Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) (22 page)

“It’s not drivel,” she said.

“Then why are you frowning over…” He inched closer to see the screen. “Ah, he’s telling her about his childhood.”

“Which is remarkably white bread in flavor.”

He dragged his gaze from the screen to her face, his features shifting enough to somehow let her know how much he liked studying her. How did he do that? It was a gift, one she enjoyed every time he looked at her.

“I’m taking that is not a compliment.”

“Well, I don’t know much about these things, but his ideal childhood doesn’t make for super-compelling reading. But I guess you’re following the muse’s instructions to stick with the truth.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, but then pushed up, fast. “Steak will be cooked perfectly in less than two minutes. Just enough time for you to finish that scene and join me on the patio for dining alfresco.”

He stepped away before she could reply, and Willow turned back to the book and read the rest of the exchange. Clean words, easy to visualize, story seemed to be moving forward. He’d checked all those boxes, but missed the emotional one.

And she had a feeling she knew why.

Outside, he set a table next to the pool with a view of the bay, a few votive candles, and fresh glasses of wine.

“So, you probably don’t want to ruin this lovely, romantic setting with my questions about your crappy childhood.”

He closed his eyes briefly as he pulled out a chair for her. “Only if you talk about yours. Seems fair.”

“You not only know about mine, you know my parents quite well.” She settled into the seat and took a moment to admire the filet mignon, rice pilaf, and green salad. Simple, healthy, and delicious. She looked up at him. “This looks amazing, by the way.”

He gave a humble nod and took the other seat, giving her an unobstructed view of the bay, and him.

“I don’t know your parents,” he said as he sat down and put a cloth napkin on his lap. “I know
of
them. I wanted to meet them, of course, but as far as I knew, they never showed up at our dorm.”

“They sent a limo to bring me home on the rare occasions I wanted to go there.” She sliced into the tender beef, inhaling the aroma to enhance the experience. “You weren’t telling the truth about Spencer Gannon’s backstory, were you?”

“I was telling
his
truth.”

“Which we’ve established doesn’t make the best writing in this book.”

He chewed for a minute, wiping his mouth before responding. “My truth is not the stuff of great fiction.”

Except they’d kind of established that it was. “Your parents?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not the lovebirds yours are.”

The memory of Ona shopping in a high-end lingerie store flashed in her mind. She hadn’t really given the near brush with Mom a second thought, but it had occurred to her why her mother would be shopping for over-the-top lingerie. She considered sharing that with him, but that would open a can of “why didn’t you talk to her?” worms that would definitely wreck the steak.

“They are affectionate,” she said instead. “My dad can’t keep his hands off her, actually. That part of his persona is true.” She scooped some rice onto her fork, but kept the utensil poised in the air as she looked at him. “This isn’t about me and my parents, Nick. I want to hear about the Hershey family.”

“Let’s just say it couldn’t be more different from yours.”

She rolled her eyes. “Will you forget mine and tell me about yours?”

“I can’t,” he admitted, nothing but dark seriousness in his eyes. “In fact, that might be part of the reason I was such a fan of your dad.”

“Because he was married to my mother?” She couldn’t help letting her voice rise in disbelief. “I thought it was his music.”

He laughed and nodded. “I love Z-Train’s music, no doubt about it. But I used to scour
Rolling Stone
and those other magazines for anything about Donny Z, and every single time I saw a picture of him with his wife, they were kissing.”

She shrugged. “Welcome to my world. Like being the daughter of a couple on a permanent honeymoon. When the bedroom door opened, rapture rolled out every morning.”

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked.

“I didn’t say anything was.”

“You don’t have to. It’s obvious you hate the idea.”

She abandoned the rice for a deep drink of wine, and a chance to corral her thoughts. But they were all over the place, and not nearly as delicious as the food or company. “Whatever,” she finally said. “I’m not letting you derail this conversation. Didn’t your parents kiss?”

He snorted a laugh and sliced his steak with a little more force than necessary. “I can honestly say I never saw them kiss, touch, smile at each other, or come out of their bedroom with anything remotely like rapture. In fact, from the time I was ten, my mom slept on the couch and only went in their bedroom to dress.”

That sounded…sad. “They didn’t get along?” she asked.

“Oh, no. They were way past not getting along. They pretty much hated the sight of each other, fought constantly, and on one memorable occasion, exchanged blows.”

She gasped. “Seriously?”

He gave her a tight smile. “Don’t knock the permanent honeymoon, Willow. I have to believe love in the air beats hate in the house.”

She didn’t know what to say since, obviously, he was right. A long, silent moment passed as they ate and sipped wine.

“They’re divorced now,” he said softly.

Not surprising. “Very sad, but that’s probably better for everyone. And you said you had a brother in Manhattan Beach? Any other siblings?”

“Jessica, my older sister, who I rarely talk to. She’s on her third husband, and she’s only thirty-four.” A little bit of heartbreak came through with every word. “Apparently, she learned too much from my parents.”

“You don’t have to be exactly like your parents,” Willow said. “I couldn’t be more different from my mother, much to her horror and dismay.”

He eyed her across the space that separated them. “Any chance you’ll ever patch things up with her?”

“Doubtful.” Maybe it wouldn’t wreck the dinner to tell him about the near miss with her mother. If she was ready to sleep with the guy, and he already knew her situation, why not be honest? “As a matter of fact, I just managed to avoid her in Naples.”

His eyes widened. “You saw your mother?”

“I didn’t actually see her, but we were in the same place.”

“But you didn’t talk to her?”

She placed her knife and fork at angles on the plate, denying herself the second half of the steak. “Nick, I told you I’m not close to her. I have no real desire to have a big reunion in the lingerie shop.”

He looked long and hard at her. “I have to ask you something, Willow.”

She swallowed, bracing for the same litany of questions and well-intentioned advice she’d received—and rejected—from her friends. “Yes?”

“What exactly did you buy at the lingerie shop?”

She laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“You have no idea.” He pushed back from the table. “Stay there. I’ll get this.”

“Save my steak. It was amazing.”

As he scooped up his plate and hers, he bent over and kissed her on the forehead. “So are you.”

The compliment warmed, along with the fact that talking about their families hadn’t ruined the beautiful mood. So she leaned back, sipped some wine, and watched the moonlight dance on the gulf, knowing exactly what she wanted to do next.

“Any chance I could talk you into a walk on the beach tonight?” she asked when he returned.

“Every chance.” He stood behind her chair, placing his hands on her shoulders. He leaned all the way over, his cheek next to hers. His fingers slipped lower from her shoulders to the bodice of the thin cotton dress she wore, grazing her collarbone, then inching lower. He brushed the rise of her breast and then gingerly lifted the fabric to see right into her cleavage.

“The new lingerie?”

She let her head drop back with a laugh. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

He dipped his finger in a little bit, sliding along the lace of her bra. “Not a chance. Let’s take that walk, Willow.”

Somehow, despite her shaky legs, pounding heart, and slightly curled toes, she managed to get up and let him lead her to the beach.

Chapter Nineteen

Willow’s hand was slim but strong in Nick’s, a feminine hand with long fingers and no rings, easy to thread into his and comfortable to hold. Neither one talked as they walked barefoot across the sand, drawn to the river of gold cast by the moon on the Gulf of Mexico.

She rolled up her light linen slacks so they didn’t get wet, but even that look was somehow womanly when she walked. Her hair was down in soft waves around her face, accentuating her fine cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Another thing feminine about her.

“You’re staring at me,” she said.

“I was just thinking about how girlie you are.”

She let out a soft hoot. “Gussie would disagree. Now, she’s a parfait of girliness.”

“She wears a lot of makeup and wild wigs, yes, but there’s something so feminine about you.” He curled their joined hands around her back, for the pure pleasure of feeling more of her body next to his. “Was that because you were raised by a model?”

She shot him a look that he couldn’t quite read, but he could feel the ice in it. “No.”

“I mean, she’s—”

“Why are you so obsessed with my parents?” She broke away, taking a step backward. “Believe me when I say you are killing my romance mojo every time you bring up my mother.”

Why? he wondered. “Well, I sure don’t want to kill that.”

“Then kill your curiosity about my parents. They’re not even in my life anymore, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been. But every time you mention her, I…I…” She turned away and looked toward the water. “I certainly don’t feel worthy of…this.”

The catch in her throat tore at his heart. “Willow, are you serious? Worthy of me? You’re worthy of
ten
of me.” He reached for her, but she hesitated, searching his face. “Why does she make you feel that way?”

She relented and took his hand, slowly letting him pull her back into his side. “Because I let her,” Willow said softly. “And I know I shouldn’t give her that power, but the longer and more aggressively I can avoid her, the more I gain the control I need to let that go. Does that make sense?”

Not really. But some of the shit he’d dealt with in Iraq didn’t make sense, either, and she’d listened.

They took a few more steps along the sand, the light of a bonfire flickering toward the north, and the dim lights of the resort to the south. But here, they were completely alone. Except for the ever-present celebrity parents who seemed to haunt her.

“So, how long do you plan to avoid her?”

“Long as I can. So far, it’s been a breeze. Maybe the need to avoid is mutual. No, no maybe about it. She hates me.”

He froze mid-step. “How can you say that?”

“Okay, maybe hate is the wrong word. What would be the word for a feeling of utter disappointment that the one thing you wanted most in the whole world turned out to be exactly the opposite of what you thought it would be, and every time you looked at it, your heart broke because you’d done everything right, but it turned out wrong?”

He laughed at the run-on, but not the sad sentiment behind it. “I’d call that…Charlie Foxtrot.”

“What?”

“It’s a military expression we use to mean a clusterfuck, which is basically when everything comes together and goes wrong.” He’d been involved in a few. “But not usually a way to describe a mother-daughter relationship.”

“It’s a perfect way to describe it,” she assured him as they reached the frothy white water, each little bubble pearlescent in the moonlight. “Everything about me went wrong for her. My weight, my attitude, my personality. My whole essence was not what she wanted, and looking at me was a constant reminder and embarrassment. She named me Willow, for God’s sake, clearly having different expectations for me than I produced.”

He turned her to face him, lightly lifting her chin, and suddenly having the clearest understanding about her that he’d had yet.

“That explains so much about you,” he whispered. “And I promise you, Willow Ambrose Zatarain, that…”

She started shaking her head, making him stop his romantic and heartfelt speech. “Ambrose is not my middle name.”

“You said you dropped Zatarain and used your middle name as your last name.”

“A version of my middle name, which is actually Ambrosia,” she told him, giving him a wink. “My dad picked it and then wrote a song about me.”

He drew back, jaw dropping. “
My Sweet Ambrosia
? Holy shit, that song’s about you?” He knew he sounded like a teenage boy, but he didn’t care. “That is my all-time-favorite song, ever. Ever.”

She laughed, looking skyward as if she couldn’t believe him. “I thought
Will Ya, Will Ya
had that honor.”

“That’s my favorite rock
anthem
.
My
Sweet Ambrosia
is the best ballad in rock history. It’s about
you
?”