And Then Forever (4 page)

It wasn’t the shower Darcy needed as much as the time to think, to process Kincaid being here. Staying here. And clearly, staying somewhere nearby, given how she’d run into him less than a half a mile from her own house.

She let the hot water pummel her skin, soak into her hair. She closed her eyes and tried to take deep breaths. But her heart hammered in her chest and her lungs stayed tight.

Darcy had never been an overly protective mother. She’d believed in letting Emma play in the dirt and run around the house and stay up past her bedtime. She’d indulged her daughter with treats, breakfast for dinner once a week, ice cream pretty much anytime, and the occasional (okay more than occasional) splurge toy, just because.

But with Kincaid so close, the urge to cocoon Emma in bubble wrap and keep her far from his view nearly overwhelmed Darcy. What if he saw her? What if he put the pieces together and realized that Emma was his? It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to see Emma’s dark curls and her hazel eyes were from her father. No one Darcy knew had eyes that curious color—sometimes brown, sometimes green—no one except for Kincaid.

If my son ever finds out about this…mistake, I will demand every dime back in full. And I will be sure to fight you for custody. There is no way, if this ever becomes public knowledge, that I will let any Foster child be raised in some glorified trailer park.

The threat from Kincaid’s father had resonated like a bell tolling every hour in Darcy’s heart for nearly seven years. She’d seen and heard how he had destroyed others who had crossed him. The landscaper who overpruned the shrubs the day of a big party, arrested the next day for going one mile over the speed limit. The maid who quit and then was sued for her back wages, leaving an already impoverished woman nearly penniless. The dozens of business deals that went south, followed by lawsuits and bankruptcies for the losers—

There was a reason the earth trembled when Edgar Foster took a walk.

Darcy wasn’t the kind of person who catered to anyone. Who had ever let a single person scare her. Until she found out she was pregnant and then everything inside her shifted. She didn’t doubt for a second that Edgar Foster would not only gain custody of Emma, but he would also ruin Darcy’s life in the process. Darcy knew she could survive whatever Edgar threw at her—but there was no way she was going to let Emma be the casualty of Edgar Foster’s war on “the small town harlot who tried to steal his son.”

So she’d taken the check and she’d signed a contract, vowing never again to contact Kincaid or tell him about his child. It had hurt, oh how badly it had hurt, as she watched her daughter make those first milestones and thought how Kincaid should have been here to share them.

But then she’d think of Edgar’s threat, of how Kincaid had once told her that the one thing he wanted most in the world was a relationship with his father, and that would be enough to bring Darcy back to reality. Kincaid was happy, she was sure, living in that mainland world and practicing law. She’d heard the Fosters had moved from Plymouth to New York after that summer, probably to gain as much distance as possible from Fortune’s Island. Edgar was probably somewhere in his mansion, far from meddling in Darcy and Emma’s life. The money had bought her the little house she had now, and started a college fund for Emma, not a Harvard type fund, but enough that her daughter would have a future, whatever future she dreamed of. Emma wouldn’t have to wait tables all her life and she could stand tall in front of the Edgar Fosters of the world.

Darcy shut off the water and stood in the shower for a long time, while the water dripped on the tile floor and her wet hair chilled her shoulders.

Kincaid was here, and that meant everything Darcy cared about was at risk. What was she going to do? How was she going to keep Emma hidden from him? The island was only so big, and it was still early in the season. Fewer people meant it would be harder to miss Emma whenever Nona or Darcy took her out. Not to mention, people talked. All it took was one well-meaning word between an islander and Kincaid, and Darcy’s secret would be exposed. That thought caused a tight knot in Darcy’s gut.

Darcy dressed, then headed into the kitchen. She dropped a kiss on Emma’s forehead, pausing for a breath, long enough to inhale the sweet and innocent scent of Emma’s baby shampoo. The fragrance never failed to center Darcy, to remind her of what was important.

“Mommy, are we gonna go to the park today? And then to see the turtles? And the fishies?”

Damn. Darcy had forgotten about the big day she’d had planned with Emma. “I was thinking we’d stay here today, sweetie. Make some cookies, color some pictures.”

Emma’s excited smile turned into a pout. “What about the fishies?”

“We’ll see them another day, I promise.”

“Okay.” But Emma’s eyes dropped to her plate, and her shoulders sagged.

Damn it. Darcy wanted to go marching up to Kincaid and order him off the island. Get him to go away and never come back, leaving her daughter to grow up in peace. Leaving all of them in peace.

K
incaid was a serious
glutton for punishment. He walked into The Love Shack that night, after he’d told himself there were at least a dozen other places on Fortune’s Island to get a meal, and there was no way he was going to the place where Darcy worked. The same bar that held some of his best memories.

But after Abby had fallen asleep, Kincaid had headed out the door and turned right instead of left, bringing him to The Love Shack. It was a dive, always had been, always would be, but sat on a prime spit of land that jutted out like a thumb from the southern end of the island. All the touristy spots sat on the pricier northern end, closest to the ferry and the gift shops and the artisans who made their living selling handblown glass seashells and misty ocean watercolors.

Whit greeted him at the door with a welcoming smile. “How’s the place?” he had to raise his voice above the din of a large group of college kids leaning against the bar and singing “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog” at the top of their lungs. The Love Shack was busy as usual, filled with warm bodies and cold beer, and a constant hum of voices.

Kincaid didn’t see Darcy anywhere. He told himself it was relief, not disappointment, that sank in his gut. “The house is great. Perfect.”

Whit nodded. “Glad to hear it. You need anything else, just ask.”

“Nothing except a table.” Kincaid grinned.

“That, I’ve got.” Whit waved at Kincaid to follow. They wove through the crowds, a motley group of young and old. Kincaid didn’t know any of the customers, but then again, there were few if any in the Foster circle who ever ventured to this side of the island. His family had preferred the dining room at the country club three miles north, rarely venturing off the manicured grounds. Kincaid had never understood that. Why take the ferry across the water to live in the same perfect little bubble you lived in on the mainland? What was the point of a vacation where everything looked exactly the same as it did in day-to-day life?

Whit gestured toward a booth and dropped a menu on the table, even though Kincaid still remembered pretty much everything The Love Shack offered. “Best seat in the house,” Whit said.

“Thanks.” Kincaid slid into the booth, and as Whit walked away with a smile on his face, Kincaid had to wonder if the older man had brought Kincaid to this table on purpose.

The wooden surface was still scarred by divots and letters made by pocket knives and pens. Some initials, a few
Joe Was Here
type messages, and a damned good drawing of an eyeball. But in the top right corner, right beside the metal box that held extra napkins, Kincaid was sure there were still four letters circled by a lopsided heart.

KF + DW.

He shifted the napkin box and his throat tightened. Still there, all these years later. Kincaid ran his finger over the letters. Seven years ago, almost to the day, he had sat here across from the wildest, most uninhibited, most enticing girl he had ever met, and thought there was no way he could ever go back to the stuffy, controlling world he lived in. He’d wanted to stay right here with Darcy, on the southern part of the island where the rules were as loose and elusive as the tail of a kite.

He slid the napkin holder over the letters. That was a different time, a different Kincaid and, given the way she’d reacted to him yesterday, a different Darcy. He had other priorities now, other reasons for being here, that had nothing to do with reliving the past.

Kincaid felt his phone buzzing. He pulled it out of his pocket and muted the incoming call, sending it to voicemail. A moment later, the phone started again. This time, Kincaid shut it off, which made the phone untraceable, should his father get the idea to do that. Kincaid hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Maybe if his father reached voicemail a few dozen times, he’d stop calling.

Fat chance. If there was one thing Edgar Foster was, it was determined. He was like a bulldog in a tug of war game. He’d get what he wanted or die trying.

The college students finished their song, and broke apart as a slow song came on the jukebox. Someone groaned, another guy called out that they all needed something that didn’t sound like caterwauling, and one lone couple got up to dance.

Kincaid set the menu to the side. Like the restaurant itself, the menu was as familiar as his own name. That was the good thing about The Love Shack. He could come back in fifty years and it would be just the same as it was today. With the dollar bills stapled to the wall, and the heart-attack inspiring burgers, and—

Darcy.

She stepped through the swinging door of the kitchen, a tray balanced on one shoulder, her hip cocked to the side as a counterweight. She had on cutoff denim shorts, those same sexy scuffed cowboy boots, and a white tank top that made her seem even tanner than usual. Her bicep curled under the weight of the food, and something dark stirred in Kincaid’s gut.

Damn it. The woman still drove him crazy.

She turned to the right, pausing by a table across the room to drop off their meals. She made eye contact with every one of the four men sitting there. They were young men, maybe late twenties, but they all had their eye on the peek of flat belly exposed between the short tank and the low-waisted shorts. Not enough to tell Kincaid if she still had that belly piercing, but enough to make him want to know the answer to that question. Darcy smiled and chatted with all four customers, just a hint of flirt in her face and movements.

A flare of jealousy went through Kincaid. Insane. He had no ties to Darcy, no claim on her. They had been over for a long time. She could flirt with the entire Boston College marching band and he had no right to care.

But damn it, he did anyway.

She turned, the now empty tray tucked under one arm, and then stopped mid-spin when she saw him. Darcy glanced over at Whit, then back again at Kincaid. Apparently he wasn’t the only one surprised by Whit’s seating choices.

Darcy wove through the tables and filled chairs with ease, her expression hardening as she neared him. She dropped the tray on a stand to her right, then tugged her order pad out of her apron and readied a pen. When she stopped before him, there was no smile of recognition, not so much as a how-you-doin’ nod. “What can I get you?”

“So that’s how it’s going to be?”

She arched a brow, but didn’t answer his question. “What can I get you?”

He could see she had no intentions of budging. He should be glad. The last thing he needed was another complicated relationship with a woman who turned him upside-down. He had enough on his plate. Besides, it was clear Darcy hadn’t been pining away for him all these years. A sane man would forget her and move on. Would forget about those letters carved into the table and the silly promises made by a nineteen-year-old kid.

“A burger, medium, with American cheese and all the toppings,” he said. “Side of fries, and a Coors Light. And a smile.”

She scowled. “That’s not on the menu.”

“You give one to all your other customers.” He shrugged, tossed her a grin. “I’m a paying customer, too. One smile, Darce. It won’t hurt. I promise.”

Darcy flashed a smile at him, so fast, he would have missed it if he’d blinked. But then she scoffed and a second smile lingered on her lips. That one warmed him, made him wonder if he was as over her as he thought. And if maybe there were still lingering feelings on her part, too. “Are you satisfied now?” she said.

“No. But I’ll take what I can get.” The word
satisfied
made him think of long hot nights on the beach, Darcy and him having sex that was so wild and unpredictable, it could have been Olympic wrestling. Him on top, her on top, the two of them breathing hard, then crying out in the dark and collapsing against each other. Then starting again a few minutes later, an insatiable hunger that burned like an overstoked furnace.

“You’re impossible.” Darcy rolled her eyes and started to turn away, but Kincaid reached out and grabbed her wrist. Electricity rolled through his veins.

His mind flashed back to a night under the pier. They’d had a fight, the same fight they always had, about their two worlds, and how impossible it seemed to be able to find a middle ground. He had told her he couldn’t see how he could stay on Fortune’s Island, how he could buck the family tradition of going into law. That he was afraid if he did that, he’d lose any chance he could possibly have at a relationship with his distant father.

She’d been upset, telling him that he was letting his family dictate his future, and she’d turned to walk away. He’d grabbed her wrist, and she’d spun back into him. They’d held each other’s gazes for one long, hot second, and then the fight evaporated.

Kincaid had pressed Darcy against the pilings. Seconds later, their shorts and underwear were off, kicked into the wet sand. She had wrapped one leg around his hips, and he had plunged into her, thinking that if heaven existed on earth, it was here, with Darcy.

Given the look she was giving him now, though, it was clear Darcy didn’t remember things the same way. “Why are you so angry with me?” he said.

“I’m not angry at you.” Her gaze cut away when she said it.

So there was something there. Something from the past, he’d bet. Unfinished feelings? Buried regrets? He wanted to know what it was, and why it still mattered to him all these years later. “Then why don’t you sit down, and spend a few minutes catching up?”

“Because it’s busier than hell in here. Besides, there’s nothing to catch up on.”

“Seven years apart, and we have nothing to catch up on?” He gestured toward the opposite side of the booth. “Come on, Darce. Five minutes. I’m sure you have a break coming up.”

He hadn’t let go of her wrist yet. She hadn’t pulled away, either. He took that as a good sign.

“Five minutes,” he said again. Gave her his best grin. She ignored it.

“I’ll be back with your beer.” Then she tugged her hand out of his and spun away.

True to her word, Darcy returned a few minutes later with his drink. She didn’t bother with a glass, just left the opened bottle on his table and disappeared again into the crowd.

He settled against the back of the booth, one finger absently tracing the outline of those letters. KF + DW. The sentiment had been true the day he’d carved it. That day, he remembered thinking he never wanted to spend a single second apart from Darcy. Then their relationship had ended as quickly as snapping a branch, and he was left reeling.

He was just taking his first sip of the beer when a familiar face slid into the booth on the other side. He’d made a few friends that summer, mostly Darcy’s friends. People who were ordinary, down to earth and welcoming. The opposite of the closed-ranks world he had always lived in. “Hey, Pam. How are you?”

Pamela Booker, who had been part of Darcy’s group years ago, gave him a grin. “I never thought I’d see you darken this doorstep again, Kincaid. Not after you got all uppity and went off to Harvard.”

He chuckled. “I was never uppity.”

She wagged a finger at him. “You definitely were. All crimson and I’m-too-good-for-you-poor-folks. But I heard it worked out well. You’re working at some big-time law firm, probably representing mafia drug lords and raking in the cash.”

“Yeah, something like that.” How had Pam heard that? From island talk, or from Darcy herself? And why did Kincaid care if Darcy had followed his career?

“A bunch of us are heading down to the beach after the Shack closes,” Pam said. “Get a bonfire going, crack open some Buds, maybe even roast a few dogs. Just like the old days. You in?”

Kincaid thought about going back to that quiet little house. His sister would still be asleep, and Kincaid would likely sit up until he couldn’t stay awake, thinking about his choices and the future he had destroyed. “Yeah, I think I will.”

“Great.” Pam gave the table a smack, then got to her feet. “See you at the spot. Assuming you can still find it.”

“I’ll just follow the beer bottle trail.”

Pam laughed at that, then headed back across the room. Another waitress dropped off Kincaid’s burger, while Darcy stayed far from his table. A pop song came on the juke, which pushed a large group onto the cleared space in the middle of the room. A burly guy in a flannel shirt with torn-off sleeves—Jack? Joey? Kincaid couldn’t remember, but knew the guy had been here every time he’d been here—grabbed Darcy by the hand and spun her onto the dance floor. Jack/Joey slid in behind Darcy, and put a possessive hand on her waist, the two of them dancing for a moment, her ass against his hips. Darcy had her head back, laughing, her eyes as bright as the sun.

Happy.

And that flicker of jealousy in Kincaid’s chest grew into a flame. He threw some money on the table, then headed out of The Love Shack.