Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1)
Read Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1) Online
Authors: Roxanne St. Claire
Barefoot Bay Timeless
Book One
Barefoot at Sunset
Roxanne St. Claire
Table of Contents
Sneak Peek of BAREFOOT AT MOONRISE
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Barefoot Bay Timeless…a brand new trilogy that celebrates the appeal of an older hero and second chances at love! Like every book set in Barefoot Bay, this novel stands entirely alone, but why stop at just one? Barefoot Bay is a whole world of romance, friends and family, and unforgettable stories, divided into bite-size trilogies so you can dive in to the water anytime!
The Barefoot Bay Billionaires
The Barefoot Bay Brides
Barefoot Bay Undercover
Barefoot Bound
(prequel)
Barefoot Bay Timeless
Barefoot at Sunset
Barefoot at Moonrise
Barefoot at Midnight
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www.roxannestclaire.com/newsletter.html
Dedication
One day not so long ago, my brother, Dr. J. Zink, sat on my patio with tears in his eyes as he told me that he had found another soul mate, many years after he lost his beloved wife in the prime of her life. I will never forget the look of joy on his face, marveling that such a miracle had happened. “Who gets two soul mates in one lifetime, Rocki?” His question wrapped around my heart and inspired this book. So, this one is for Dr. J and my soon-to-be-sister, Sandra Nance. You two prove that a second soul mate doesn’t only happen in fiction.
Chapter One
Mark Solomon had one question pounding in his brain as he strode across the lobby of Casa Blanca Resort & Spa. And not just the obvious one, which would be: How in the name of all that was holy did he get roped into being on a freaking high school reunion committee?
Because he
knew
how that had happened. The woman who owned this elite jewel in Barefoot Bay had tracked him down while he was parasailing in New Zealand. She’d offered some new breathtaking scenery and caught him in a rare moment of weakness. The straight whiskey kind of weakness. Oh, he’d said no at first, but then…
He reached into his pocket and thumbed the class ring he’d found in a safe-deposit box just two days after he’d gotten that call.
That’s
how he ended up back on Mimosa Key for a high school reunion, arriving a week early to boot, to be at the final planning committee meetings. Because he never ignored his most trusted adviser.
Nor was he asking himself how thirty years had passed since he and a handful of eighteen-year-olds had ditched the prom to sneak booze into the only theater on the island for the opening of
Top Gun
. He didn’t look, feel, act, think, or tire like a man at the high end of his forties. He could pass for ten years younger, even though his thick hair had plenty of salt in the pepper. His age certainly hadn’t stopped him from skydiving, hang gliding, snowboarding, or climbing Kilimanjaro. And the only “tire” he knew was usually squealing under him during a competitive Porsche street race.
No, the question plaguing Mark before he reached the conference room where he and a bunch of other graduates from years gone by were gathering, was short, direct, and usually posed by a woman with clingy claws.
A widower? Why haven’t you remarried?
Most often, it was followed by some inane comment about a “silver fox.”
God help him.
Someone
had better help him get through this reunion, because this was the one place where everyone once knew him not just as “Mark Solomon, quarterback, valedictorian, and all-around hot shot,” but also as Mark of
MarkandJulia
, named Couple Most Likely to Last Forever.
Until “forever” got cut short.
But he hadn’t been part of that power couple for sixteen long and adventure-filled years now. During those years, he’d figured out the ideal way to escape the past, and yet, here he was. In the middle of an island that was nothing
but
the past.
The doors to one of the conference rooms popped open, and a man walked out as Mark approached.
“I hope to hell you’re going in here,” the guy said, notching his head to the room behind him. “We need to balance the testosterone levels. There’s only one other dude, and he’s the strong, silent type.”
“Mimosa High reunion?” Mark asked.
“That’s it.” The man offered his hand for a strong shake, his smile easy and natural. “Law Monroe,” he said. “Class of…holy shit.” He frowned and took a closer look. “You’re Mark Solomon.”
“Law…
Lawless
Monroe?” He felt his own smile pull at the recognition of the troubled youth who’d been thrust onto the football team Mark’s senior year. He’d been expected to mentor the kid who’d never once been called by his real name of Lawson. But “mentoring” meant calling Law before practice to make sure he wasn’t in the saddle of a motorcycle with a chick’s thighs pressed against him.
Lawless was, what, three years younger than Mark? In amazing shape for forty-five, though. Plenty of ink on a tanned, buff body, but a good-looking, rugged guy with a spark in intense bottle-green eyes.
“You’re not in the slammer?” Mark asked. “That’s a miracle.”
Law threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Not for lack of trying, trust me. Damn, I never expected to see you here. And at the planning session, too. Did Lacey Walker have compromising pictures or something? Why the hell would you be on the planning committee?”
“Two words: beachfront villa. How’d she get you?”
The other man lifted a sizable shoulder, shiny gray hair brushing his collar. “She gave me full responsibility for the food.”
“The food?”
“Food’s my thing. I’m a sous chef at the Ritz-Carlton across the causeway in Naples.”
Whoa. “Impressive. And I’ve gotta be honest…not what I expected.”
“Trust me, I was well on my way to exactly what you expected. But someone threw me in the kitchen of a restaurant about ten years ago, and I got my act together. How ’bout you? I remember you had an Air Force ROTC scholarship. Did you end up going overseas?”
He nodded. “Kuwait during the first Gulf War. Then I had a business, sold it, and now I travel the world.”
Law gave his hand a la-di-da shake. “Nice. And…” His expression changed just enough for Mark to know exactly what was coming next. “I thought I heard that…”
He saved Law the awkward question with a quick nod. “Yeah,” he said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “I lost Julia about sixteen years ago. Cancer.”
“Sorry, man.” Law put a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “I’d heard you guys got married right after graduation, and I always said if anyone would have made it, it would’ve been you two.”
“Thanks. I’m sure we would have.” He and Julia could have easily dodged the divorce odds, but not the long-shot odds of a thirty-two-year-old woman having a fatal allergic reaction to chemotherapy. Time to change the subject. “Did someone manage to tackle my best running back and make an honest man out of him?” he asked quickly.
Law puffed a noisy breath. “Your best running back, my ass. Your biggest headache, more like. I’m single. Chef’s hours suck. That’s the other reason I took Lacey’s offer and cashed in on a long vacation. I needed a break.” He threw a look over his shoulder. “Although I’m not sure sitting around a room with a bunch of women bickering over whether or not the theme should be a sundial or an iWatch to represent the past and the present was the break I needed.” He pointed in the other direction. “I was on my way to check out the kitchen. Wanna come?”
Mark shook his head. “I should—”
The door opened behind Law, pushed by a tall man wearing a tight-fitting regulation fire department T-shirt and a semiserious expression of warning.
“Men, do not enter without full protective gear,” he said, holding up his hands with authority. “Or someone will volunteer you for something like flower arrangements which, God help me, I think I just signed up for.”
“Why the hell would you do that?” Law asked.
The other man just shook his head. He had close-cropped hair and a dusting of gray around his temples contrasting with tanned skin that didn’t look weathered enough for him to be much over forty. “Red sweater. Tight jeans. Brain fail.”
“Red sweater?” Law frowned. “Wasn’t her last name Endicott, as in, you know, money?”
“Yeah, that’s Bethany Endicott.” He half exhaled the name as if even saying it was too much for him. “I’m Ken Cavanaugh, by the way,” the man said, extending a hand to Mark. “Class of ’91.”
“Mark Solomon, ’86.”
“Eighty-six?” Ken drew back.
“Graduating class, not my age,” Mark joked.
“Still puts you five years ahead of me and three ahead of Law.” He turned to gesture to the door. “Age before beauty, old men.”
“And brains,” Law shot back. “Since yours got fried into flower arranging.”
“Point taken,” Ken conceded. “In fact, there are exactly three men on a planning committee of about fifteen, so we gotta have each other’s backs this week. It could get ugly. Uglier.”
“How ugly?” Mark asked.
“Let me put it this way,” Ken said, “I left when they were talking about something called the Dance of the Decades. With
us
as male dancers.”
“Whoa.” Mark inched back. “That’s ugly.”
“They keep saying how happy they are to have men on the committee,” Ken said. “It’s like an estrogen bomb explodes every time Law or I say a word.”
Law gave Mark a wry once-over. “Place is going to go up in flames when you walk in.”
“It’s okay,” Mark said, putting a hand on Ken’s shoulder. “We have a firefighter. Let’s go. Remember, volunteer for nothing, ignore what they throw at us, and, for God’s sake,
no one is dancing
.”
“He won’t last ten minutes in there,” Law whispered to Ken as they followed Mark.
“No shit,” Ken replied. “Ten bucks says he’s on the tablecloth subcommittee by two o’clock.”
The two of them shut up when he opened the door, and so did the chatter inside—much of it loud and higher-pitched—from about a dozen or so women around a large conference room table.
The second or two of silence could have been awkward, but Mark crossed the room to an empty chair at the head of the table. “Ladies.” He stayed standing and leveled a commanding look at women of all ages, sizes, and ethnicities. Not one looked remotely familiar, but it wasn’t as if Mark spent time in high school looking at any other girl besides—
