Read No Strings Attached Online

Authors: Kate Angell

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BOOK: No Strings Attached
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Men wanted to be him and women wanted to do him. His female fans called him Beach Heat. He was that hot.

Sophie now watched as the two men approached the pharmacy. They walked slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. She imagined her heart was pounding hard enough to draw their attention. She held her breath, afraid to exhale.

She’d hoped when she next saw Dune she would look more presentable. She was uncomfortable in her own skin, and the more she covered up, the better. The employee dress code at Crabby Abby’s was a red halter top and khaki shorts. She felt nearly naked.

Dune was used to women wearing next to nothing. The beach brought out their tanned, toned bodies in tiny bikinis. Sophie faced the sun in a hat, long tunic, loose slacks, and rain boots. She layered on so much sunscreen, she looked like a ghost.

She watched as the men stopped before the shelves stocked with toothpaste and deodorant. Each selected his favorite brands before moving down the aisle toward feminine products and male protection. Sophie swallowed hard when Dune reached for a neon blue box on the top shelf.

“Night Light Condoms,” he read from the back of the box. “No need to reach for the light switch. These condoms glow in the dark.”

Mac rubbed his jaw. “Night Light fits tight, but I like Black Ice. Condom has a nice, easy slide.”

The two men turned toward the pharmacy counter.

And Sophie curled into a tighter ball.

Dune leaned his hip against the edge and cleared his throat. “Should we get boxes of two-fifty or order cases of one thousand?” he asked Mac.

Sophie gaped and her eyes went wide.
One thousand condoms.
They were planning on having a lot of sex.

Mac set the items he held onto the countertop. “I’d say the latter, but let’s ask Sophie.”

Could a heart stop?
Apparently she wasn’t good at hiding. They’d known her location all along. She wished for a hole to open and swallow her. No such luck. She untucked just as Dune rounded the counter. She breathed him in. His scent was masculine and clean, hinting of lime and sunshine.

He offered his hand and she took it, pushing slowly to her feet. His grip was large, callused, and supportive. Her hand disappeared within the curve of his palm.

Having seen Dune through the cracks of the counter doors was one thing. Up close was quite another. He overwhelmed her. She held his hand until he loosened his grip. She would’ve loved to hold on a little longer, but that seemed inappropriate.

She faced him now, her eyes leveled on his heart. At five-two she was forced to look up. Way up. She did so, meeting his amber-brown gaze. Her composure slipped and kept on sliding. She blushed. She was as embarrassed by the heat in her cheeks as by her reaction to him.

She hated wearing her feelings on her sleeve while Dune wasn’t the least bit affected. He stared at her, long, hard, assessing. His smile was slight, his expression unreadable.

He crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance, but didn’t say a word. Sophie couldn’t have spoken if her life depended on it.

Mac, on the other hand, was a man of action and affection. He pulled her to him and kissed her full on the mouth. A quick kiss, soft and tasting of sugar.

“It’s been a long time, babe,” he said, still holding her close. “Have you missed us?”

Shyness overtook her and she dipped her head. She wasn’t good at banter. Flirting eluded her completely. Honesty was her policy.

“You’ve crossed my mind on occasion,” she admitted in a soft voice. Mac was easy to remember. He’d teased her throughout the volleyball tournament. His sexual exploits were as infamous as his spikes on the court.

Dune was an equally gifted athlete, yet he was far more serious in his outlook on life. He was definitely more distant. His departure the previous summer without so much as a good-bye had laid Sophie low.

She’d paid big bucks to be his partner. He hadn’t owed her anything beyond a weekend of his time. That was all he’d given her.

The final image she had of him was him drinking a beer on the beach in the middle of the celebration while she stood alone on the boardwalk. Her heart had hurt for six months afterward.

“Hello, Sophie,” Dune’s deep voice rolled over her, more formal than friendly. He raised his hand and
ruffled
her hair, as if she were a child. Her jaw slipped, and the air in her lungs hitched like a hiccup.

Eleven years separated them. Age didn’t matter to her, but it apparently did to him. To add to her embarrassment, Mac burst out laughing, a gut-busting laugh that only confused Sophie further. Was she the butt of their joke?

Dune cut Mac a look so sharp that Mac stopped laughing. Mac went on to straighten the strands of her hair that Dune had mussed. He then squeezed her shoulder, which shored up her confidence.

“I’m surprised to see you guys,” she finally managed.

“We saw you on the beach,” said Mac. “You were dressed for a trek across the desert.”

“I didn’t want to get sunburned.”

“No chance of that,” he assured her.

Dune stared at her. “You were at the water’s edge, skimming the waves with your fingertips.”

She bit down on her bottom lip. “The Gulf scares me,” she admitted. “I still don’t swim, but I’d love to wade ankle deep someday.”

“I was a lifeguard one summer,” Mac said. “I’d be happy to teach you how to swim. You won’t earn an Olympic medal, but most everyone can dog-paddle.”

“Sophie isn’t everyone,” Dune said. “She’ll conquer her fear in her own good time.”

“Maybe she’d like to skim board,” Mac suggested.

“Or maybe not,” said Dune.

Definitely not, Sophie thought, agreeing with Dune. She didn’t have the coordination to run along the shoreline, toss the rectangular board, then hop on and ride the breaking waves. She’d fall flat on her face. She’d be buried in the sand at high tide.

Mac wrapped his arm about her shoulders, tucked her against his side. She didn’t protest. She knew he liked women; the closer they were the better. His body was warm, his stance relaxed. “How long have you worked here?” he asked.

“Two weeks,” she said. “I volunteer part-time.”

“Is Abby crabby?” asked Mac.

Sophie shook her head. “Not in the least.”

“You’re on
my
boardwalk.” Dune drew a line in the sand between the Cates and the Saunders.

Teasing or a taunt? The neutral tone of his voice made it hard to tell. “Shaye issued me a work permit,” she said.

He came back with, “My sister no longer runs Barefoot William Enterprises.”

Sophie scrunched her nose. She wasn’t about to argue the point. Dune’s grandfather had removed Shaye from her duties when she married Trace. The older man went on to appoint Kai Cates as president.

Kai might be the overseer, but Shaye was the primary consultant. Her advice and direction kept the town in the black. Family and friends might not approve of her husband, but no one disputed her authority.

Sophie was certain that Frank was aware of Shaye’s involvement, but he let it ride. He and Shaye had once been as close as father and daughter. Sophie hoped they would be close again someday, once Frank accepted a Cates had married a Saunders.

Until then, the century-old dispute still lingered. Sophie loved history and had researched both families. Shaye and Trace shared a stack of journals, dating back to the turn of the century. Each yellowed page spelled out the disagreements and distrust between the founding fathers of the Gulf community. Sophie found their lives fascinating.

For a heartbeat she turned back time and recalled the depth and insight of the entries, the long passages outlining the two writers’ dissatisfaction and differences.

William Cates’s documentation dated back to 1906. The very day he left Frostbite, Minnesota. He’d been a farmer broken by poor crops and a harsh, early winter. He’d sold his farm and equipment, then hand cranked his Model T and driven south. He had no destination in mind. He sought warmer weather and lots of land.

The trip was long and hard, yet he pushed on until the Florida sunshine thawed him out. On a long stretch of uninhabited beach, William rolled up his pant legs and shucked his socks and work boots. He walked the shoreline with the egrets and horseshoe crabs at low tide. The salt water was crystal clear.

Once he experienced the warm sugar sand between his toes, he vowed never to wear shoes again. He put down roots, married, and named the fishing village Barefoot William.

Even after he was elected mayor, William walked barefoot through city hall, as did the other town officials. Back then, life existed on a man’s word and a solid handshake.

William’s journal was a personal pledge to his family and longtime friends. He gave his word that expansion along the Gulf Coast would be slow and selective. There was no rush to build beyond the long pier and short boardwalk.

For two decades, the fishing village remained small and laid-back. Welcoming. Until the day Sophie’s great-great-great grandfather Evan Saunders disrupted the peace. It had been a sad day for the Cateses. Sophie’s sympathy lay with William.

She knew from the journals that Evan was a capitalist with big-city blood. He wore three-piece suits, a bowler hat, and polished brown oxfords. She’d seen a black-and-white photograph of Evan. The man looked pretentious. It was rumored he defied the heat and never broke a sweat even in summer. He dared the sun to shine.

Evan set his sights on real estate. His journal was filled with predictions and diagrams for growth. He contacted Northern investors and, within six months, the Saunders Group began to buy up land. Evan wanted to citify the small town. He sought to turn Barefoot William into a wealthy winter resort.

After reading the journals through 1950, Sophie discovered the sordid truth. Her ancestors had dominated, at times, through deception. By backstabbing and being underhanded, too.

She’d learned about Evan’s payoffs and bribes.

Money was his mistress.

William Cates’s wealth came through family. They were close-knit, and he protected his own. He fought for his town. He battled zoning and expansion. He believed in squatters’ rights.

Evan was a developer and wanted the very best. He built his own boardwalk, yacht harbor, and extravagant beach house. He snubbed the barefoot mayor. Animosity flared between the men. They had sparred for sixty years.

On an overcast day with thunderheads rolling, the conservative and the capitalist had drawn a line in the sand, which neither had crossed during the remainder of their lifetimes. The line later became Center Street, the midpoint between Barefoot William and Saunders Shores.

On a sigh, Sophie mentally closed the journals. The two towns had historical roots that ran deep. She hoped the day would come when everyone stepped out of the past and got along.

She was a Saunders; there was no denying the fact. She was born to a life of privilege. She’d grown up quiet and content with a trust fund that would last her indefinitely.

Only recently had her soul stirred and she’d become restless. She wasn’t the person she wanted to be. She needed to overcome her shyness and find her purpose, however small. She needed to move outside her comfort zone.

She’d gone to Trace and Shaye and sought their guidance. They suggested she work in several shops until she found a business that truly appealed to her. Crabby Abby’s was her second venture.

The boardwalk stretched long and inviting. Each shop was filled with excitement. She’d find her niche. She was sure of it.

“Sophie, babe, you’re drifting on us.” Mac snapped his fingers before her eyes. “You’ve got two of the biggest names in volleyball offering to take you to lunch and you’re lost in space,” he teased.

She blinked, blushed, embarrassed by her attention lapse. “Sorry,” she said.

The corners of Dune’s eyes creased and his lips twitched. He was amused. “How soon are you free?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. It was eleven forty-five. “I’m done with my shift at noon.”

“You’re volunteering,” said Mac. “Can’t you leave whenever you want?”

“I promised Abby four hours,” Sophie said.

Respect lit Dune’s gaze, fleeting yet discernible. “Some of us are more dedicated than others.”

“I finish what I start,” said Mac.

“No, you don’t,” said Dune. “You recently left a promotional shoot for volleyball a half-hour early.”

Mac made a face. “How many times did the photographer want me to serve the freakin’ ball?” he asked.

“More than once,” returned Dune.

“The guy should’ve gotten the shot with my first spike,” Mac argued.

“It wasn’t a spike,” Dune said. “You bounced on your toes like a girl, then underhanded the serve.”

“Don’t believe a word he says,” Mac said to Sophie. “I was cooperative.”

Dune ran a hand down his face. “You behaved badly.”

“I gave you more camera time,” said Mac.

“The shoot wasn’t about me,” Dune reminded him. “It was about partners in sports.”

Mac cut him a hard look. “How long do you plan to be my partner?” he asked.

All fun and baiting subsided. The question hung in the air unanswered. Sophie watched as Dune rotated his wrist, flexed his fingers, then fisted his hand until his knuckles turned white. He unclenched his hand and shrugged, a man uncertain and subdued. “Time will tell,” he said.

Mac’s stomach growled. “Damn, I’m hungry. Let’s head to Molly Malone’s. Dune’s buying lunch.”

“I can afford—” she was about to offer.

“No, you can’t,” Dune said. “Mac eats for ten men. He’s always starving.”

Sophie liked Molly Malone’s. The corner diner had the best food on the boardwalk, along with a spectacular view of the vintage carousel. Locals and tourists alike stood ten deep at the door, waiting to be seated. The restaurant was known for generous portions and homemade pie. Sophie’s favorite flavor was chocolate chiffon.

Dune placed a tube of Crest, a small bottle of mouthwash, and his box of condoms on the glass countertop. “Ring me up,” he said.

Sophie glanced at the Night Lights. She remembered his earlier comment. “Did you want to order a case?” she forced herself to ask.

BOOK: No Strings Attached
6.52Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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