He chuckled softly, remembering the top he’d managed to find his way inside frequently. He could just about hear her sweet voice in every word, her light tease, her warmth. There was no punch of pain, no choking grief. Nothing but fond memories and good thoughts.
He skimmed the rest of the letter, full of more high school nonsense, then his gaze dropped on the signature.
I love you, J.
Under it was a turn-the-page arrow. Flipping the paper, he found a postscript.
P.S. I can’t stop thinking about our talk. Yes, I want babies. A couple of them, I hope. And, if you insist, I will name our boy Daniel, since you love Dan Marino so much. But I get to pick the girl’s name, okay? And I already have. Emma. Emma Solomon. Isn’t that the most beautiful name you’ve ever heard?
His breath caught and his heart kicked as he stared at the words his late wife had written thirty-one years ago.
Emma Solomon. Isn’t that the most beautiful name you’ve ever heard?
“Yes,” he whispered, vaguely aware his feet had already started moving, even if his brain was stuck in the past. Emma Solomon was the most beautiful name he’d ever heard, and this was a message he was not going to ignore.
He yanked the Porsche door open and threw himself behind the wheel, tossing the letter on the seat next to him.
Was he crazy? He’d known the woman less than a week and, right now, she was rightfully pissed at him. He’d wrecked her job, her heart, her trust, and her week in paradise…but he’d make it up to her.
Because when they went to that reunion tomorrow night—and they would go and they would dance and they would win—she would be his fiancée, and there would be nothing fake about it.
Emma Solomon. A beautiful name indeed, Julia.
Would she take him seriously? Would she laugh in his face?
The questions plagued him all the way back to the resort, but he smashed every doubt with confidence. They had something special. They were…soul mates.
Good God, could that happen twice in one lifetime?
He parked the car and hustled across the lot, the path to Blue Casbah suddenly seeming a hundred miles long instead of a pleasant walk along the beach. As he reached the first villa, an electric golf cart came humming up behind him, and he turned, greeted by the smiling face of the world’s friendliest housekeeper.
“Poppy, can I have a ride?” he asked impulsively.
“You sure may, Mr. Solomon. Blue Casbah? You skipping the baseball game, too?”
“Yes.” He hopped in. “Do you know where everyone is all the time?”
“I try to,” she assured him. “I know a little bit about everyone who’s here.”
He peered ahead as if looking for the villa could get him there faster.
“For instance, I know you’re not engaged to that woman you’ve been staying with.”
He swiveled to look at her. “How the hell do you know that?”
“Hey!” She held out her hand. “There’s a fine for cursing in my cart.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “I just came from church,” he said. “Does that pay my fine?”
“This time.” She turned her hand and patted him on the thigh, easing into the curve right before the villa. “And I only know about the engagement because she told me a few minutes ago.”
“She told you?”
“No worries. Getting people to tell me stuff is my gift. Here you go. Blue Casbah.”
“Thanks.” He swung his feet out and hit the bricks, the first tendril of something not right twisting around his chest. “Did you bring her back to the villa when the cab dropped her off?” he asked.
“The other way,” she said, pointing over her shoulder. “To the lobby. With her bags.”
And that tendril tightened to stop the next beat of his heart. “Her bags?”
She lifted two pitying eyebrows. “Sorry to be the one with the bad news, but she just took a cab to the airport.”
He opened his mouth, but nothing, not a single word, came out. He just nodded and backed away, then turned to go into the villa.
Except, he already knew what he’d find.
Still, hope had a way of rising over all that certainty, driving him to stick the card key in the door and step into the entryway to see her, hear her, smell her, touch her…kiss her…and tell her…
Emma Solomon. Isn’t that the most beautiful name you’ve ever heard?
But there was nothing but a heavy, still silence that told him he’d never get to ask her that question.
Chapter Twenty-four
This was travel hell. Emma would have to wait an hour, then make two connections in Charlotte and Pittsburgh, and shell out a small fortune to Uber for the final leg after landing in Newark. But if weather and winds were in her favor, Emma would be home in her Brooklyn apartment before the clock struck midnight.
Jilted, jobless, and jaded…even more than when she’d landed here six days ago at the junior-size regional airport that had the audacity to call itself Southwest Florida International.
In a restaurant that smelled like cheese and beer, she plopped down at an empty two-top table that looked out at the six people bustling by on the concourse.
“Bitter,” she murmured as she tucked her suitcase under the table. “I am so bitter.”
“Bourbon and bitter did you say?” A waitress stood next to her table with an order pad in one hand and a pen in the other.
Emma gave a soft laugh. “That might just be strong enough, but no. I’ll have a glass of white wine. Do you have…” She thought of the crisp, dry wine from a vineyard Mark liked and instantly her heart sank. No, she can’t wallow over him, but she could at least re-create the wine experience. “Sauvignon blanc?”
Lips that were just pink enough to have been covered in lipstick many hours ago curved up. “I could tell you it’s souvy…whatever blank. But it’ll get poured from the same bottle of lighter fluid we give anyone who wants white wine.”
“Thank you,” Emma said, thudding her elbows on the table, eyeing the woman’s name tag. “You know what the problem is with this world today, Joelle?”
“Bad wine?”
“Not enough people are just flat-out honest. It’s all I want. Am I asking too much? Just tell the truth. So it might not be what someone wants to hear. So it might not sell your product or increase your bottom line. So what, I say. Be honest. Even if there’s a price to pay. Even if you break a woman’s heart. Tell the truth, please.”
The woman just looked at her, but Emma’s blood was bubbling now, and the tears she’d fought since she’d left Casa Blanca swam in her eyes.
“I can handle the truth,” she continued. “I’m not a fragile little thing with a tender heart that needs to be lied to. And not telling someone something is just as bad as lying. People benefit from the truth. They grow. They have their eyes opened. They get what they really wanted in the first place.”
The waitress tapped her pad. “Which would be…”
“A beer,” Emma said on a sigh. “Just something cold on tap. No lighter fluid.”
“Good call.” The woman disappeared to the bar, leaving Emma to drop her head onto her palm and sigh.
She’d left Barefoot Bay as impulsively as she’d arrived. This time, she’d had the airline schedule on her phone while she was still in the cab. Packed in record time, grabbed a housekeeper’s golf cart to the lobby, and was in a cab before Mark Solomon could figure out what hit him.
Because if he’d come back to the villa, she would have hit him.
No. She would have cried more, and he would have explained his compelling reason for not telling her that Kyle had cheated on her—Kyle, that black-hearted, two-timing bastard—and then Mark would have lured her into bed with his clever hands and sexy mouth and lies.
Well, he’d never lied about their relationship, but then, they didn’t have a relationship. But she’d started to hope…
And then she went falling face first for the biggest lie in the hi
story of mankind: the happily ever after lie. Again! How stupid was she?
Stunningly stupid. A first-class fool who should know better than to think that kind of happiness could happen to her.
“What was his name?”
Emma looked at the cocktail napkin that had just been placed in front of her, then up at the waitress, mid-forties, most likely, a weathered but warm face with deep-brown eyes and wiry blond hair. “Mark,” she said simply.
“Nice name. Good and strong.” She took a foamy beer from her tray and put it on the table. “Don’t tell me. Another woman?”
“Not this one,” she said, wrapping her hand around the icy glass. “That was the guy before him.”
“But he lied, and you cried.”
Emma snapped her fingers and pointed to her. “That’s good. Have you ever considered a job writing advertising copy?”
“What? And leave all this?” She gestured toward the nearly-empty concourse and the restaurant that wasn’t exactly overflowing with customers. “I didn’t mean to be poetic, but you look wrecked. Beer’s on me.”
“Really? It’s that obvious?”
Joelle glanced at the bar and the back of a bored bartender who was watching CNN on the TV. Then, she pulled out the other chair at Emma’s table and dropped into it. “How do you think I ended up here, working in an airport bar?”
“An international airport bar,” Emma joked.
“Exactly, because as you can see…” Joelle gestured to the empty restaurant. “We are a beehive of exotic international travelers.”
Emma snorted. “See what I mean? Lies. One flight probably got rerouted from South America on its way to Miami and they called an emergency marketing meeting to change the name.”
The other woman laughed. “Hey, we serve Canada and Germany, but I guess this place is small compared to Kennedy or O’Hare. But, seriously, honey girl, don’t let one bad experience sour you on all men. And airports.”
“It was two bad experiences. Consecutive. Three weeks ago, I was jilted at the altar. Have the cancellation fees and unresellable Vera Wang gown to prove it.”
She cringed. “Ouch.”
“Then I come down here for a little R&R, and my villa’s taken by some…some…” Perfect, funny, sexy, wonderful man. “Slick-tongued silver fox who…” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“Like hell never mind.” Joelle leaned closer. “This is getting good. What happened?”
Emma angled her head and gave the waitress a “what do you think happened” look.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” Emma punctuated the admission with a slurp of foamy beer.
“Please, oh God, please, please, please don’t tell me he’s married. The number of married asswipes that come through this—”
“No,” Emma assured her. “Not married. Worse. So much freaking worse.”
“Broke? Abusive? Boring with a small dick? The possibilities are endless.”
“A widower who believes there is only one person for everyone, and he already met, married, and buried her.”
Joelle dropped back and let her tray hit her lap. “Ohhh. That’s harsh. But was the sex good?”
“Ridiculous.” Another gulp, and she finally hit beer. “Slow, sweet, sensual…satisfying.”
Joelle laughed. “Sounds downright poetic.”
“It was.”
“Then don’t complain.” She pushed up and pressed her round tray to her chest. “You had good sex and a nice vacation. A girl can’t ask for much more than that.”
“Can’t she?”
The woman started to throw back another quip, but something stopped her, and it came out like a sigh as she dropped back into the seat and put her hand on Emma’s arm. “Is he worth fighting for?”
Emma just stared at her for a moment. “I’ve honestly never met a man more worth fighting for, but—”
She hushed Emma with a flat hand in the air. “No buts. If you’re worth it and he’s worth it, what are you doing running away?”
“I’m…” She swallowed. “I’m afraid of losing the fight.”
One well-drawn brow lifted. “Oh, honey. Fear is the enemy.”
“So I’ve heard.” She picked up the beer and stared into the bubbly top. “Gotta conquer those three times. So maybe the next time I meet a man, he’ll be my soul mate.”
“You know what I always ask myself when I’m afraid of something?”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Emma guessed, and got a massive eye roll in reply.
“That’s a loser, quitter, slacker mentality. I ask myself, ‘What’s the best that could happen?’ And that makes me want to kick fear in the nuts. So, what’s the best that could happen with this slow-hand widower named Mark?”
She thought about it, sinking into the idea like it was a puffy white cloud of comfort. The best that could happen? Forever. Soul mates. Partners. Laughter. Fun. Adventure. Tears. Sex. Together. Emma and Mark. “Everything I ever wanted.”
The waitress tipped her head to the side and gave a smug smile as she headed back to the bar, calling over her shoulder, “Let me know if you want another one.”
Another drink…or another chance?
The question echoed in her head for an hour as Emma sipped her beer, checked her phone—her silent phone—and replayed every minute of the past week. What had she learned from Mark Solomon, if not to fight her fears?
Hadn’t she also learned that men couldn’t be trusted? That they’re just selling the same thing everyone else is—sex?
“You need anything else?” a man asked, pulling her from her sad reverie. It was the bartender, holding a check. So much for the beer being on Joelle. Maybe she’d lied, too.
“No, I’m good.” She grabbed her wallet and took out some money, then another ten-dollar bill. “Can you do me a favor and give this to Joelle?”
He frowned. “Who?”
“My waitress, Joelle.”
Still frowning, he turned and looked over his shoulder, then back at her. “We don’t have a waitress named Joelle. You mean Julia?”
Julia. She felt a little blood drain at the name. “Is that her…real name? The woman who waited on me?”
“I don’t know who waited on you. My shift just started five minutes ago, and Julia called in sick today.”
There had to be an explanation. “Then who…”
Or not.
She gave him all the money anyway. “Thanks. Keep the change. I have a plane to catch.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Law Monroe put both elbows on the table and scowled at Mark. “So, let me get this straight. You just met her this week?”
Next to him, Ken leaned in closer. “And you told everyone you were engaged?”
“Including your former father-in-law?” Law added, lifting a glass of club soda to cover the fact that he was about to crack up in laughter.
“Don’t forget the dance.” Ken elbowed Law. “Now he’s going to have to put on his Don Johnson jacket and dance alone.”
The two men shared a look and laughter won out over any sympathy from his newfound friends.
Mark set his rocks glass hard on the table, looking away at the huge crowd mingling on the beach for the cocktail party and dinner that kicked off the evening’s festivities. “I’m not going to dance. I’ll forfeit.”
“What?” Now Law looked appalled, but Ken shook his head, and his attention drifted across the reunion crowd, too.
“Seriously, what are you going to do?” Ken asked.
“About the dance?”
“About Emma,” he replied.
“Yeah,” Law added. “Why didn’t you go after her for the big movie moment in the airport? Could have broken through security, gotten on one knee in front of the crowd, and made the rest of us schmucky bastards look bad.”
He’d considered it.
“Hey, A-Team of Planning Committee Men.” Libby Chesterfield came up from behind Mark, slipping into the empty chair next
to Law. “Not a single one of you showed up at the baseball game yesterday. The bleachers were a sorry place without you.”
“Hey, Chesty.” Law lit up a little at the arrival of a pretty woman, and Mark silently thanked her for the distraction.
“It’s Libby to you, Monroe. What’s your sad excuse?”
“I was working on the menu for tonight and made two hundred pork tenderloin crostini. That’s my excuse.”
“You made the tenderloin crostini?” She smacked her lips. “Little orgasms for the mouth, I say.”
“I don’t know what that means, a ‘little’ orgasm,” Law joked. “I only give big ones.”
She rolled her eyes and leaned closer to Mark. “What’s your excuse for missing the day at the ballpark? You and Emma have a meeting with the destination wedding planners, by any chance?”
He glanced down at his drink, hating that he’d made the decision to tell everyone the truth. Everyone. Even those he’d rather not deal with.
“Mark was busy, too,” Ken said quickly, filling the gap of silence.
Mark gave him a quick look of thanks for the assist, but then shook his head. He was done lying. That decision had cost him enough.
“I wasn’t busy, actually.” He met Libby’s gaze. “Emma left. She was never my fiancée. It was just a ruse to ward off people asking me about my late wife.” And to ward off women hitting on him, but he didn’t need to add that.
Her jaw dropped so hard it was a wonder it didn’t hit her double D’s. “A ruse?”
Law leaned closer. “Do you know what that means?”
She gave him a playful tap on the arm. “Shut up. I still haven’t forgiven you for standing me up junior year.”
“I didn’t stand you up, Chesty.”
“Then what happened?”
“My best guess? Booze. Weed. My usual high school distractions of choice. I’m sorry if you weren’t on the list of people I asked to forgive me, but I thought I covered that step in AA.”
“I could forgive you. It was twenty-eight years, two ex-husbands, and one lifetime ago.” She leaned closer, her deep cleavage inches from his face. “But I think forgiveness is highly overrated.”