Barefoot in Lace (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 2) (28 page)

She closed her eyes, feeling the impact of his words. “God, I’m sorry.”

“We were going to name him Uly, short for Ulysses.” He could barely say the name. “It’s Greek, and we thought I shouldn’t be the only one in the family with a historical and hysterical name. Plus, it beat Homer.”

She heard the attempt at humor, an echo of what she imagined were inside jokes shared with a woman he loved while they planned for their life as a family.

“Anyway,” he said, stiffening as any hope of humor faded. “I made a decision to stay completely alone after that.”

“
Panta monos
,” she whispered.

“I never want to lose like that again. I never want to feel that kind of pain, like someone ripped a limb from my body, and while they were at it, they tore out my heart.” He cleared his throat as if the jagged words actually hurt to speak them, then stepped away, looking hard at her, as if this were the first time since the conversation started that he actually saw her.

“Gussie.” He dragged his hands to her shoulders, gripping her there. “I don’t tell people this story.”

“Then I feel special.”

“That’s the problem,” he said gruffly. “You are.”

Her heart flipped at how his dead-flat tone didn’t match his promising words. “Why, exactly, is that a problem?” Except, really, she already knew the answer to that question.

“Nothing can change this.” He raised his arm so the Greek letters were visible. “In fact, someone like you—no,
you in particular
—will only make me even more certain of my decision never to…” His voice trailed off.

“Never to live? Never to love?” She jerked back a little, the force of her emotions jolting her. “Really? No one has a chance with you, ever?”

He gave his head a nearly imperceptible shake, the minuscule move firing her even more.

“That’s awful damn selfish of you, Tom.”

He flinched a little, then acknowledged it. “Self-protective.”

“Self
ish
,” she fired back. “Because people are going to love you, whether you want them to or not. People like Alex and”—
me
—“people you meet. Friends. Associates. It’s not fair to hold everyone off.”

“It’s fair to me.”

Fury punched her. “And that’s all that matters to you?”

“Gussie, please, I just bared my soul to you—”

“And that soul is scarred, like the back of my head. I get it, Tom. I get it, and my heart hurts for what you’ve been through and what you’ve lost. It’s unthinkable. But—”

“There is no but,” he interjected.

“But,” she continued through grinding teeth, “you can’t stop living because someone else died.”

“Too late. I already did.”

“You
can’t
,” she insisted, refusing to hear him. “You have Alex, you have a job, you have…” She frowned as something else hit her. “You have a family in Greece, living in a remote village, surrounded by food and wine and friends.”

“They’re not my family.”

“Do you still see them?”

“I haven’t seen them since the funeral. I barely said good-bye, just went to Cyprus to mourn and drink and…” He gestured toward the tattoo on his arm. “Set a course for the rest of my life.”

“Is she buried on that island?”

“Yes. On a hillside under her favorite willow tree.”

“And you’ve never been to there to visit her grave?”

He shook his head, too ashamed to make the admission out loud.

“Well, you need to.”

He closed his eyes and huffed out a breath strong enough to quiver his nostrils. “Stop this.”

“Stop what? Telling you what you don’t want to hear? The truth?”

“The only truth I know is that it hurts more than a human can bear to lose a person you love, so it’s better not to love.” He pivoted to the French door, heading right back into the living room.

“Tom!”

He kept on going through the room, disappearing into the shadows. Gussie’s throat closed up as she stared into the dimly lit rooms, hearing his bedroom door close. She felt her whole body want to follow him, pound on the door, demand he talk and think and
change
.

But he wasn’t going to change any more than that tattoo would disappear from his arm. And that was bad, bad news for a woman who might be falling for him, or a girl who might have already fallen…into his care.

Gripping the railing, she stared out at the night lights of Nice, the reality of what she now knew about him settling over her like the warm night air. He’d been so busy getting her to reveal her old heartaches that she’d completely missed what he was hiding. His pain was so deeply embedded that it was impossible to see, even in close conversation.

Behind her in the apartment, she heard footsteps, and she tightened her fingers, waiting for him to join her. What would he say? Would he argue more or throw his arms around her and tell her she was right and maybe she could be the one to heal—

The front door clicked closed, and the apartment went silent.

Gussie didn’t move, the impact of that noise and the fact that he’d left rolling over her like ice-cold water. Ten seconds later, she saw him walking down the shadowy streets a few stories below, his head down, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slumped as he disappeared into the city.

Alone, like always.

* * *

“
Allez
!
Allez
!
On se lève
!” The words, barked with indignant French fury, slapped Tom awake. “
Pas d’sans-abri ici, c’est interdit
!”

Blinking into the rising sun, Tom grabbed the arms of the Promenade sun chair, attempting a sleepy mental translation. All he could get was “homeless” and “forbidden,” which was enough to tell him what the gruff French policeman meant.
Get the hell off the beach. Nobody sleeps here.

“
Maintenant
!” the man ordered.
Now
.

“All right, I’ll go.” Tom waved him off, pushing up from the chair to stumble away, not bothering to even try to explain that he wasn’t homeless.

Because, shit, he kind of was.

He had no home, no family, no wife, no…what had Gussie once called her friends? No foundation.

He stood still for a moment, pressing his feet into the concrete as though it were a material reminder of what it would feel like to have that kind of foundation in his life. Other than terrifying, of course.

He closed his eyes, burning from the lack of real sleep and overactive tear ducts.

Damn, he hadn’t cried over Sophia and the baby for a long, long time. He’d hardened that part of him, let the scar tissue form. Walking again, he let another metaphor create a mental image—this one similar to the rutted tissue that covered a spot on Gussie’s head, only his was over his heart. And like Gussie and her wigs and hats, he’d tried desperately to cover that scar with work and travel and solitude.

But she’d exposed his scar, like he’d gotten her to reveal hers.

He threaded his fingers through his hair and lifted his head from a study of the pavement to catch a glimmer of the morning sky.

Which only made him think about Gussie and how he should be waking up with her right now, holding her naked body against his, making love as the sun painted Nice a
portokali
sky. Maybe he should have told her that Sophia had taught him that word—or maybe she’d figured it out by now.

He shook off the sky, the poignancy of it too much for him right then, instead turning a corner to head back to the apartment where he would…what?

Apologize for being a dick?

And then what? As much as he wanted her in his arms, and his bed, Gussie was right about how it would only make things worse when this inevitably ended.

He swore under his breath and caught a whiff of rich coffee aroma floating over the morning air. Without thinking, he followed his nose to a small café that hadn’t quite opened its doors for the earliest of risers. He had to negotiate in broken French and slip a few euro, but a few minutes later, he sat at an outdoor table and sipped creamy
café au lait
.

From there, he watched the few passersby hustling to daybreak jobs and vendors carrying baskets of fruit and flowers toward Old Town for today’s market.

One passed him rolling a barrow of spices, a whiff of coriander, vanilla, and clove drop-kicking him into memories of the Karras kitchen. The sounds of Sophia’s mother and sisters chattering and cooking, music playing, sun pouring in through windows that looked out over the Aegean Sea.

His eyes shuttered with the echo of Gussie’s words.

You have a family in Greece.

And he missed them. Missed the colors and scents of Karpathos, the jagged terrain, the whitewashed buildings in the gleaming sunshine. He missed Papa Nico’s laugh, and Mama Christa’s nurturing. The music, the food, the whiskey on the patio…the wholeness of a family who’d taken him in and loved him like a son.

And yet, if she hadn’t insisted on being there when Tom was out of town, Sophia might still be alive and Uly…

No. It was easier to let them all go.

He looked up from his coffee to take one more memory-infused sniff of the spice cart, and as it moved, he caught a glimpse of a man across the street, scant seconds before he disappeared around a corner. As he rubbed sleep-deprived eyes, the image of another man flashed in Tom’s head. The same muscular build, the same dark hair cut short, a green T-shirt this time, but the same faded jeans.

What the hell? He shot up from the table so fast coffee splashed onto the saucer. Without hesitation, he darted into the street and around the corner. No sign of him. He paused for a second, peering up and down the road, then realized where he stood right now. Blocks from the apartment, if someone knew to take that next alleyway.

He jogged toward it, his heart rate already increased, his sixth sense on high alert. Nice was not a huge city, so what were the chances it
wasn’t
the same guy?

As he turned the corner to the street where their apartment was, his view was blocked by a vegetable truck rumbling down the street. Impatient, he darted behind it, half-hoping he’d see the man, half-hoping he was imagining this.

But there he was, walking briskly…
right toward their building
.

Tom stayed back, far enough away not to be seen, but close enough to get a good look at him. His features were strong and distinctive, his body language both ready and centered—military trained, he’d guess.

The man slowed as he reached the yellow stucco apartment building, crossing the street to lean against another building and look right up at the very balcony where Tom last stood with Gussie.

What the hell?

Tom waited, ready to run or pounce. But the man stayed perfectly still, his gaze locked on the balcony like some kind of stalker creep. Tom’s hands itched and his legs ached to have at the guy, but he had to wait to see what he was—

The sound of female voices floated down the street as Gussie and Alex stepped out of the front entrance of the building, arm in arm. Tom wanted to call to them, but as soon as the man saw them, he dropped into the closest alcove doorway and hid. Gussie and Alex walked up the street in the opposite direction, their heads close as they chatted.

Tom had no idea where they’d be going this early, but his entire being was focused on the man, who stepped back out into the street, took out his phone, and started taking pictures.

Bastard! Tom ran toward the guy from behind, careful not to make a sound on approach. Gussie and Alex disappeared around the next corner, just as Tom jumped. He whipped the guy around, slammed an elbow into his gut, sent the phone flying, and smacked him against the wall with a loud grunt.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Tom demanded.

Horrified hazel eyes popped wide open, and he fought for breath.

Tom pressed a little harder, ready to knee the prick in the balls if he had to. “Why are you taking pictures of them?”

He shook his head frantically, and for a second, Tom assumed he didn’t speak English.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he murmured, killing that theory. He not only spoke English, he was as American as Tom.

But that didn’t make him let up any pressure. “Then why are you following them?”

“I just…I wanted…” He closed his eyes. “I wanted to see how she turned out.”

Her? Who did he mean? Tom searched every inch of the guy’s face, digging for anything that would be a clue as to who the hell he was and what he was talking about.

“I had to…see her.” He wasn’t even trying to push Tom away anymore. “I had to.”

And then Tom knew exactly who he had pinned against the wall.

Chapter Twenty-two

Alex and Gussie wandered through the backstreets, taking the scenic route to what Alex liked to think of as The Best Bakery in the World.

“Stop for a second,” Gussie said, putting her hand on Alex’s arm. “Look, right there, down that incline to the corner. What does it look like to you?”

Alex frowned into the view, taking in the yellow buildings and low gray stone wall along the side of one road. It did look like something…

“Delfino Square!” She almost jumped up and down, thinking of the race route in Mario Kart. “This is totally like the first intersection right after the roundabout.”

“Exactly,” Gussie agreed, throwing an arm around her. “And up there is like that main road where it gets busy and I always, always get creamed.”

Just then, a bus rolled by, so close that Gussie and Alex had to step closer to the buildings. It turned the corner and headed for a large building surrounded by twenty other giant buses exactly like it.

“Jeez,” Gussie said. “It’s about as dangerous as Mario Kart, too. Next thing, they’ll be flinging banana peels at us from the…
gare routière
. Which I believe means
bus station
.”

“You’re getting good at French,” Alex said, fighting the urge to hold Gussie’s hand when the light changed and they could cross. “Do you think Mario Kart based that course here? I thought it was supposed to be Italy.”