Barefoot in Lace (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 2) (17 page)

Gussie unlatched her seat belt and slipped across the wide aisle to sit next to him.

“I’m thirsty.”

Why the hell was that so sexy? Was it the sultry tone of her voice? The almost sleepy look in her eyes? The subtle scent of something floral she always wore? It didn’t matter. He gave her the bottle and watched her drink. She tilted her head and shuttered her eyes and looked at him from under her lashes. And inspiration struck.

“Don’t move.”

She froze, though her eyes got wider.

“Seriously, don’t put that bottle down.” He had his phone out in a second and tapped the camera.

She dipped the bottle. “You’re—”

“Gussie, please.” And took another shot. “Look at that,” he said, showing her the screen. “
Look
at that.”

The LaVie logo was perfectly visible, with the tip of one finger—bare of any polish, in keeping with their deal—brushing the stylized V. Her expression was pure satisfaction, and the bottle was partially reflected in her eyes. Best of all, those eyes matched the bright green in the iconic turquoise and chartreuse LaVie label.

“Perfection,” he murmured, looking at the shot. “That could go right in the LaVie storyboard today.”

“Well, it better not.”

“No one will see the board shots but the crew and me,” he promised. “Think of that picture as my taking a note so I don’t forget the concept. Not that I could.”

“A model would be better.”

“A model wouldn’t be real.” He leaned back into the buttery leather again. “I’d love to use real women on this campaign, but they are so dead set on it being ‘high fashion’ and including the faces and bodies of supermodels.”

“Why do they think that’s going to get people to drink the water? Like, the more LaVie you drink, the more you’ll look like a supermodel?”

“They want the bottle as an accessory.” He reached to the floor and got his tablet, opening it to a campaign storyboard.

The shots were sketches, drawn to mirror a designer’s pencil, with the emphasis as much on the clothes and accessories as the model or the lightly drawn scenery in the background.

“You think that’s going to sell water?”

“They do. It’s not my job to think about it.”

“But it kind of is,” she countered.

He looked skyward. “This is why I hate commercial photography. I’m all about creating the story and capturing the essence, not selling a bottle of water.”

“Then why did you take this job?”

“My feet itch.” At her confused expression, he added, “I don’t just like to travel, Gussie. I hate staying in one place for too long. For me, it’s like not being able to function.”

He may have added too much emphasis on that last point, but that was the way it came out.

“I can’t even imagine not having a home anywhere. Where do you keep your stuff?”

“My only stuff is photography related, and it comes with me or stays in storage.”

“Your books?”

“On my tablet.”

“Clothes?”

“In a suitcase.”

“Favorite coffee cup?”

“Whatever holds my coffee when I want it is fine.”

“Pictures, memories, and gifts from friends?”

He shrugged. “Pictures I have enough of, memories are in my brain, and my friends know better than to give me gifts.”

“Do you even have friends?”

The question threw him, since the rhythm of the verbal volley suddenly evaporated. “Of course I do. I have friends all over the world, in all kinds of professions.” He added a smile. “I stay at their homes when I’m traveling.”

She shook her head. “I do not envy you that life. I like my stuff. What happens when you get old?” she asked.

Again, a lob from left field he hadn’t been expecting. “I’m only thirty-six. I have plenty of time to worry about the future.”

She looked up at him. “No, you don’t. The future is now.” She pointed her thumb to the back. “The future is sleeping twenty feet away with a bruised heart and a notebook full of what I suspect is teen-girl poetry, but I don’t want to intrude by asking.”

Of course, Gussie knew exactly what
not
to ask with Alex. He’d prodded and gotten nowhere. “She can’t possibly want to live with me.”

“She’s twelve. I don’t think she has a lot of say in the matter.”

He let go of her hand, stabbing his fingers into his hair to drag it back with a low sigh. “I’m going to figure something out.” He had to. “As soon as we get back from France. Maybe she’ll like life on the road, and I can, I don’t know, get her homeschooled or something.”

Her eyes tapered with a very clear message that he was dreaming.

“Look, these past few days are the first time I’ve gotten her to say ten consecutive words,” he said. “And, let’s be honest,
I
haven’t gotten her to do that,
you
have.”

“What are you saying?”

“Gussie, I just told you I don’t even have a favorite coffee cup, let alone a…a…normal home life. And I don’t want one,” he added, a little too harshly. Had it, lost it, never want that again.

“Why not?” she asked.

Was this the time to tell her? He took her hand again to pull her closer, but a footfall behind them stopped him.

“Are we in France yet?” Alex wiped sleep from her eyes and curled into the seat that faced theirs. “And what time will it be when we get there?”

Tom checked his watch, but Gussie leaned forward and put a hand on Alex’s leg. “It’ll be the middle of the night, and even on a private plane, we’ll have to get through Customs and to the apartment, so you should keep sleeping.”

She shook her head, eyeing one, then the other, and then her attention remaining on Gussie. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” Gussie replied.

“Why’d you stop wearing wigs?”

“She’s not wearing wigs or hats or makeup on this trip,” Tom said quickly, hoping the question didn’t make Gussie uncomfortable, but once again not having any clue if he should reprimand Alex or use the situation as some kind of an object lesson.

“Because we’re taking a freecation,” Gussie said.

“A what?” Tom and Alex asked in unison.

“A freecation. A vacation from the things that…weigh down our lives and keep us from being free.”

And, no surprise, she had the perfect reply.

“And wigs and hats and false eyelashes weigh too much?”

“Essentially.”

“I don’t wear makeup,” Alex announced. “My mom said it would make my skin break out more.”

“She was right, especially the cheap stuff,” Gussie replied. “I can probably find something that wouldn’t hurt your skin.”

“Then what should I be free of on the freecation?”

Gussie shrugged. “Whatever feels like too much to carry around for a while.”

She considered that, nodding, then her mouth turned down. “I guess, you know, thinking about my mom.”

“You shouldn’t stop that,” Gussie said, leaning closer to take both of Alex’s hands. “But I’m certain she wouldn’t want you to be sad in France. Is there anything else you want to be free of? Bad habits or things that make you feel not so great?”

How did she come up with these amazingly simple ways to talk to Alex? Who dreamed up a
freecation
and made it sound like so much fun that he wanted to take one?

“No, there’s nothing else,” Alex said, but she didn’t sound too sure of that. Whatever she might want to unload, Tom was pretty sure Gussie would figure it out. “How about you, Uncle Tommy? What are you going to be free of on this trip?”

“Your uncle lives his life on a freecation,” Gussie said when he didn’t answer immediately. “So he’s here to help keep us on track.”

“But you have to give up something,” Alex insisted. “There has to be something you want to be free of while we’re here.”

“I guess I’m giving up being alone all the time,” he admitted.

Fact was, he’d have two people to worry about, a place he’d call “home” for a while, and the closest thing to a family he’d had since…a long time.

“You sure you can handle that, big boy?” Gussie asked with a nudge to his elbow.

No, he wasn’t sure at all. “Guess I’m about to find out.”

* * *

Jet lag wrecked Alex, but Gussie was too excited to sleep once they settled into the luxurious apartment in Nice. Although it wasn’t light yet when their driver had picked them up at the airport and chauffeured them through the streets of Nice, Gussie had inhaled the incredible city nestled into the Côte d’Azur. The sedan’s headlights flashed on glimpses of old European buildings with columns and arches mixed with wrought iron-laced balconies. The streets were wide, brick and, in spite of the predawn hour, already alive with vendors setting up food and flower stands.

Their apartment was in the middle of town, up three flights of stairs to one of two units on the top floor. Inside, they found a spacious living area, modern kitchen, and three bedrooms, beautifully decorated. French doors in the living room opened onto a balcony that spanned the length of the apartment, offering an unobstructed view of the lights out to the blackness of the Mediterranean.

Gussie nearly cried at the beauty and kicked herself for even thinking about turning down this experience.

After a hot shower, she eyed the fluffy comforter and bed, but despite the fact that her body thought it was midnight, it was six a.m. in the south of France. She was restless and ready for the day.

Assuming Tom and Alex were both in their rooms asleep, Gussie wandered into the living area of the darkened apartment, drawn by the tantalizing scent of…coffee?

Yes. Coffee. Tom must have brewed it, she decided, as she poured a generous cupful, not caring that there’d be no sleep this morning. She’d nap later. This was all too irresistible.

Taking the cup to the open balcony doors, she stood long enough to enjoy a warm breeze and the salty scent of the sea. And soap, drawing her gaze from the breathtaking vista outside to the one lounging on the sofa.

His own mug in hand, Tom wore nothing but thin cotton sleep pants, his hair still wet from a shower and dribbling water over his bare shoulders and chest, his head back and eyes closed.

“Long way from Barefoot Bay,” he said without opening his eyes.

“It is a bay, though.” She gazed out to the first lavender rays of sunrise over the Mediterranean, taking in the wide curve of the shore.

“You’re looking at Angels’ Bay or Bay of the Angels, depending on where you’re from.”

“That has to be the prettiest piece of real estate on the planet.”

“One of them,” he said with the confidence of a well-traveled man. And something else tinged his voice. Sadness? Maybe exhaustion.

“I thought you’d be asleep, since our bodies think it’s midnight.”

“My body knows what time it is,” he said. “And every artist who has ever been in this city knows about the light. I’m waiting for it.”

“The light?”

He turned to her, his eyes flickering as he noticed she wore nearly as little as he did. A cotton tank and wispy shorts, which had seemed perfect for the warm summer night a few minutes ago, felt woefully thin when he looked at her that way.

“C’mere, Pink.” He gestured toward the space next to him. “I’ll tell you about the light in Nice. It’s special.”

The nickname reminded her that she wasn’t pink…or black or purple or even blond anymore. Her natural hair was still damp and pulled back into the hasty braid that she always slept in, with no effort to hide her scar. But she could have been shaved bald and covered with charcoal, and that wouldn’t have stopped her from taking that spot next to him on the couch. There, she had to fight the urge to cuddle closer and trace her fingers over the swirls and curls of dark ink on his arm and bare chest.

He tucked hair behind his ear and gave her a half smile, lifting his mug. “Glad you found the coffee.”

“Called to me like a siren song.”

“The coffee here is amazing. And the food. And the wine.” His eyes shuttered as he took a deep inhale. “And the lemon soap you used.”

“I almost took a bite of the bar,” she admitted.

“Get used to it,” he told her. “Everything in Nice is so achingly perfect that you want to eat it.”

Like you, she thought as she devoured every inch of his face with her eyes. He looked serious this morning, his whiskers making his chiseled cheeks look dark, his wet hair screaming for her fingers to comb through it.

“Tell me about the light,” she whispered.

“You’re going to see it for yourself in a few minutes, and I suspect you have a good enough eye to know what you’re looking at.” He sighed, draping his arm behind her, looking out to the scenery beyond them. “It’s the light that called to Cézanne and Chagall. Light that inspired Henri Matisse to make this his home. There is something wistful and tender about the sunlight on the Mediterranean and something magical about the orange and coral buildings and the sky. The light in Nice is unlike anywhere else on earth.”

He grew silent, but she felt he wanted to say more, so she waited, almost feeling him tense.

“It’s the original
portokali
sky,” he finally said. “Do you know what that is?”

She thought about the words, familiar enough, but her connection couldn’t be what he meant. “Portokali Sky’s the name of a line of bags and accessories I love. Very beachy and bright.”

“Probably named for the Greek expression. The Greeks used to roam this city in ancient days, and they know a good sunrise and sunset.
Portokali
sky means ‘orange sky,’ but it’s a special kind of orange, heartbreaking and brief, that comes on with a sudden intensity and is gone before you’ve had time to…to truly appreciate what you had.” It sounded like his voice was about to crack, but he covered that with a sip of coffee.

Light made him emotional, she thought, which was probably why he was a master at his art.
Something
had made him emotional.

“Anyway,” he said, composure firmly back in place. “You’re about to see one.”

She turned toward the sky, aware of the very first hint of color floating over the horizon, the shadows on the hillsides, and the steeples and taller buildings stretched like fingers reaching up to God.