Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1) (27 page)

“Wow.” Mark inched back, taking it all in. “That’s amazing, Wayne. I’m really happy for you.”

He patted Mark’s back. “And I’m happy for you. Betsy and I hoped you’d remarry.”

“You did?” He’d always suspected it would break their hearts if he had.

“Julia wanted you to be happy, and it looks like you are.” He peered at the house, where Linda and Emma had disappeared. “She’s a fine-looking woman and, knowing you, she’s got a heart of gold.”

“That she does.” No way he was getting into a truth-telling session now. And if he knew Emma, she’d wait for him before she spilled any beans.

Weird to think that after only a few days, he did know her and trusted her already.

During their visit, a silent communication went between Mark and Emma, sealing the fact that they weren’t about to share their secret. It would end up all over Beachside Beauty, anyway.

After some iced tea and small talk, which was centered almost entirely on the process of remodeling the house and the booming real estate market on Mimosa Key, they made their way to the door, Emma and Linda chatting like fast friends.

As they were saying good-bye, Wayne put a little pressure on Mark’s shoulder and steered him a few steps back. “Son, I have something I want to give you.”

“Okay.”

“Come with me for a moment.” He led Mark down a hall that used to lead to Julia’s bedroom, a sanctuary he was rarely allowed to enter in high school, though he had a vague memory of pale blue walls, white bifold closet doors, and a mauve carpet he recalled Julia hated.

Now, it was cream and wood with walls of built-in cabinetry and a sleek pedestal table in the middle with two laptops.

“This is our office now,” he said as Mark looked around.

“It’s nice.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Mark gave him a look. “You do?”

“Not much of a shrine to my daughter, who spent many happy hours in this room.”

“No.” Mark shook his head. “I’m not thinking that at all. On the contrary, I’m impressed with how you’ve moved on and put your life back together. Differently and quite well.”

Smiling, Wayne opened one of the cabinets on the wall. “I did, didn’t I? I think Betsy would be so proud.”

“Proud?” The word slipped out before Mark could catch himself, but Wayne glanced over his shoulder.

“Of course proud. It was Betsy who taught me to overcome adversity. Betsy who showed me how to accept Julia’s death. Betsy who made me a man who understands the value of a great woman. She’d managed as well as could be expected after Julia died, until that heart attack we just never saw coming. She was healthy and then, wham. Gone. But I know she didn’t want me to be holed up in here crying in my Jack Daniel’s.”

“No, I guess she wouldn’t.”

“Here it is.” From inside a cabinet, he pulled out a thin envelope, yellowed with age. “This was stuck behind the baseboard where Julia’s bed used to be. The contractor found it, gave it to me, and, well…it’s obviously meant for you.”

On the front, in a girlish, curly-cue handwriting he instantly recognized, was his name. With an upside-down heart for the
a
in Mark, the way Julia had written it all through high school. Even after they were married, once in a while she’d leave him a note around the house with that upside-down heart.

Damn
it. He really didn’t want to read this. “I don’t…” He looked up at Wayne, unable to tell him he didn’t want it. “I don’t know what it could be.”

“Probably nothin’,” Wayne said. “But it has your name on it, and I thought if I saw you, I’d give it to you.”

Another message from Julia? Two in one week and the ring before he got here? She must really have something to say.

But what if it didn’t say what he wanted to hear? What if it flat out hit him over the head with a fact they’d both agreed on, a fact they’d based their marriage on: There is one and only one soul mate.

Right now, this week, Mark didn’t want to face that fact. Not that he’d changed his opinion, but…

Not entirely sure why, he folded the envelope in half and slipped it into his back pocket with absolutely no intention of reading its contents, at least not this week. Maybe another time, another place. But not now.

Chapter Twenty-one

Emma’s fingers hovered over the keyboard of her laptop late that night, where she’d been since she and Mark finished dinner. It was Thursday night now, and the meeting with Lacey was Saturday morning. So, Emma sought time to prepare, but not give up too much time with Mark, as time had grown…precious.

After dinner, Mark had gone to hang out with the lone males on the planning committee to watch Chef Law in action at the resort kitchen as an excuse to avoid the Favor Committee meeting. That gave Emma a few hours to concentrate on the mock advertising materials she wanted to take in to impress Lacey.

But her mind drifted as she looked beyond the screen to her sumptuous surroundings. Lit only by one small nightstand light, the villa bedroom looked shadowy and comforting, the four-poster draped with sheer linen, the French doors open to let in the warm night air.

Every time she tried to capture some essence of this resort in words…they just drifted into
feelings
. Blissful, beautiful, impossibly sweet emotions that settled over her and carried her from euphoria to peace all day and all night.

How did she capture that magic in a brochure? She looked down at the computer open on the bed, the words she’d written blurring like the past few days in Barefoot Bay.

Each day here, she and Mark had languished over late mornings in bed, since Emma had taught him the joy of sleeping in—though there hadn’t been much sleeping involved. He hadn’t been kidding when he said he was a morning person; he woke every day with one goal and purpose, and she relished every moment of sunrise sex.

Their time had been spent at the beach, in the pool, or making pathetic attempts to practice their dance routine, which usually ended with an open bottle of wine and long conversations topped off by sunset strolls on the beach. After dinner at the resort, with great food and lots of laughter, they fell into bed again.

In some ways, they’d truly had a honeymoon. In other ways, they were both silent about the underlying feelings that, no matter how much Emma didn’t want them to, grew strong with each exquisite, shattering orgasm brought on by Mark’s slow hands.

Mark had given her that gift, among so many others, and when Emma thought hard about what this week had come to mean to her, she didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry.

She’d never forget this experience, this life-changing interlude in paradise…or the man who made it possible.

And that was the problem. She’d have to forget him by Sunday when they both left, and Emma returned to life as jilted, jobless, and jaded.

Maybe not jobless, she reminded herself. And certainly not jaded anymore. Jilted? That wouldn’t be how Mark’s good-bye would feel.

How would it feel?

She actually didn’t want to think about it. Instead, she forced herself to concentrate and use this rare time alone to her benefit.

Emma didn’t want to steal her sexy morning wakeup time to work on this, and she and Mark would be at the ballpark all day tomorrow, Friday, and then there was the pre-reunion party Friday night at the Toasted Pelican. The day after that, she’d meet with Lacey, the morning of the reunion.

So she returned to the mock brochure and her power adjectives.

“Dreamy is so…unimaginative,” she muttered, tapping the backspace key. “And luxurious is so overdone. Therapeutic sounds…medicinal. Maybe…” She typed a few letters. “Sumptuous. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like you’re describing this platter that Chef Law Monroe personally made for you.”

She snapped her head up to see Mark standing in the open French doors, holding a tray. “For me?”

“For us.” He raised an oversize restaurant service platter and entered slowly. “Dessert, my dear.”

“You walked back here with that?”

“Hitched a ride from a lovely housekeeper named Poppy, and I only had to tip her a strawberry.”

He came closer so she could see the tray held a split of champagne, two empty glasses, a bowl of fruit, an array of pound cake, and two heated glass bowls of… “Is that chocolate?” Emma asked, her voice cracking with longing.

“And salted caramel.”

Her jaw dropped wide open as she looked from Mark to the feast to Mark and back again. They were equally delicious.

“I could kiss you,” she said, leaning closer.

“That’s the general idea.” He held the tray out of her reach. “Bathtub, poolside, or right here on the bed? Lady’s choice.”

She closed the computer. “I’m in a sleep shirt. Let me put my bathing suit on, and I’ll meet you outside.”

“Don’t bother with that. You’re not going to be in anything for very long.” The words, spoken low and deliberate, sent a chill through her.

She pushed the computer to the side. Forget work. Forget brochure copy. Forget the rest of the world existed. Just like she had from the day she landed on this doorstep, she followed him like he was the Pied Piper and she was mesmerized.

Outside, he set the tray on the ottoman in front of the rattan sofa where they liked to lie together after dinner and look at the moon and stars.

Sitting next to her, Mark put his hands on Emma’s cheeks and held her face. “Missed you.” And kissed her.

She sighed into his mouth, which was tastier than any treat he could have come back with. Intensifying the kiss, she reached up and tunneled her fingers into his hair. It was all familiar ground now. Familiar and…wonderful.

“Did you get any work done?” He leaned forward and got a strawberry, dragging it through the chocolate and letting that drip.

“Not enough.”

With a napkin under the strawberry, he brought the gooey concoction to her mouth and fed her. Sweet, dark, bitter chocolate filled her mouth, followed by the bright freshness of ripe fruit.

“Oh my God,” she moaned around the bite, closing her eyes. “That’s not chocolate. That’s sin on a strawberry.”

He laughed, dabbing the napkin on her lip, then finishing the job with his tongue. “Law has really underplayed his culinary skills. Guy’s a kitchen beast. He was throwing orange zest and spices in that chocolate, melting caramel, and making some kind of pastry. He really needs his own restaurant.”

“What’s going on with that place in town he was trying to buy? The one we’re going to after the game tomorrow night,” she asked, finishing the perfect bite with a sip of sparkling champagne.

“He still can’t find out who owns the place, no matter who he charms for information.”

“He
is
charming,” she agreed.

He gave a teasing elbow. “Hey.”

“But not as charming as you,” she added.

Grinning, he helped himself to a bite of cantaloupe. “Anyway, you’ll get a chance to see the Toasted Pelican yourself tomorrow night.”

“How about Ken and Beth? Any progress there?”

“Listen to you,” he said, laughing as he swallowed. “You’ve come to like these people.”

She had gone to every meeting with him and, it was true, she was fond of all of them. “I’ve come to like everything about this,” she admitted, leaning into him a little. “Especially my fake fiancé.”

He didn’t answer, studying her for a moment, then reached for the tray. “Cake and salted caramel?” he asked.

“You’re killing me.”

“Just warming you up, baby.” He gave her a sweet, fast kiss, made all the nicer for how fleeting it was. “So, Ken and Beth, yeah.” He dropped back and put an arm along the sofa, scooting her closer. “I found out they’d dated in high school when he was a senior and she was a sophomore. He didn’t say why they broke up. In fact, he was purposely silent on the subject. Whatever, she must still be pissed, because she’s frozen him out all week and, frankly, hasn’t shown up to a couple of things Ken signed up for just because he thought she’d be there.” He shot her a humorous look. “Including the flower arranging.”

“I wonder why.” She bit a strawberry, thinking. “I mean, he’s so freaking hot.”

“Excuse me.”

She laughed. “And he’s a firefighter.”

“Yeah, I guess women love that heroic stuff. Except he’d love to get married again and just hasn’t met the right woman. I imagine he had fantasies of reliving the past with Beth.”

She snuggled closer to him, loving the moment, the comfort, the food, the naturalness of this. “Sounds like you three shared more gossip in the kitchen than the poor women who were stuck tying bows on soaps shaped like clocks.”

“We call it male bonding.”

“You were in the kitchen, cooking, discussing relationships.”

“
Old
-male bonding.”

She laughed. “What else did you talk about?”

“Oh, just sports, cars, babes. Pure guy shit.”

She gave him a gentle elbow jab. “Did you…talk about us?” she asked, maybe a little coy, but so curious.

“I didn’t tell them the truth about our engagement, if that’s what you mean.”