Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1)

  Emma dropped her head on his shoulder, a move that felt ridiculously natural. “Of course.”

  “Great. Then…see you in a bit. Bye!” She tried for bright as she walked off and Emma gave a little wave.

  When she was out of earshot, he turned to her. “What changed your mind?”

  “I don’t know, I just…”

  “Truth, Emma.”

  She looked back at the villa, a frown on her face, then back at him. “You’ll be shark bait if I don’t circle you in these waters. I can’t stand to see a grown man eaten alive.”

  “You pity me? Is that the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the unvarnished truth?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “I really liked that kiss,” she whispered, so soft he barely heard her.

  Pulling her closer, he kept his voice just as soft. “I liked it, too.”

  Chapter Six

  “How did we meet?” Emma asked as they left the villa and turned onto the stone path that led to Lacey and Clay Walker’s home at the northern most edge of the resort.

  “Good question,” he said, taking her hand as they walked. The gesture was perfectly harmless; the quiver in her belly that it caused was not. “We’ll get asked that a lot, and we should have the same answer.”

  “We could say online through LoveInc.” She leaned into him. “Keep that stock price high.”

  He gave a soft choke. “Not in a million years would I meet someone online.”

  “Isn’t that like Mrs. Fields not eating carbs?”

  “It’s like Mrs. Fields not eating poison cookies. There are some serious whack jobs out there.”

  “Says the man who asked a perfect stranger to marry him twelve minutes after he found her lurking outside his front door.”

  He laughed, pulling her hand to bring her closer. “You’re funny, you know that?”

  “Don’t change the subject, George. How did we meet?”

  “George? It’s Mark. If you can’t remember my name, we’ll never pull this off.”

  “George, like Clooney. You remind me of him, except for the blue eyes. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”

  He rolled those blue eyes, which she took as a yes. “Okay, how we met.” He thought for a moment, glancing at her as if he were trying to imagine where he’d meet a woman like her. “I met you on a plane. It’s where I spend half my life anyway.”

  “But I don’t. A subway would be more appropriate.”

  “I haven’t been on a subway in ten years.”

  Of course he hadn’t. “Well, that’s where you’d have found me, but okay. Let’s live your exciting life and not my boring one. A plane it is. Flying to Paris? And we spent the week there and fell in love?” As if that happened to anyone in real life. “You know, we strolled the Champs-Élysées, sipped coffee in bistros in between shopping and museums, and kissed for the first time under l’Arc de Triomphe?”

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  “What? Too cliché for you?”

  “I’m just wondering if that’s your idea of a dream romance.”

  “I don’t have an idea of a dream romance because I don’t believe in romance.”

  “Oh, that’s right, the cynical advertising writer comes out again. I have a better cliché. How about we were skydiving, and your parachute almost failed, so you clung to me, and by the time we hit bottom, wham.”

  “Oh!” She dropped her head back, laughing. “So not cliché. Unless you’re falling in love with James Bond. But I can’t skydive. What if someone asked me a technical question?”

  “You’ll handle it about as well as you handled the Sacred Rivers and the Tiger’s Nest Monastery. In Paro, not Peru.”

  “Whoops. So let’s stick with the plane to Paris for our first meet,” she suggested. “But be sure to say we sat in first class.”

  “Why not?” he teased. “Go big or go home.”

  “And how long ago did this happen?” she asked.

  “How whirlwind of a courtship was this?”

  “The week in Paris,” she replied.

  “We got engaged after a week?”

  “Go big or go home,” she reminded him. “Plus, we don’t want to have too much history together. We’ll get tripped up. And people might wonder why they haven’t heard about this on Facebook or something.”

  “Facebook?”

  “Please don’t tell me you…” She caught him laughing. “Okay, you know what Facebook is.”

  “But I’ve never been on it.”

  “It’s like you stepped out of the last millennium. Do you have a cell phone?”

  “Of course. But, honestly, when I sold the company, I checked out. My goal is to put my feet on every country in the world, climb the highest mountain on each of the seven continents, and conquer El Capitan before I’m fifty.” He threw her a grin. “Clock’s ticking, but I’ll make it.”

  “Those are lofty goals, for sure. Beats ‘stay out of the unemployment line’ and ‘stop renting before I’m fifty.’” She returned his grin. “Clock’s ticking, but I have twelve years, although if I stay in New York, that last one will never be reached.”

  “Have you considered moving?”

  She shrugged. “Advertising is kind of based in New York, but if I could, I’d live somewhere warm and clean and affordable. Like…” She swept her hand out. “Mimosa Key.” Her voice caught with the longing. “But I doubt there are too many ad agencies in Barefoot Bay.”

  “So start one.”

  She snorted softly. “You are fearless. So I guess it makes sense that you ‘adventure’ for a living, if I may use that as a verb.”

  “You may not. I travel,” he corrected. “And I happen to enjoy extreme sports.”

  “Sounds more like you escape and enjoy risking your life.”

  “That’s just semantics.”

  “Semantics are my life, remember? I work with words for a living.” She sighed. “At least I did.”

  “Hey.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Don’t think about that this week. You’ll get a job because you’re too good not to.”

  Holding on to that infusion of confidence—and his incredibly strong and secure hand—they rounded the path past the last of the villas, the one called Rockrose, and caught sight of a beautiful two-story hacienda built on a rise to overlook the bay on one side and the rolling fields of a farmette on the other.

  A few cars were parked in the circular drive, and some people gathered on the side lawn.

  “Mark, you made it,” a man called from the group and broke away to greet them. He looked close to Mark’s age, with thick hair with a good shock of silver on the sides.

  “Okay, Em,” Mark whispered, giving her a squeeze before they separated. “Fiancée game face on.”

  She squared her shoulders a little and gave him a quick smile. “Paro, not Peru.”

  The man reached them and gave Emma a killer smile and outstretched hand. “You are definitely not a Mimosa High graduate. I would never forget those eyes.”

  Nor would she forget his, which were intense and direct and the color of fresh sage. “I’m not, but I still want to come to the party.”

  “You better,” he teased, giving her a flirtatious up and down.

  “Law, this is Emma, my fiancée.”

  Law’s brows rose in surprise. “You didn’t mention a fiancée this afternoon.”

  Because he didn’t have one this afternoon.

  “You didn’t ask,” Mark replied, sliding a strong and secure arm around her shoulder. “Emma, this is Lawson Monroe, but we called him Lawless.”

  She laughed at that. “I bet there’s a good reason why.”

  “So many I don’t know where to start,” Lawson said, slipping his hands into the pockets of khaki pants.

  “Start with why the hell you let me be put on that dance thing,” Mark said.

  “I tried to tell them you didn’t dance, but your name was at the top of the list.”

  Mark glared at him, a little playfu
l, but not completely. “You better be dancing your ass off.”

  “Me?” As he lifted his arms, a little bit of ink peeked out where his corded forearms weren’t quite covered by the rolled-up sleeves of a blue chambray shirt. “We’re in the same decade, dude. You own the eighties, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. Those ladies couldn’t get your name on the list fast enough.” He added a wink for Emma that made her wonder just what went on in that meeting.

  “What about Ken? He could do the nineties.”

  Law shook his head. “Red Sweater wasn’t dancing and, don’t tell our friend we’re on to him, but I’m pretty sure she’s the only reason he’s here.”

  Mark swore under his breath. “Remind me to find better backup next time.”

  “Why’d you leave?” Law asked, then looked at Emma. “Dumb question. I’d have ditched that thing, too, if someone so pretty was waiting for me at home.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a tip of her head. “And that’s where I was, sitting on the front porch, waiting for him to come home.”

  Law laughed, but probably didn’t get the real joke like Mark did, who secretly squeezed her shoulder.

  “So why are you on this nearly all-female committee?” Emma asked Law.

  He looked around with that swaggery confidence women loved, and it worked well on a body that had to call the gym a second home. “I needed some time on Mimosa Key,” he said. “Got some plans for the place.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “If Law’s involved, his plans include a bar, multiple women, and probably the cops.”

  Law gave him a tight smile, shaking his head. “One out of three, my man. I’ve changed most of my wicked ways.”

  “You’re wicked enough to let me get dragged into some decade dance.”

  Law gave Mark a slap on the shoulder. “I’ll make it up to you by buying you a drink.”

  “They’re free,” Mark said.

  “Exactly. Bar’s in the back.”

  “Of course you’d know that,” Mark mumbled.

  Law leaned closer to Emma to whisper, “Some things never change. I’m looking for trouble, and Mark Solomon is trying to keep me out of it.”

  “Oh, you know Mark,” she said. “Orphans and strays.”

  “Anyone in trouble, really,” Law agreed, the comment making her smile. At least she was “engaged” to a good guy this time.

  Law motioned them to the lawn that wrapped around and fed into a patio area, where another twenty or thirty people mingled.

  “Were you two classmates?” Emma asked as they walked.

  “I’m so much younger than he is,” Law said.

  “Three years.” Mark slid him a look. “Although it might have taken him eight or ten to graduate.”

  “Made it in four, big guy, and rocked a D-plus average. But I’d have dropped out if this guy”—he gave Mark’s shoulder a solid slap—“hadn’t taken me under his big ol’ football shoulder pad and got me out of a few brushes with the Collier County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “More than a few,” Mark reminded him.

  Law nudged them and gestured to a group of people. “Look, Solomon, someone older than you.”

  A very old man with gray Einstein hair and a full suit and tie sat in an oversize wicker chair, holding court with a number of people leaning in to hear his every word.

  “Is that Wigglesworth?” Mark asked with disbelief. “Holy hell, I can’t believe he’s still alive.”

  “Barely,” Law said. “He might not have any teeth left, but I’m still afraid of his bite. I hear he still hangs around the school, too, looking for dress-code violators and troublemakers.”

  “Your people,” Mark joked.

  “Who is he?” Emma asked. “The dean?”

  “He was not only our principal,” Mark said, “but one of the last living founders of Mimosa Key, a group of guys who built the first wooden causeway back in the forties and claimed a lot of the land, making a mess out of county lines and such. He started Mimosa High and ran it with a steel rod, literally, all the way through to the late nineties, when he retired.”

  “He’s ninety-six years young.” Law gave Mark a teasing nudge. “Go stand by him. You’ll feel like a kid again.”

  “Go get us drinks, rookie,” Mark shot back.

  “Only because your fiancée is gorgeous, but then I’m taking off.”

  “You have somewhere better to be than at the reunion planning committee dinner?” Mark asked.

  “Headed down to the old TP.”

  Mark made a disgusted snort. “The Toasted Pelican? I seem to recall picking you up one night when you got kicked out for sneaking some beer.”

  “Pelican Piss, the finest brew of Mimosa Key.”

  “Is that place still there?” Mark asked.

  “It’s not only there, I heard from the woman next to me at the meeting that the ownership changed recently.”

  “So the beer improved?”

  “Actually, I heard the place is empty half the time, and I’m hoping it might be for sale.”

  “Are you looking for a bar?” Emma asked.

  “Law Monroe is always looking for a bar,” Mark jabbed.

  “Not anymore, my friend. I haven’t had a sip of booze in almost eleven years. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to get out from under the chef at the Ritz and open my own gastropub.”

  Mark slowed his step, nodding. “That’s a brilliant idea.”

  “Glad you think so, ’cause I’ll be hitting you up for investment cash if I make this work,” Law said, only half teasing, Emma suspected. “Wine, beer, or a margarita?” he asked, inching away toward the bar.

  “Wine?” Mark asked Emma. At her nod, he gave Law’s shoulder a pat. “See if she has a nice sauvignon blanc for us. And thanks. We’ll go inside and find Lacey.”

  As they started toward the house, a woman came darting up from the right, her eyes on Mark. “Hello there, handsome.”

  Emma felt him subtly put pressure on her hand, and she gave him a quick we got this look.

  The woman strode closer and opened her arms, her expression expectant. She looked about his age, her hair blond and short, a pair of bright pink glasses on her nose. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember me, Mark Solomon.”

  If he didn’t, Emma couldn’t tell, as he smoothly got the woman to reveal her name, and introductions were made all around. Within minutes, a few others approached the group and it grew. After the tenth introduction, Emma lost track of the names and started to settle comfortably into her role as Mark’s fiancée.

  Law Monroe delivered drinks, a few flirts and jokes, and disappeared with a quick hug to Emma and a promise he’d see her during the week. In the group, conversation was light, easy, and fun…and not a single person mentioned Julia.

  But who would when Mark played the engaged man better than, well, the last man Emma had actually been engaged to? He touched her whenever she was near, a casual brush of her arm, an easy hand on her back, and once, the lightest finger to push a lock of hair over her shoulder when he made an introduction.

  Every move was possessive, sexy, subtle, dizzying. And fake. She had to remember that.

  For dinner, they took an outside table with two other couples and a single woman who introduced herself as Beth Endicott.

  “Endicott?” one of the men at the table said. “Like the development company?”

  She gave a smile and smoothed back a lock of butterscotch-blond hair. “Ray Endicott is my father.”

  “That man single-handedly put Pleasure Pointe on the map,” another person said.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Beth said.

  “But your family owned most of the south end of Mimosa Key and sold thousands of residential parcels over the last forty years, right?”

  “He did.” She busied herself with her napkin.

  “Are you in the family business?” another woman at the table asked.

  “Not really,” Beth said abs
ently, sipping wine as her attention veered from the conversation to someone or something across the lawn.

  Emma followed her gaze, where it landed on a man who was just coming into the party, his commanding good looks and height drawing more than a few eyes. Another one with a great body. Only, something about him looked more wiry and less gym-toned than Law Monroe. His hair was more pepper than salt, and his dark gaze was intense as he scanned the party, obviously looking for someone.

  “Oh, there’s Ken Cavanaugh,” Mark stood, spotting the same man. “Excuse me while I end his life slowly and with great pain.”

  “Why?” Beth asked, her eyes wide in surprise.

  “Because he was not supposed to let them sign me up to dance, which means he broke the bro code.”

  “Ken?” She shook her head. “That doesn’t sound like something he’d do. He’s a firefighter, you know.”

  “I do know, which means he has a guy’s back for his profession, and still he let mine get stabbed. I’ll make him miserable first, and then let him eat with us.”

  He left to walk over to Ken, and Emma could have sworn Beth Endicott sat up straighter and her blue eyes sparked at the idea of the firefighter joining them.

  “Oh, I know that guy,” another one of the men at their table said, taking a look at the new arrival. “Captain Cav. That’s what they call him at his station in Fort Myers.”

  His wife admired the view as well. “Oh yes, I was talking to him today at the meeting. Very nice guy. What do you want to know about him?”

  “Everything,” Beth said under her breath.

  The woman leaned closer, clasping her hands under her chin. “Well, I can tell you this. He is divorced, but very much single. And, he’s on the market.”

  “The market?” her husband asked with a small choke.

  “The market,” the woman confirmed. “In fact, he told me that the one thing he wants most in this world is a family, and he doesn’t have one yet.”

  Beth stared at her, and Emma could have sworn some color drained from her face. “He said that?”

  “Not in quite so many words, but yes. We were talking in a group about where all our lives have gone since high school.” She shot a tight smile to her husband. “Of course, I told them how happy I am.”