Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) (17 page)

Willow laughed softly, but deep inside, she couldn’t argue that. The disappointment that Nick Hershey hadn’t been her first had been real and long lasting. So long lasting that she’d damn near made it to thirty as a virgin.

Willow pushed back the swing and stood up. “I’m going out, girls.”

* * *

“Are you naked?”

For a second, Nick wasn’t sure if the question came from one of the characters living in his head or not. A loud knock on the villa door followed, giving him the answer. The answer, in fact, that he wanted most.

Willow.

“Define naked,” he called, pushing himself up from the sofa and glancing at his faded boxer shorts.

“That would be man parts visible.”

“Hang on.” He glanced around, spying the worn camo pants he’d had on earlier, so he stepped into them and added a black T-shirt. There, fully dressed.

He put his hand on the door and imagined what he’d see when he opened it. “Are
you
naked?” he asked hopefully.

When she didn’t answer, he turned the knob and slowly opened, feigning—sort of—disappointment at the sight of her fully clothed in jeans and a tank top.

She held out the jump drive like a lifeline.

“Did you read it?” he asked, closing his hand over hers, the softness of her skin sending a surprising skitter of anticipation and warmth through him.

“Every word.”

He opened the door a little wider and eased her in, unwilling to let go of her hand. “Perfect timing. I’m writing now.”

She glanced at the coffee table, taking in the open laptop, the messy notebook, and the bottle of Bud. “What happens after that fight with the insurgents?”

“I don’t know.” He stroked her knuckles. “I’m throwing things at the wall, but nothing is sticking.” He inched her closer, fighting the urge to pull her all the way in and enjoying the mix of panic and desire on her face as they got closer. “But here is my muse.”

She smiled. “I don’t know if I can help with what happens next, but I can tell you that I loved what you wrote.”

“That’s music to my ears. Even the one that doesn’t work.” He leaned down and let his lips brush her soft, sweet-smelling hair. “You could curl up next to me and help me think things through.”

He could have sworn she shivered. She didn’t answer right away, but gave him a long look, her eyes smoky and gray in the dim light. “All right. And I’ll live completely dangerously and ask if you have another beer.”

“Absolutely. This place is fully stocked.” He took a few steps toward the kitchen, then paused, reaching for her again. “Come on.”

“You worried I’ll read what you’re working on while you’re gone?”

“I’m worried you might leave while I’m gone.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Nick.” Unless he was brain-dead and his woman radar was non-functional, the message came across crystal clear.

“Must have really dug those chapters,” he teased, bringing her all the way into the kitchen.

“I did,” she told him, leaning against the counter. “Although they scared me.”

He gave a questioning glance over his shoulder from the fridge.

“War scares me,” she explained.

No shit. “It should. Did you eat dinner yet?”

“I grabbed something before I left.”

He imagined her finishing his chapters, snagging one of her roof tiles, and rushing over here. The idea did crazy stupid things to him.

Because she wanted to talk about the book? Or because she wanted to talk to him?

He twisted the top off the cold Bud and handed it to her, letting their fingers brush again. “I skipped dinner, so I should be starved,” he said. “But I lost track of time again.”

Lifting the bottle, she toasted him. “I was glad you let McManus live. I was really worried he wasn’t going to pull through.”

Nick felt the blood drain from his face, exactly the way it had drained from McAllister’s body that day. But they’d saved him. Pulled “Preacher” out of a wrecked Humvee and got him on the dustoff with the medics. “He almost didn’t,” he said gruffly.

“I thought it wasn’t autobiographical,” she said.

Shrugging, he ushered her back to the living room sofa, where they sat down together. “Parts of it are, of course,” he admitted.

“The good parts.” She tipped the bottle to her mouth, sliding a sharp look to the side. After she swallowed, she put down the bottle and kicked off her sandals, turning to him. “The parts I like the most, I’m guessing.”

He took a swig of his own beer, not wanting to talk about the book for a change. Instead, he wanted to brush her corn-silk hair off her face and let his fingers graze her smooth skin. He wanted to lean in and make out and drink up this sexy woman who showed up at his door like a surprise angel.

“Then you aren’t going to like what I’m working on now,” he said instead.

She inched toward the laptop, turning the screen so she could read. “What’s happening now?”

“Debriefing and a strategy session about what to do with Char—Christina.”

She sipped again, nodding and glancing at his words, making him wonder what she thought as she read.

“Gannon knows what he wants to do with her,” she said wryly. “Why don’t you let them get to it?”

“Screwing the embedded journalist a SEAL saved while taking her to safety is generally frowned upon in the Navy.”

She inhaled slowly and then put the beer down. “Did you?”

He felt himself flinch and heat rise to his neck. “This isn’t autobiographical, Willow.” The words ground out through gritted teeth. “But, no, we did not break any—too many—regs.”

She took another long drink of beer, then asked, “Were you in love with her?”

He turned to stare at the computer. No, he hadn’t been in love with Charlotte. But maybe he could have been…if she’d lived long enough. “I was not,” he said definitively. He cared for her, absolutely. She amused and amazed him, but she would never have been right for him. That didn’t mean he didn’t regret the hell out of what happened with her, though.

“Was she in love with you?”

Lust, not love. She’d said so herself. Swallowing, he stayed silent on her second question, too, as a guilty man in an interrogation. Maybe if one of them had been in love, the story ending wouldn’t have been so dismal. It would have been…tragic, in the sense that it somehow made sense. Instead, it was just a shitty decision.

Made by him.

“Nick? If you don’t tell me, I’m going to imagine the worst.”

“Imagine it. She’s dead.” He closed his eyes and leaned back. “That’s not the story I’m telling, Willow.”

“But that’s the one I want to hear.”

He puffed another slow breath through rounded lips, long and noisy. “No, really, it’s not…that interesting. It’s not…”

“Happy? I realize that, Nick. But I still want to know what happened.”

“I’ve never told anyone the…truth.”

“Really?” She barely whispered the question. “You mean you’ve lied about what happened to her?”

“Oh, no, that’s not what I mean.” Everyone knew what happened to her. They just didn’t know his role. “If you knew the story, you’d see there’s no reason to lie, but no reason to tell every person I meet.”

“Nick.” She took his hand. “I’m not every person you’ll meet.”

He looked at her, the truth of that weirdly comforting.

She added a squeeze to her touch, increasing the comfort level. “Deep, dark secrets always hurt to share. That’s why we keep them in the deep dark.”

He regarded her for another minute, taking some time to appreciate each pretty feature, but getting lost in her eyes, as usual. There was something there…something hidden that he very much wanted to uncover.

“Do you have a secret down in the deep, dark basement, Willow?”

For a flash, he saw her think of it, a millisecond of an expression, before she looked away, and he knew the answer.

“Hey, Willow.” He dipped his head a little so she was forced to look at him. “If you tell me your deep, dark secret, I’ll tell you mine.”

She laughed. “Sorry, my secret is not deep or dark. It’s ordinary, and inconsequential.”

“Then you wouldn’t keep it a secret.” When she didn’t answer, he touched her chin and turned her face back to him. “Come on. Let’s share. It’ll be intimate.”

She closed her eyes when he whispered that word. “God, you’re good.”

“So you promise?”

“Only if you don’t…”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he assured her. “I won’t throw it back in your face. I won’t make you sorry you told me. And I know you’d promise the same thing to me.”

She smiled. “None of those are what I was going to say, but that’ll work.” She slid her bare feet up on his lap while she settled back into the cushions on the armrest. Resting the beer bottle on her stomach, she eyed him from under her lashes. “You first, Lieutenant.”

Shit. Now he had to tell her.

But deep inside he knew he’d wanted to tell her everything.

Maybe she knew, too.

Chapter Fifteen

Nick leaned his head back and closed his eyes, looking relaxed and at ease. But there was nothing relaxed about his grip on Willow’s ankles. His fingers were strong, sure, and tight enough to let her know he was bracing for his confession, whatever it might be. From her vantage point against the armrest, she watched him, slowly moving her beer bottle to the coffee table so nothing could disrupt her view of his profile.

Had she ever noticed that his nose was not quite perfect? Or that his jawline slanted ever so slightly downward? Had she ever noticed his temple had the tiniest blue vein, one that pulsed lightly right now? Did that mean his blood was stirred?

By the touch of her skin or…the memory of another woman…or the pain of his past?

Maybe she’d come over here hoping for a different kind of intimacy, but right at that moment, she was as deeply invested in this relationship as if they were making out and stripping off clothes. Sinking deeper into the sofa cushions, she studied the shadow of his whiskers, the thick cords of his neck, and an Adam’s apple that rose and fell with a strained swallow. And waited, a little breathlessly, for his secret.

“She should never have been there once, let alone twice,” he finally said. “But Charlotte Blaine did not understand the meaning of the word ‘can’t.’”

Charlotte Blaine. She had a full name now. Willow mulled it over for a second while Nick took a long pull on his beer. She sounded smart. Adventurous. Razor-thin, of course. A woman who blazed into war zones probably didn’t go to battle with German chocolate cake on a regular basis.

Don’t hate her, Willow. She’s dead, and you’re on the sofa with Nick.

“On her first trip, she got embedded with an Army unit, some boots on the ground in Baghdad. We had to come in and do some backup in a pretty bad situation with some well-armed insurgents. It wasn’t until we got them out of the thick of it that we found out the Army unit had an embed.” He glanced at her. “Embedded journalist.”

She nodded. “I’m picking up the slang and shorthand while I read.”

“Too much of it?” he asked.

She smiled, always touched when that hint of vulnerability shadowed his eyes. “Just right.” She wiggled her foot. “Keep going.”

Another swig, then he dropped his head back and looked to the ceiling, remembering. “She became my problem from the very beginning.”

“Just like in the book.”

He nodded. “I can’t say I hated it, because she was easy on the eyes and…droll.”

So that hadn’t changed from real life to the book, either. The character of Christina had a dry wit and…what had he written? Eyes “the color of aged whiskey”? A color that had inebriated him.

“But she didn’t like to follow orders and…” He closed his eyes. “She liked me. A lot.”

A hot little ball of
jealous
rolled around in her stomach. “What’s not to like?” she teased, hoping her voice came off lighter than she felt.

It must have, since the tiniest smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “You manage to find things.”

“Keep talking. So, did you kiss in the observation post like they did in the book?”

“Yeah.” He turned and narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t go quite as far as things did in the book.”

“And the whole river thing happened?”

“Pretty much as written,” he acknowledged.

So, there’d been a heavy make-out session. “And then she left? She had to go back to the States?”

“Yep. Back to New York.”

That’s where “Christina” had gone in the last chapter, after some blazing-hot kisses, and not-so-empty promises to someday see each other again.

“But she comes back,” he said softly.

The present tense threw her. “In the story or…”

He turned to her. “She came back in real life, and…I haven’t decided yet, in the story. It complicates the whole insurgent-spy plot, which, I’m here to tell you, did
not
happen in real life, but I like the idea of it for the book.”