “Let me ask you something, Clay.”

  “Anything.”

  “Do you always get everything you want?”

  Something flickered over his features. A memory, maybe. But it was gone in an instant. “Everything,” he assured her. “Even if I have to change what it is that I want.”

  She smiled, totally understanding that.

  “Here’s all you have to know about me, Lacey.” He brushed her knuckles with his fingertips, ostensibly to underscore the point he was about to make, but the touch sent chills over her skin and made her curl her toes around the bar stool just for something to hang on to. “I don’t believe in obstacles, brick walls, barriers, roadblocks, or anything else that says I can’t. There’s a way around everything and everyone, and I find it. I get what I want and I don’t quit until I have it. I give you my word on that. Now, can I have the job to design and build your resort?”

  Oh, boy. Casablanca was a turn-on, but someone who didn’t quit? Didn’t give up? Didn’t find excuses? Wasn’t that exactly what she needed?

  “I suppose we could meet at the property.”

  He put one finger under her chin and tilted her face toward his. “Just say yes.”

  Like a living, breathing human female could say anything else. “After you’ve come up with some ideas. Right now I can’t—”

  “Let’s agree not to use the word can’t. Ever. Let’s just call it a four-letter word we don’t use.”

  She smiled. “I can’t.” Then laughed. “You don’t know me. I’m… cautious.”

  He ran his thumb across her bottom lip, a move that, seriously, just ought to be outlawed. “If you were cautious, you wouldn’t have followed me in here.”

  “My friends talked me into it,” she admitted.

  “Then send them the finest bottle of nail-polish remover. When do we start?”

  When do they start what? That was the question. Come on, Lacey.

  “We’ll finish this interview tomorrow morning at ten o’clock at Barefoot Bay,” she said, searching for the strength to escape his lethal touch and coming up with nothing. “Bring your drawings and your imagination, samples of your work, and references.” And, for the love of God, don’t bring that thumb that’s turning me into a puddle of hormones.

  For one more suspended second, they stayed two inches from each other, sparks and heat arcing between their mouths. If he had kissed her, she’d have kissed him right back.

  But somehow, she found the strength to walk away.

  Chapter 6

  Lacey pulled into the Super Min wishing she could fill her tank without having to go inside. The Sisters of the Holy Super Min, as Charity Grambling and Patience Vail were known around town, would surely both be working this morning. But Charity refused to install credit-card-accepting pumps in the only gas station in this part of the island, so Lacey had no choice.

  Now that their daughters, cousins Grace and Gloria, had met Clay, it was only a matter of time until Lacey’s plans were public. Would there be pushback against leveling her grandparents’ ancient house to build a bed and breakfast? Probably. Definitely.

  With Clay’s definition of “true success” still ringing in her ears—and his sexy scent still torturing her memory—Lacey squared her shoulders and entered the Super Min.

  A bell tinkled with an old-fashioned preciousness as the door opened, just as Charity shoved the cash-register drawer closed and dismissed a customer with a tight smile. The bell was the only thing “precious” about the Super Min or its owners.

  “Well, it’s about time somebody got dressed up around here,” Charity remarked.

  “Not exactly up, but dressed.” Lacey paused in the heavenly rush of cool air. “I have a meeting.”

  A construction worker passed Lacey on his way out, giving her a once-over and zeroing in on her chest.

  “I’ll meet with you,” he said with a wink.

  So much for the “too professional” blouse Zoe had mocked and Lacey thought underplayed her boobs. Those suckers did not underplay easily.

  Clay Walker was already a professional risk; she didn’t want to encourage a personal one as well. So she kept telling herself that if he got the job, if he proved himself to her, and if they had to work side by side for a year or more, she would just ignore the fact that he turned her into a quivering bowl of Jell-O.

  “Bet I know who you’re meeting with.” Charity situated her bony backside on her stool, smug and cocky.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did, Char.” There were two forms of news delivery on this island: the Mimosa Gazette and Charity Grambling. “Forty dollars of regular unleaded,” she said, holding out her money.

  Charity took the cash and lifted partway off the stool to peer over the counter and get the full view of the white slacks Lacey had switched to when Zoe had called her other choice mom jeans.

  “You’re going up to that mess in white pants?”

  News and editorial.

  “Yep.” Lacey met Charity’s judgmental gaze.

  The door to the back office flipped open and Patience Vail, who only answered to the nickname Patti, ambled into the room.

  “Lacey’s got a meeting,” Charity said, pressing way too much emphasis on the word. “With someone.”

  Patti lifted her dark brows. “That same someone you were practically licking down at the Pelican last night?”

  Oh, boy. This actually could be fun if it weren’t true. “There was no licking, Patti.” Lacey gave an obviously impatient look at the cash register. “You know, until you press that button, I can’t pump the gas.”

  “I know.” Charity situated herself on the stool. “I gotta tell your mama, Lacey. You know that, don’t you?”

  Lacey rolled her eyes and almost laughed at the warning, like she was a teenager caught shoplifting in the Super Min or something. “My mother’s up in New York at my brother’s place, Charity.”

  “I know where she is. We’re Facebook friends.”

  “Well, no need to report anything, Charity, because last time I checked, I was thirty-six years old.” About to be thirty-seven, but no need to give them that ammo.

  Patti and Charity shared a look. “He isn’t,” they said simultaneously. “Bet he isn’t thirty yet.”

  Now she couldn’t help laughing. “Did you girls get a picture? ’Cause then you can post that on Facebook, too.” She started to back away, but Charity’s inch-long crimson nails lingered over the computer key, holding Lacey captive. “Any minute now, Charity. I’m kind of in a hurry.”

  But Patti put a hand on Charity’s arm, further stalling things. “Maybe she is the one.”

  What one?

  Charity considered the question, eyed Lacey suspiciously, then shook her head. “Nah, she’d never do something that stupid.”

  “You’re right, she wouldn’t,” Patti said, like they weren’t talking about her in the third person.

  Lacey refused to take the bait, though.

  “ ’Course not, Pat,” Charity continued. “Lacey wouldn’t do anything stupid with that old house from her grandfather, who was one of our daddy’s dearest friends and, of course, one of the founders of Mimosa Key.” She practically breathed fire on the last words. “Or did you forget that your grandparents were pioneers who had a vision for this place? A vision, Lacey. And it included some ironclad rules of the road. Do you know what they are?”

  Lacey shifted from one foot to the other, the pressure of being late for a ten o’clock meeting in Barefoot Bay almost as weighty as her curiosity, and a growing concern. What was the issue here? “Not sure where you’re going with this, Charity, but I would really appreciate if you’d free the gas pump s
o I’m not late for my meeting.”

  “With an architect?” Charity prompted.

  She looked from one to the other, knowing that a lie would be discovered and the truth would be broadcast to the next thirty customers. “Yes.”

  “Uh-huh.” Charity nodded, slowly, her lips curled in an “I knew it” smirk. “My Gracie said she met an architect in the Pelican last night, and when she and Glo left, you all but fell into his lap.”

  “Not exactly.” She pointed to the register. “Please?”

  Patti, a much bigger woman than her sister, worked her girth around the counter to give Lacey a hard look. “He said he might be building an inn of some kind.”

  Lacey just stared at her, saying nothing, reality dawning. Grace and Ron Hartgrave owned the Fourway Motel, and no one in the extended family run by these two matriarchs would like the competition. But they couldn’t stop it.

  Could they?

  She cleared her throat and met Patti’s beady gaze. “Nothing is set in concrete,” she said. “I’m looking at all the possibilities.” Damn, she wanted to have more conviction than that, but these two, they were not to be messed with.

  “Well, look at this possibility.” Charity whipped out a binder and slapped it on the counter. The Building Code and Bylaws of Mimosa Key was typed across the top. Literally typed. By a typewriter. Probably before Lacey was born.

  Charity flipped open the cover and pointed to a page already marked with a bright pink Post-it note. “Says right here that no structure that contains more than five bedrooms can be built on Mimosa Key.”

  Lacey almost choked. “That code was written in the 1950s, Charity. It—”

  “Still holds true,” Patti interjected. “You don’t see any six-bedroom houses on this island.”

  “Which is the problem,” Lacey shot back.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if we would let some people build big houses, we could be the next Jupiter Island or take some of the money that gets poured into Naples’ real estate. Mimosa Key is ripe for big money, and I can’t imagine who on the town council would be opposed to having more tourist dollars on this island.”

  They both stared at her, but it was Charity whose eyes narrowed. “So it’s true. You’re trying to ruin this island.”