Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1) (8 page)

“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 playful, 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.