Roxanne Claire - Barefoot by the Sea

“Did you hear me?”

He didn’t answer, assuming the question was rhetorical.

“Did you fucking hear me?” he insisted.

“Yes.” Lie or die. “I heard you.”

“Good.” Henry’s voice dropped to its normal octave. “So, you hit on anyone lately who might make an easy mark?”

Two women crossed the McDonald’s parking lot, one not more than twenty-two, laughing as she gave him a glance, slowed her step, held eye contact, and flipped dark hair over her shoulder.

That was an easy mark. But…

He closed his eyes and saw Tessa. And that burn in his stomach rose and fell, a cocktail of guilt and desire. He could never hoodwink her like that, could he?

“How long do I have?”

“We’re not sure. I know there are two UCs who’ve infiltrated the gang, but you know that can take a long time to work. My connection in Scotland Yard says soon. So get a move on someone, fast. And, for God’s sake, don’t fuck this up.”

“I’ll be fine.” But would the woman be…fine? Or would he be sacrificing her happiness for his?

“By the way,” Henry said, “they started preschool.”

He winced, the words like a steel fist in his gut. “Pardon me?”

“Shiloh and Sam. They’ve started a nursery school program. Just a few mornings a week, to learn their letters and such.”

He muttered a curse, buckled by the news. He should be teaching them to read. He should be dropping them at preschool, packing their lunches, kissing their cheeks. He should. He was their father, they were his family.

“Ian?”

He couldn’t even swallow past the lump in his throat, let alone answer.

“Do what you have to do, mate,” Henry said. “The end of all this could be near.”

Nodding in silence at the instructions, he got off the phone and stood for a moment in the burning midday sun. He needed a job and a wife—fortunately he knew how he could kill two birds with one stone.

He only hoped there wasn’t too much collateral damage in the process.

Frustration and a silent phone sent Tessa to the storehouse to hitch up her tractor and start cutting the sweet potato vines. That crop was more than ready, and she couldn’t harvest the potatoes until she removed the thick tangle of greens over the beds.

The noise, sweat, and concentration would keep her from checking her phone. The same phone she rarely remembered to bring into the gardens, but, today, was tucked soundly in her pocket with the ringer on max.

Giving the shift a nudge to a higher gear, she rolled the tractor between rows of veggies, headed for one of the prettiest sections of her organic farmette. She’d started out with plans for a modest garden to grow some of the produce they’d use at the resort, but in the past two years, she’d steadily added crops and fruit trees, a huge variety of herbs and spices, and, of course, plenty of beans, greens, and the citrus that gave the whole acreage a sweet, tropical scent.

She hummed with the John Deere motor, trying to concentrate on the bursts of new life all around her, eyeing the first explosions of baby strawberries and the new fruit on all six avocado trees.

Of course, the thought of avocados made her check the phone.

Why wasn’t he at least returning her call? Ignoring her was plain rude. Kind of like walking out in the middle of the interview.

His references had been outstanding. Evidently, Chef Brown was talented, reliable, and dedicated. And single, which one previous employer happened to slip in sideways.

Single and sexy and…sneaky. Bad, bad combo.

But Casa Blanca needed a chef, so she’d have to live with that bad combo, at least for a few weeks. She could stand anything for a few weeks, right?

If only he’d call.

She gritted her teeth and climbed down from the tractor for a final pull on the hitch, taking off her work gloves to secure the middle-buster blades that handled the hardest portion of the work for her.

Why had John been so evasive about her questions, she wondered as she kneeled in the soft earth. Why not tell her all the great stuff his references had? Was she being paranoid, the victim of age-old secrets that shouldn’t hurt anymore, but did?

Her friends knew she hated when they kept things from her, but the true irony was that they didn’t know why. She’d always planned to tell them her one and only secret, but dreaded the way they’d react. She’d been so vocal about how frustrating their secrets were to her that revealing her own would only force her to eat crow. And every time she imagined the conversation, she couldn’t bear to actually have it.

Uh, remember how I told you my parents were hippie farmers? Well, I made that up when I got to college and never got around to telling you all the truth.

Pushing up, she swiped her hands over her work shorts and, well, since she was so close to her pocket, what was the harm in checking? Just to see if she had signal strength out here.

“C’mon, Tess,” she mumbled as she pulled out the frustratingly silent phone. “You can’t will the guy to call.”

She should go admit to Lacey how bad the interview really was, though Marcus or some of the other staff probably had done that for her by now. No, she’d tell her tonight. Lacey had invited a few people to her house for a small celebration and mini planning session, so Tessa could tell her then that Chef Brown hadn’t called back to accept the offer.

And tomorrow, they could dig through the resumes they’d already rejected and find someone to get them through the next few weeks.

Satisfied with that, she climbed back onto the tractor seat, gave the shift a good yank, and balanced her feet on the pedals to keep it from stalling out. Right before she put on her work gloves, she stole one more peek at the phone. She might not have heard it over the tractor engine, she rationalized, and sometimes she didn’t feel the vibration.

Blank screen. No calls or texts.

“Don’t take it personally, Tess,” she murmured as she jammed the accelerator and rumbled onto the sweet potato bed.

Like there was any other way to take it.

Sweat dribbled down her back as the slender vines snapped away, the tractor loud enough that she barely heard a man’s voice calling over the noisy engine. When she did, she turned, and then sucked in a soft breath.

Oh. Oh.

Now, this…this she wanted to take personally.

For a long moment, she sat and stared. John crossed the garden with an easy, graceful gait, his golden-tipped hair blowing back to give full exposure to his chiseled face. A white collared shirt stretched across broad shoulders, and partially rolled-up sleeves exposed tanned forearms. The shirt was tucked into crisp khaki pants, making the whole look sharp and clean and handsome.

And really overdressed for the garden.

He stopped after a moment, still fifty feet away, but she could see he’d shaved—and as much as she liked his whiskery scruff, the clean look showcased the full lips and the hint of a very inviting smile.

Tessa completely forgot to breathe.

Oh, boy. If he had come to accept the job, she was in trouble. Big, big trouble. She couldn’t take this intensity for two minutes, let alone two weeks.

Finally, he lifted his hand, two fingers curled in the universal gesture for Come here, woman.

And, God help her, she turned off the ignition, climbed down from the tractor, and might have floated over vegetable beds to reach him, one coherent thought in her head: This was so much better than a phone call.

She refused to think about the fact that she was dressed in dirt and scented with sweat and he looked like a damn prince. What difference did it make how she looked, right?

“Tessa.”

He had the most imperceptible softness to his vowels, and the way he said her name was like pure sex.

She nodded in greeting. “I take it you got my message.” She hadn’t offered the job, but had only left a number.

He flicked his hands toward his clothes, as if that was enough of a reply. Did he feel like he had to impress her one last time? ’Cause it worked.

Bright blue eyes danced with a tease that really made it hard to think.

“What are you doing here?” she managed to ask.

“I went to the front desk and asked for you and they sent me here.” Like that explained the inexplicable.

He glanced around quickly, then laser-locked on her again, making her feel like he couldn’t stand to look anywhere else. “This is quite a little operation you have.”

How could he make a simple compliment sound so sexy? Was it his low voice? His penetrating gaze? She could spend hours thinking about that. In fact, she already had.

“Thanks.”

He closed the rest of the space, coming about a foot from her. Close enough to smell a new scent in her garden. Man.

No wonder Eve sinned.

“And it explains why you…” He brushed her cheek, the touch like a spark. “Often have a little dirt on your face.”

There was something different about him; his edge was gone. The undercurrent of attitude had been replaced by something not exactly softer, but slightly less gruff and bad.

“Careful.” She backed away. “You might wreck your fancy clothes.”

“I’ll take that chance.” He almost smiled, enough to make her want to see more of the dimples revealed on his clean-shaven face.

“So, why the in-person returned call?” she asked.

He angled his head in the vaguest tip of apology. “I shouldn’t have walked out on you. Twice.”

No, you shouldn’t have. But the return appearance might be worth what he’d put her through. She slid her hands into her pockets, finally catching her breath and stability, determined not to reach out, grab a handful of hair and…hire him. She’d at least have to make him work for the offer.

“I seem to elicit that response in you,” she finally said.

He let his gaze drop over her, slowly, warming every inch. “That’s not the only one.”

She tried for a casual laugh, which came out more like a bark. “Really.”

“Really.” He laughed, too, and she could have sworn he was nervous. “I know you’re surprised by this, but I’ve been thinking about the best way to handle you, er, us, er, this…situation.” He shook his head, flustered. Flustered? What was wrong with this picture, besides everything?

Her truth-telling radar beeped and she mentally unplugged the whole system. This minute was too delicious to ruin with doubts.

“What situation?” The one where she dissolves into a pool of helpless female hormones and he takes advantage of that and breaks her heart?

“Tessa,” he said softly, looking from side to side for a second. “I have to tell you something about me. Something you didn’t ask in your interview.”

Interesting, since he didn’t even answer the questions she did ask. Still, she waited, dying to see where he’d go with this.

“I don’t shy away from anything,” he finally said. “When I see something I want, I get it.” He gave her a hard, straight look.

Did he mean the job as chef or…her?

“So, what are you here to get?”

“My plan is that we start all over again.” Reaching down, he lifted her hand and very slowly drew off the gardening glove, sliding one finger out at a time out of the rough canvas. She couldn’t do anything but stare at his large, tanned, masculine hand undressing her much smaller one, her throat parched and every nerve ending dancing at the touch.

“We could shake on it,” he said, dropping the glove to the ground but still holding her hand. His skin was warm. A little rough, a little dry, but very warm. “But I’d rather do this.”

He lifted her fingers to his lips, barely brushing the knuckles, the sensation shooting fireworks down her arms. “To new beginnings, pretty Tessa. A new job, and a new…” He looked up from her hand and met her gaze, his own so serious she forgot to breathe again. “Friendship.”

For a moment, she stared at him, a thousand emotions erupting like a volcano in her chest. Disbelief and excitement and desire and disbelief and longing and—yeah, mostly disbelief.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Well, I’m not really trusting by nature, so I’m fighting the sensation that you might be full of shit.”

He laughed. “I deserve a chance.”

Did he? “And you’ll probably get one, but what happened?”