Barefoot in Lace (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 2) (9 page)

He could never return that level of selflessness. All it did was make him realize how selfish he’d become.

“I’m doing what anyone would do,” she finished.

He had to laugh. “Well, considering no one else has stepped forward and made the offer, that’s not true.”

“Have you asked?”

“To be fair, no.”

“There may be plenty of people willing to take her while you travel.”

“But you were the one who said it first.” The one who cared the most. “And you didn’t know my sister and barely know Alex.”

“But I know how she feels.” Gussie looked out the windshield, thoughtful for a moment. “I wasn’t too much older than Alex when I was facing long, sad days in the hospital with my head bandaged and doctors talking about grafts and transplants and
dense masses of granulation tissue
.” She gave a wry smile. “Med-speak for scar. There were days, and nights, and months, frankly, when I wondered if I could ever be normal again. And I think that’s probably what Alex feels right now, desperate for normalcy.”

He hadn’t really thought of Alex’s situation like that, but it made sense. “You think that’s what she’s going through? Not grief?”

“Yes, grief. Mourning, anger, fear.” She turned her green gaze on him. “Didn’t you, when your parents died?”

He thought back on the days, the mourning and grief so quickly replaced by a low-grade anger that never went away. “I had a sister to take care of,” he said. “And maybe I didn’t make Ruthie feel so great about that situation, either.”

She tilted her head, a question in her eyes. “Then why would she consider you as a guardian? Maybe you were the best brother in the world, and she wanted nothing but that for her daughter.”

Shaking his head, he couldn’t agree. “She knew my lifestyle and schedule.”

“She also knew
you
.”

“Not that well since Alex was born. I’d been scarce and…” Miserable. Again, there was too much she didn’t understand. “If I had been such a great caretaker, would my sister have fallen into the sack with the first guy who showed real attention to her and gotten knocked-up at eighteen?”

She laughed a little. “Does anyone even say ‘knocked-up’ anymore? She made a mistake, Tom, and that ‘mistake,’ which some would call a
choice
, ended up being a beautiful girl, and clearly, they had a great relationship, so she must have been a terrific mother.”

He closed his eyes. “I feel like I’m to blame for that mistake.”

“I doubt you could have put a chastity belt on her, so you should let it go. As far as Alex, we’ll—
you’ll
—figure it out.”

But he’d caught the slip.
We’ll
figure it out. We’ll.
We
.

It had been a long time since Tom had been a “we.” Once, years ago, he had known the pleasure of being a “we” and an “us” and a…couple. Without thinking, he looked at his arm and remembered his vow.

“Hey,” she said, turning the tables by being the one to lift his chin and force his gaze to meet hers. “I bet I can convince her to go to France. Then your problems will be solved.”

Hardly. Lost for a moment in her eyes, he stared, inching over the console to come closer, wanting to end this conversation with a soft kiss. But before he could, she suddenly turned to get the keys out of the ignition, and his lips landed on her cheek.

And still it felt good. Just not good enough.

Chapter Seven

Gussie’s cheek burned from the touch of Tom’s lips, even after she’d unlocked the warehouse door and led him into the dark space. Her body’s reaction to the soft pressure of his lips was almost as surprising as her impulsive suggestion that she take care of his niece while he enjoyed the south of France.

No, her body’s reaction was no surprise. Everything about the man attracted Gussie—his hands, his kiss, his laugh, his attitude, and even his talent. And her offer to help him out? Maybe not that surprising, either, but her open admission about those dark days in the hospital had been a little unexpected.

She had to remember this was the man with a secret talent to find vulnerabilities. Sure hadn’t taken him long to find hers.

“This doesn’t look like a warehouse,” Tom said, checking out the dimly lit entryway.

“It’s really inexpensive, unfinished office space that we got supercheap,” she explained. “We needed somewhere to store all our stuff, which grows exponentially with each wedding. Come and see, but be warned, we don’t pay for air conditioning except in the front area, so it can get hot in the back.”

“Where’s the gazebo?”

“Gazebo
pieces
,” she reminded him. “In the way back, so follow me.”

Unlocking the door to their suite, she switched on the lights and gestured him into the first room.

“There’s central air here,” she told him. “So this is where we keep all the things that are affected by humidity, like fine linens, table settings, canopy covers, and delicate sheer netting and tulle. Tables and chairs are in the next room. Lighting, chandeliers and torches after that. Then, miscellaneous weird things like columns and archways, a chocolate fountain, two fire pits, and the occasional pink cherub, which is from a wedding we’d rather not talk about.”

Tom laughed softly. “That poor photographer.”

“She was fine,” Gussie told him. “Our usual photographer, Maggie, is great that way. She does whatever we want and goes with the flow and makes the brides feel like they have a say…” Her voice trailed off as she threw him a look that he completely understood.

“So, in other words, the opposite of me.” He gave her a sly smile. “Hey, you wanted me.”

When he smiled like that, she sure did. “And today, I want your muscles.” Did she ever. “We have to drag the gazebo parts out to a loading dock. Once we have them out there, I’ll bring the van around, but we have to come and go through this front door, which is only one of the inconveniences of this space.”
Oh, God, stop chattering, Gussie
. It was just that he seemed to set her on fire with every intense look, making her neck and scalp tingle.

But that could be the heat.

“This way,” she said, determined to stay all professional and not melt from the temperature
or
the man.

She gestured toward a narrow hallway, aware that he was close behind her, probably checking out her ass. She threw a look over her shoulder, confirming the suspicion.

He looked up and gave in to a sheepish grin. “Hey, what can I say? First time I’ve seen you in jeans.” He came a little closer, not touching but close enough that she could feel his body warmth and smell that sandalwood scent. “Looks good,” he whispered.

She slowed her step enough that he continued right into her—although he certainly could have stopped. Instead, he purposely let their bodies touch. “Feels good, too,” he added, just before backing away.

“Be careful, Tommy. You might start enjoying the wedding assignment.”

He put both hands on her shoulders and held her, sending a wave of chills up her back despite the lack of air conditioning. “Too late. Enjoyment started last night. Now I’m having fun in the wilds of…where are we again?”

“Fort Myers.”

“Yeah, that. Well, if I weren’t here, I’d be in Majorca.”

“So boring,” she teased with a flip of her wrist. “And where is that, anyway?”

“It’s an island in the Mediterranean off the coast of Spain.” He was so close, his sigh ruffled over her cheek. “I was supposed to be on a shoot there until Tuesday, when I would have been headed, via a yacht with some friends, for Nice. I’ve already missed Barcelona, Paris, and London.”

“I can’t even imagine living that life.”

“Yeah? I can’t imagine
not
living it.”

In the back room, she tapped on the light to reveal the deconstructed gazebo. “Sorry, but today you’re living the manual-labor life. If you get the great big sections, I can handle the smaller boxes.”

“Why don’t I handle everything, and you get the van pulled around? Show me where I have to take them.”

“This way.” She rounded the corner to the farthest wall of the warehouse and headed to the garage-style door that unlocked only from the inside. “So, do you travel constantly or do you get time to go home and veg?” she asked.

“I veg in penthouses and yachts or beautiful homes overlooking the sea.”

At the door, she crouched to try to turn the manual garage-door latch. “But when do you get home?” As usual, the metal stuck, making her cringe as she used all her strength to turn it.

“Here, let me.” He was next to her in an instant, his hand on the metal lever.

“It’s the humidity.” She backed away to give him a little space. “It always sticks.”

He grunted as he tried to twist it, the sound echoing in the little room, making her aware of how close and warm the quarters were. As he leaned over, his hair fell across his face, hiding his eyes, giving her a chance to admire the streaks in the strands, like stained mahogany with highlights of amber. His hair was so thick and silky, her fingers itched for another touch. It would be soft and tickly, brushing through her fingers, over her body, down her—

“I don’t have one.”

Caught off-guard and in fantasy land, she had no idea what he meant.

“A home,” he supplied when she didn’t answer. “I don’t technically
live
anywhere.” The metal latch snapped open, the sound cracking like an exclamation point to his statement.

“What?”

He stayed crouched in front of her, face-to-face, inches apart. “I’m on the road at least three hundred and forty or fifty days a year. The rest, I simply find a place to sleep.”

“And someone to sleep with?” The question escaped before she could bite her lip and stop it.

He looked up, humor sparking his blue eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“I wondered, is all,” she admitted. “I mean, does ‘always alone’ mean you never have…real relationships?”

His expression grew slightly darker and more serious. “Every relationship is real. It just doesn’t last.”

She tapped his arm, the Greek letters hard to read in the dim light, but they both knew they were there. “So your warning label comes with an expiration date, too?”

He smiled, and then he stood, pulling the whole door open with him, letting a wave of hot tropical air into the space. He reached for her hand to ease her up, silent, but she couldn’t help feeling like he wanted to say something. So she waited, feeling the heat bounce between them, despite the open door.

“Yes,” he finally said. The single syllable, nearly a whisper, fell over her like one drop of warm rain. “But aren’t you better off knowing that from the beginning?”

“The beginning…of what?”

He smiled, coming closer, close enough that he had to hear the thump of her heart and rush of blood in her veins.

He’s going to kiss me.
And she was going to kiss him right back.

He stroked her wig, pushing the hair over her shoulder. “You know, I wish you didn’t wear these.”

Damn it. Why bring that up now? “To be perfectly honest, once they know why I wear them, most people don’t mention it again.”

“I’m not most people.”

No kidding.
“Let’s do the gazebo,” she finally said, pivoting and heading away to some safer place in the warehouse.

Back in the airless room where the gazebo was stored, they went to work hauling the crates from the shelves out into the hall. On the fourth trip back in, Tom started on the smaller boxes, easily hoisting them and carting them out, pausing to swipe at a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

He stared at the next stack of boxes, plucking at the white T-shirt that already stuck to his chest.

“Want me to get some cold water?” Gussie asked.

“In a sec.” But before he lifted the next box, he grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt and yanked it over his head in one move. And there were those abs, that chest, and the swirly dragon tattoo again.

“Where’d you get that ink?” she asked, trying to cover up her pathetic staring.

He pointed to the head of the dragon, right over his heart. “This, in Malaysia.” He trailed his fingers over his chest, lifting his arms to better show the body of the beast riding his ribs. “This, in Thailand.” He turned so she could see his back, which was almost completely covered with the dragon’s tail. “This is all mostly Australia and New Zealand.” He turned again, showing a different swirled design on his right hip, mostly hidden. “Africa and Europe are covered here.” He finished the turn and pointed toward the sleek muscle by his hipbone that led to something hidden by his jeans. “North and South America are for another time.”

A slow trickle of sweat meandered down her neck. “Oh. I get it. One for every continent for the man with no home.”

She stole another look at his bare chest, envious of the freedom he must feel, sweat dampening her midriff, under her bra, and down into her jeans, which hid no continental tattoos but were feeling…restricting.

His chest rose and fell with a slow breath, perspiration glistening on his beautifully cut pecs, the dampness highlighting each muscle and the dark circles of his nipples. He lifted one arm, making his chest tense as he swiped more hair off his face, revealing soaking-wet temples.

“Bet all that hair is hot,” she mused.

“Not as hot as that lid you wear.” He took a few steps closer to her. “I’d cut every inch of mine if you’d wear yours naturally.”

Her next breath became almost impossible to take, and she practically swayed as she stared at him. Heat prickled her skin, her throat went dry, and suddenly every limb felt extremely heavy.

“Why would I do that?”

He got closer still, his gaze slicing through her, a predatory, demanding, irresistible set of blue eyes gutting her. “Why wouldn’t you?”

She put her hand on her chest, where it stuck to the skin.

“I need water,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” Forcing herself to leave, she headed a little too quickly to the room where they kept a small refrigerator stocked with water and soda.

She still had a few stars popping behind her eyes, but moving down the hall—and away from Tom—gave her a chance to breathe. The windowless table-and-chair room was nearly pitch black, and every bit as hot, so she didn’t make it worse by turning on the overhead fluorescent light. Instead, she worked her way around six-feet-high stacks of chairs and rows of folded tables to the mini-fridge in the back.