Perfectly Charming (A Morning Glory Novel Book 2) (3 page)

She winced as she bumped into the ceramic sculpture of a heron. The top of the bird’s head was missing. Maybe so she could store her umbrella? She wasn’t sure.

Okay, so the condo wasn’t something out of
Southern Living
, but the location more than made up for the kitschy decor and bright-yellow paint. Yes, view trumped tacky every time. And she had two of them. A string of ten condo units sat facing the bay on the narrow strip of land called Gulf Breeze, which split Pensacola Bay from the Gulf of Mexico. Thankfully, her particular condo sat across from the Gulf, giving her a view of the crashing waves from the back of the house and the gentle lapping bay from the front. She had only to cross the two-lane highway and follow the gangway before she emerged onto the wide beach.

Once Labor Day rolled around, she’d have to give the rental up to “the nice couple from Jersey” who spent every winter in the Dirty Heron. That was the name of the condo. Dirty Heron. She had no clue why anyone would name a condo something so absurd, but it had a certain ring to it, she guessed. After the holiday weekend, the rental company would find something else for her. Her only requirement was that it was either beachside or beach view. She wanted the crash of the waves on the beach to lull her to sleep every night and the silky sands only feet away when she needed the particular therapy of sun and salty waters. Which after a long day was exactly what she needed—a hello to the beach.

Crossing the highway and traversing the weathered walkway between the dunes, she emerged onto the wide stretch of sand. Jess stared out at the dark waters lapping at the white powder sand. The moon was full tonight, making the beach glow. Small crabs sidled sideways across the sands, and sea oats danced in the night winds.

Paradise.

And exactly what she needed to soothe away the hurt.

Something about the sea made a person feel small, her problems insignificant. So her husband had walked out on her? Big deal. So she had to start over careerwise and relationshipwise? Wasn’t like she was totally dead in the water. Much. She was still young—not even thirty yet. And she had a good job. Contract work paid well. And her boobs didn’t sag. Much. And she didn’t have stretch marks from being pregnant. Or a C-section scar. Or crow’s-feet. She was good. She could start over. No big deal.

Jess walked down to the water’s edge, marveling at the gulls dipping and diving like acrobats, chasing their evening meal before roosting somewhere. Where did the gulls go? They must go somewhere when they weren’t greeting beachgoers each morning and wishing them farewell each night. The water was cool, but not cold. It was August, which meant warm gulf waters. The waves rolled in, covering her feet.

Though her stomach felt jumpy about being on her own, she knew she could do this.

She’d gone to the hospital that day to fill out paperwork. After which a very pregnant nursing supervisor had given her a brief tour of the surgical suites, supply closets, and ever-necessary break room. Bay View was an older hospital with an intentional retro vibe. The tour and quick staff meet and greet had whetted Jess’s appetite to get back to what she loved. She’d spent the past year and a half working for a pediatrician. She’d thought it perfect for a woman looking to grow her family—no commute, easy access to day care (a.k.a. her mother), and less stress. But that was before Benton had come home with flowers. The man had brought her flowers. A mixed bouquet with too many carnations.

She’d taken one look at the bouquet in his hands and felt thrilled. She was ovulating, and he’d tried to make it an occasion. She’d taken them to the sink and pulled a bottle of his favorite wine out of the fridge. But when she turned back to kiss him, he’s had this look on his face. Like a dog that had pissed on the floor.

She’d jabbed the flowers in water, a sour feeling in her stomach, and then asked him what he’d done.

Turned out he’d done Brandy Robbins, the florist she’d always used.

The fucking florist who’d wrapped up the flowers he’d brought to apologize to Jess. The flowers that he’d handed her like an apology. Like an arrangement for a funeral.

Then he’d told her he wanted out.

O-U-T. Out.

As in he didn’t want her, a baby, or an SUV that could fit a growing family. As in he had regrets about not dating any other people in high school and college. As in he’d made a mistake when he married her, and he was really sorry but he couldn’t help the way he felt. Which was trapped.

Jess had stood there staring at his handsome face, at this man she’d gone to prom with, given her virginity to, given up a dream job in Birmingham for, and wanted to laugh. Because it sounded like a joke. A big fat gotcha.

But it wasn’t.

Benton had fallen for Brandy . . . or so he’d said. He didn’t want to be married any longer. He’d missed out on too much by dating only one girl his whole life.
Experiences.
That’s what he said he wanted. Like they hadn’t had experiences together. Like they hadn’t shared each other’s notes in English III or seen the sun sink into the Pacific Ocean while sipping champagne to celebrate their nuptials. Like she hadn’t squealed with glee when he scooped her up and carried her over the threshold of the cottage they’d restored or painted the nursery a pretty, soft green in preparation for their someday baby. Like everything they’d dreamed, whispering to each other in that poignant moment after soul-stirring lovemaking, hadn’t been an experience. No, an experience obviously was fucking Brandy on the counter in the back of Flowers for You.

’Cause that’s what Benton had wanted.

Jess kicked the wave, causing droplets to explode into the air, peppering her bare legs with the spray.

She didn’t want to think about the hurt anymore.

It was a new day. A new Jess. She’d had a year to cry, hurt, rail, throw things. Her therapist said she’d gone through all the steps of grieving the loss of love. But what the therapist hadn’t told her was how to fill the enormous void inside her. Or maybe Dr. Richardson had. She’d encouraged Jess to try new activities, relish her friendships, cherish her parents. Essentially, she’d told Jess to appreciate the life she had, not grieve the one she’d built up in her mind—the picket fence, the dimpled baby, and the carpool lines.
Stay in the moment. Live each day without planning the next. Be spontaneous. Be open to love.

Horseshit.

Jess shook herself, trying to beat off the cynicism, trying to embrace her new adventure.

So maybe she should go to that party tomorrow night. Her new next-door neighbor, a sunny brunette with skimpy clothes, had asked her to come over and celebrate her friend’s twenty-sixth birthday. They were making Jell-O shots and playing beer pong. That should be fun, right?

Jess sighed and glanced back as the water rolled over her toes. Dark, foamy water, nothing clear. Just like her future. But beneath murky waters lay pretty things—smooth shells, delicate sand dollars, and iridescent fish. Or things with teeth. Things that tore and stung. Only time would tell what lay beneath for her.

Turning away from the introspection, Jess headed back.

She looked up and down the beach, wind tousling her hair, and caught sight of a figure standing much as she had about a hundred yards down the beach. A man quietly assessing his own life. A moment of kinship struck her.
Such is the human condition.

Finding her flip-flops, she brushed the sand from her feet, sinking briefly on the weathered wood of the walkway to dust her legs off. Her gaze snagged once again on the man framed against the inky sky, like a portrait painted as a study in loneliness, which seemed suitable for her reflective mood.

She rose and walked back toward the Dirty Heron, determined to embrace her own new experiences.

Chapter Three

The next evening Jess punched the unfamiliar pillow and muttered a really dirty word—one that would have made even her father blanch. And her father had been a sailor . . . even if it was as a dental officer in the navy. The music from the condo next door was ridiculously loud. And Jess was tolerant, damn it. She’d never been one to get pissy over a little noise. But tomorrow was her first day at Bay View, and being comatose for her shift would probably be frowned upon.

A roar of laughter temporarily blocked AC/DC screaming about shaking them all night long. Final straw. Jess sat up and blinked at the red numbers glowing on the alarm clock—2:04 a.m.

Freaking 2:04 a.m.

Whipping the covers back, Jess pulled on a pair of athletic shorts she’d tossed on the bamboo chair and struggled into a T-shirt. No bra, but for God’s sake, it was the wee hours, and she didn’t really care if she looked like a wild demon rousted from slumber. ’Cause she was a wild, mad demon . . . who had to work the next day. Time to be
that
neighbor. The grumpy stick-in-the-mud who complained about noise.

Grabbing the key so she didn’t lock herself out, she pushed out the front door and emerged onto the graveled concrete that dug into her feet. She tenderfooted it over to the next set of steps and climbed up to the condo that had a cute little sign that read, “Beach Blanket Bingo.” Much cuter name than the Dirty Heron.

Jess knocked on the door, but the music and laughter overshadowed a simple knock.

So she banged her fist against the yellow door.

Nothing.

A cacophony of Bruno Mars and shrieking conspired to stifle her knocking. She had to admit Bruno Mars was more tolerable than ’80s headbangers, but he’d still keep her awake, uptown funky or not. Trying the doorknob to no avail, Jess leaned her forehead against the locked door in momentary defeat.

Who locked a door when there was a party?

Sighing, Jess spun around, pushing her frizzy brown hair from the corners of her mouth. A dull headache pressed against the back of her eyes. She’d look like hell tomorrow, no doubt. Determined and growing more and more pissed by the rude, inconsiderate, too-young-to-realize-people-needed-sleep-to-function-the-next-day partiers, Jess went back down the steps, cutting beneath the raised pier-and-beam condominiums, heading toward the deck that faced the Gulf. She could see the soft shadows of people clustered in groups above her, hear the Richter-scale laughter and conversation. Because she was looking up, trying to find Morgan, her new neighbor, she didn’t see the large body lying a few feet from the bottom of the steps.

She snagged her foot on a leg and went sprawling. Her windmilling arms did nothing to stop her from landing with the grace of a hippo facedown in the sand.

“Jesus,” Jess whispered, lying still a moment, flexing her muscles and checking for any injury. Nope. The soft sand had cushioned her.

“No, not Jesus. I told you. Ryan. My nameth Ryan,” someone slurred.

Spitting sand from her mouth, Jess pushed herself up, wiping her face. When she finally cleared her wild curls from her eyes, she found herself sitting a foot from a naked man. In fact, her right foot had landed across his bare thighs. Squeaking, she jerked her foot back, shuffling back in order to put an extra foot or two between her and the nude dude.

“Krista?” the man asked, his words noticeably slurred. “Krista!”

Jess poked him in the ribs with her foot. “Stop yelling. I’m not Krista.”

The man cracked an eye at her. She couldn’t tell the color, but she got the general idea he was young. He lay on his back, gloriously splayed as if the gods had given birth to him. Like in that
Clash of the Titans
movie where Perseus washes up. Or was that
Blue Lagoon
? Or some other ’70s flick she’d watched on the AMC channel? Whichever. Same result. Young, hot, and naked on a beach.

“Where’s she?” he asked, his one open eye on her.

“Who?”

“Krrrrrista.”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay,” he said and closed his eyes, resting his hands on his chest like a corpse.

Jess was a nurse and had seen plenty of naked bodies. Some were finely honed, beautiful to gaze upon (not that she ever forgot to be professional), and some were not so finely honed—in fact, far from it. This guy was in the former category. Hey, she was professional. Not blind. “What are you doing out here? The party is upstairs.” And too loud.

He grunted before saying, “Watching stars.”

“Your eyes are closed.”

He opened them as if alarmed. “Well, I was watching, but then I had to rest my eyes.”

“At least someone’s sleeping through the party.” Jess spit some more sand out of her mouth. “Why don’t I help you up? You’re, ah, missing some clothing. We can get you some water and perhaps an aspirin or two.”

“I don’t wan water. I wan rum. It’s my birday.”

His massacre of the English language told her all she needed to know. The guy was way over the limit. “But it will make you feel much better tomorrow, birthday boy.”

So here lay the birthday boy who had caused her to miss her beauty sleep and face-plant into a dune. Hadn’t anyone upstairs realized the guest of honor was drunk, naked, and stargazing?

“Okay,” he said, pushing himself up. His smile was wide and goofy, reminding her of a puppy . . . if puppies had scruffy chiseled jaws and dark slashing brows. Grains of sand clung to his tanned shoulders, and his eyes looked light—maybe green or maybe blue—but not the boring brown she dealt with in the mirror each morning. White teeth flashed, and brown hair highlighted by either the sun or a good stylist tousled in the sea breeze.

“Where’s my clothes?” he asked. His gaze was sincere, as if he had absolute faith she knew the answer to his question.

Jess struggled to rise in the shifting sand. Dusting her hands, she glanced around but could see nothing but a pair of flip-flops that had been orphaned close to the surf. “I see your shoes.”

“Good, good,” he said, nodding, his head falling forward like a sleepy child’s.

Jess strolled over to the two flip-flops and scooped them up, but she didn’t see his actual clothes. Padding back, she nudged him with her big toe. “Hey, I don’t see your shorts. Did you go in the water?” She peered at his hair to see if it looked damp, wondering why she even bothered. She should leave him naked under the stairs, march upstairs, and make the complaint to Morgan. Then she could get two or three more hours in before she had to go to work. She looked down at the man, whose head bobbed against his chest. Someone stupid enough to get that wasted didn’t deserve help, but still she felt obligated to assist him. Probably because she’d been raised by a Sunday school teacher . . . and had taken an oath to devote herself to those placed in her care. She’d tripped over him, and now he was hers to aid.

“We went skinny-dipping, ’cept I forgot about the shark Fat Sam saw. Then I yelled, ‘Shark.’ She didn’t think it was so funny . . . and she didn’t come back to watch stars with me . . . and she didn’t give me any on my birday.”

“Good Lord,” Jess muttered as the man fell over and curled up like a child. Of course his hard ass wasn’t chubby and cute like her nephew’s. Not even close. “I’m going to get a towel off my deck. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Okay,” he managed before releasing a huge sigh.

Jess stomped over to her set of steps, thankful she’d left a towel out on the glass-topped table earlier that day. She’d spent the day running errands and familiarizing herself with the area, finding a local branch of her bank, popping in to a beach store for a couple of towels, sunscreen, and a six-pack of beer. She’d splashed around a bit in her new bikini, feeling conspicuous in something so . . . not there. Then she’d made a big salad, watched some Netflix, and hit the bed early, electing not to show up at the party next door. She knew she should have forced herself to mingle if only for half an hour, but she wasn’t ready to go to parties and make small talk with people. She wasn’t ready to be “out there.” But that would have been better than playing mommy to an overgrown kid who couldn’t handle his liquor.

She stopped just as she reached for the towel draped over the side of the table.

Kid?

She was probably only three or four years older than the drunk. And probably only six or seven years older than Morgan. So why did she feel so ancient? Hazard of her job? Or maybe it was her nature. She tended to be pragmatic . . . reasonable . . . too comfortable. That was why Benton had left, right? Because she was boring. Booooooring.

“Shit,” she said, angry at herself for not going to the party. For labeling the people at the party as kids. Jerking the towel free, she marched back over to Morgan’s. The naked guy now snored softly against the sand.

“Hey,” she said, again using her foot to nudge him.

He didn’t move.

“Sleeping Beauty?” she said, leaning down and setting a hand on his shoulder. Gently she moved him side to side.

He rolled over, opening his eyes. “Hey, you.”

“Hey,” she said trying not to smile at his expression, which was boyishly sleepy. “I brought you a towel.”

“You’re so sweet,” he said, giving her a drunken smile that somehow looked adorable. “And this should totally cover my ’nads.”

Jess nearly laughed. “You’re welcome . . . what’s your name?”

“Ryan.”

“You’re welcome, Ryan.” She held the towel out, and he looked at it for a few seconds. “Here. Cover yourself.”

He grabbed the towel, pulled it over his shoulders, and lay back down, snuggling into the sand.

“No,” she said reaching for him again. Clasping his now towel-covered shoulder, she shook him again. “Get up. You can’t sleep here.”

“Yeah, I can,” he sighed, closing his eyes.

“Ryan.” Jess tried again, shaking him. “Come on. Let’s go inside. Morgan will be worried about you. Maybe we can find, uh, Krista. You can get you some.”

“I know you,” he said, still not opening his eyes.

“Sure you do. I’m the nice girl who is helping you, and you’re the guy getting up. Come on,” she said, slipping an arm beneath him the way she did when she had to lift patients to slide them onto a gurney. She didn’t have sheets to use, so she tried to position the towel. Ryan shifted and wrapped her in his arms.

“Hey,” she said, pushing against him as his hands moved toward her butt.

“You smell good. I knew you’d smell so good,” he said, nuzzling his nose into the valley between her breasts. For a slight moment a jolt of pleasure hit her, which was so freaking weird, because the whole thing was so inappropriate. She didn’t know this dude. He was a total stranger—a drunk, naked stranger—and he was sticking his nose where it absolutely didn’t belong.

“Stop it,” she said pushing against him.

“What’s a matter, babe?” Ryan muttered, reaching halfheartedly for her again. “Come on. It’s just Ryan. You know me.”

Jess shot backward and landed on her butt. Then she got pissed again. Scrabbling up, she gave him a hard kick with her foot. “Okay, listen, Ryan. You either get your ass up or I’m leaving you to the crabs and whatever else moseys along. You’ve got until the count of three to get up. One . . . two . . .”

“Okay, okay,” he said, struggling up, the cute lime-and-pink towel draped over his shoulders. Jess kept her eyes on his shoulders, because she sensed the flopping of certain parts of him. Parts that she shouldn’t look at. For any reason.

He rolled over onto all fours, and she jerked her eyes to the huge wooden beam nearest her. “Put the towel around your waist, and I’ll help you up the stairs.”

She heard a lot of grunting and watched him stumble against the piling nearest him before he said, “Okay. I got a towel on.”

Chancing a glance, she sighed in relief. He’d managed to rope the towel around his lean hips and had even managed a tuck that looked secure. Standing up, he looked even more gorgeous. And more drunk. He listed to the side and said, “Why’re you movin’?”

“I’m not. You are,” Jess said cautiously, stepping to his side so she could loop an arm about his waist. She felt a bit uncomfortable, considering he’d tried to snuggle with her mere seconds ago, but if she were going to get him up the stairs, it was a necessary evil.

She didn’t want to notice how firm and warm he was, nor how he smelled like both the sea and a nice cologne that hadn’t come from a discount store. ’Cause, again, weird.

“I may have had too much to drink,” he said, throwing a heavy arm about her shoulders.

“You think?” she said, allowing some lightness into her voice.

“Yeah. I think,” he said, looking sheepish.

Jess was used to people’s embarrassment. After all, when you’ve inserted a catheter or aided someone in using the toilet, you develop a certain sensibility about delicate situations, not to mention compassion and humor.

“Morgan went to all that trouble making Jell-O shots shaped like li’l boats. Then someone wanted me to funnel beer. Seemed like I should be a good sport and all, ’specially when they just wanted to make me happy on my birday.” He managed to make it to the stairs. Once there he clung to the handrail, trying to alleviate some pressure from her shoulders. “I think I should go home.”