Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (13 page)

She washed and dried a load of clothes while she organized her essentials. Her mind remained in a whirl about the day’s events and Brock’s physique.

Even when he was cowering from Princess, he was irresistible. Then it hit her. She hadn’t seen her cat all evening. Princess usually hid herself away during storms, but the storm had passed.

"Princess..." No meow. No sign of her. "Mama's home, baby. Did that storm scare you?"

“Princess.” That was odd. She usually came when Sam called her. Maybe she'd gotten out somehow. Sam searched all of Princess’s favorite hiding places on the main level and didn't find her. She went upstairs and called again. Still, Princess was nowhere to be found.
 

She looked in Brock's room and called again. She heard a faint mew. She kept calling and followed the sound which led her to the closet. She opened the door, and out flew her kitty, who bolted straight for the bed and crawled beneath it, her big amber eyes peering out at Sam.

"I'm sorry, baby. I didn't know you had gotten stuck in that closet." Sam looked in the huge walk-in where Brock's clothes hung, taking up a fraction of the space available. He had a few pairs of shoes and a suitcase on the floor with socks and underwear hanging over the edge of it.
 

Sam tried to coax Princess from under the bed, but the cat wasn't having it. Sam stood and looked around the room. It felt strange to see the room so clean and empty with only a few of Brock’s things scattered about.

On his bedside table, he had a picture of an elderly woman with a huge ruby ring on her hand. The woman's eyes reminded her of Brock’s. She picked the picture up and inspected it. That had to be his mother or grandmother.
 

Tucked into the edge of the mirror above the dresser was a black and white photograph of a boy and a woman. The woman wore an identical ring. Sam looked closely and could tell this was a younger version of the same woman. The boy had Brock's familiar lopsided smile and dimples. He was a cutie. She flipped the picture over. It was inscribed, "Always remember you're magical. I love you. Gran.” How sweet.

A notebook rested on the dresser. The pages were yellowed by time. She thumbed through the notebook, flabbergasted. He wrote poetry. Lovely poetry. She skimmed through a few poems about picturesque landscapes before coming to one titled—Gran.

I walked through your garden today

The roses poked their thorny arms
 

Through the blanket of snow

As if reaching toward heaven

Awaiting your warmth
 

Your nurturing voice

How frail the leafless branches

Of the cherry blossom tree

Their skeletal arms raised

Questions unanswered by grey clouds

A ruby feather drifted on the wind

Swirling wingless and trembling

Afraid to come to rest

As if it knew
 

This world was too brittle
 

For a single flame

Your fragile cairn would crumble
 

Beneath the weight of a song

My fractured heart

On the brink of ash

She stared down at the page, the emotion palpable, his grief, how much he missed this woman he called Gran. Sam understood all too well, having lost both parents as a child.
 

She hungered to read more of his heart and motioned to turn the page, but hesitated, sensing she wasn’t alone.

IT WAS THREE in the morning, and Sam was most likely sound asleep. He hoped. Brock crept up the stairs.

When he reached the top, he noticed the bedroom lights were on. Sam was not in the guest room as he’d expected. A shadow moved across the floor of the master suite. He craned his neck and peered in. She sat on the edge of the bed with his poetry book in her hands.
 

His pulse quickened. He never allowed anyone to read his poetry journal. Such an invasion of privacy. “You have no right.”
 

Forget trying to mend things. All the way home from the hospital he’d told himself he would apologize for being such a wanker earlier. Severe pain never brought out the best in him. But he was no longer in pain, nor was he convinced she deserved an apology.

He stormed over to her and snatched his poetry book out of her hands. “No right at all.”

Her mouth was agape and her eyes wide. “I...I...erm...I was looking for my cat.”

“Inside my notebook?” Looking for her damn cat. Likely story. Lack of privacy had caused him to leave Cardiff. Privacy was the one thing he wanted most right now, and she’d yanked it away from him the first chance she had. The idea of installing a deadbolt on a bedroom door in his own home disgusted him, but apparently, that’s what he’d have to do.

Her expression was sympathetic. “You’re poetry is beautiful. The poem about your grandmother—“
 

God, he hated that sort of pitying look. Of all the poems for her to read, she had to hone in on one of his most personal. How dare she. “That is a very personal poem. You had no business reading it, or any of them.”

“I’m sorry.” She shifted side so side, peering around him.
 

Bollocks. He was towering over her, his knees almost touching hers. He backed up.
 

She pushed herself up from the bed and stepped around him with her eyes downcast. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again as she looked at his bandaged hand. “Are you all better?”

“No. I’m not. I found a snoop plundering through my things at three a.m. after I’d been at the hospital getting fourteen stitches in my hand.” He balled his good hand into a fist. His injured hand was so numb he had no idea what it was doing.

Her red-rimmed eyes met his. Blimey. She was about to cry. He steeled himself. Waterworks would have no effect on him at the moment.
Cry your guilty little tears, woman. Your wounded, pouty ways give me all the more reason send you packing.
 

She touched his arm with her fingertips.

He jerked his arm away. “Leave.” It took all the resolve he had to keep from shoving her out the door.

She walked out of the bedroom. Her cat sprang from under his bed and followed her. He slammed the door behind them so hard the picture over his bed wobbled from the vibrations.

Why had he agreed for this nutter to stay in his house for six weeks? He’d never last that long.
 

A saw buzzed outside Sam’s bedroom door and woke her up.

Ted’s voice boomed in the hallway. “You’d better let me do the cutting.”

“Thanks, mate.” No doubt whom that accent belonged to—Sir Grumpy Sex on a Stick. Well, he was grumpy last night. He sounded almost chipper this morning.

She felt around on the nightstand for her watch. Six o’clock in the morning. Damn. She’d only gotten two hours of sleep. If that.
 

The banging of a hammer added to the noise in the hall. Her eye twitched with every percussive blow. Rarely did she get up before ten. This six o’clock biz wasn’t going to cut it.
 

She untangled her legs from the hot pink, cotton maxi-dress she’d slept in—make that napped in. It was one of the few articles of clothing she’d had a chance to wash and dry. She stood and glared at the door.
 

Trying to sleep in all that racket was a waste of time, but there was a big comfy beach outside. If her plan worked, soon the sound of waves would drown out the buzz of power tools. She tugged the top sheet off the bed and grabbed a pillow.

When she opened her bedroom door, Brock stood in the hall, sleepy-eyed, sipping a cup of coffee in blue, board-shorts. Dear Lord, he had the most muscular calves she’d ever seen. His white t-shirt hugged his pecs. He gave her a nod of hello, no smile, no words. Guess he was still pissed. So was she. Damn it. He could have held off on renovations a few hours.
 

Ted looked up from his task of measuring a thick piece of plywood and smiled at her. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty. I brought doughnuts. On the kitchen counter. Help yourself.”
 

Doughnuts. Yum. “Hey, Ted. Thanks. Slave-driver has you working early today.” Brock looked at her briefly, his face—a blank sheet of paper. His eyes moved back to Ted.

Ted’s focus ping-ponged from Brock to her then back to Brock. “Nah. I offered. I ran into Brock here at the Circle K this morning. He said y’all had some damage. I thought I could knock out a quick patch up job on the roof before my date with Mazy.”

Brock narrowed his eyes at Ted. “Mazy, the drummer?”

“Yeah. That’s right. I’d doubt she’d call it a date though. She’s so damn touchy about dating verses hanging out with a friend. I’ve been working on getting back into her good graces for three months. Yesterday, she finally agreed to meet me at Dairy Queen. I’m calling it a date. I don’t care if she refuses to kiss me or not.”

Hush, Ted. Please, stop talking before you blow my cover
.

Sam walked toward the stairs. “I don’t know, Ted. Maybe you’re just not her type. I wouldn’t push it.”

“Not her type?” Ted gave her a look like he couldn’t fathom any woman not being attracted to him.
 

He was a good-looking guy—broad shoulders, square jaw, lean athletic build, an absolutely adorable smile. He had a wholesome quality about him with just enough bad-boy to make him sexy and just enough awkwardness to make him lovable. If Sam were younger, she’d probably go for him herself.

“What’s her type?” Ted looked bewildered.

Brock broke in, “Have you ever seen her with a bloke?”

Ted scratched his head, “You mean like on a date with another guy?”

“Yeah.” Brock had an annoying little smirk on his face.
 

“Not for a couple of years. What are you trying to say?” Ted shoved a pencil behind his ear and faced Brock head on.
 

“A couple of years is a long time. Shower before lunch, mate.” Brock smiled at Ted then walked into his bedroom and shut the door.

Sam decided to duck out as well. With a shrug to Ted, down the stairs she went, pillow and sheet in hand.

Ted called out to her. “Why are you dragging that sheet around like Linus?”

“You’re too noisy. I’m gonna try to catch some z’s on the beach.”

As she walked toward the ocean, munching on a doughnut, she noticed the next door neighbor had dug out a lot of sand when he recently put in a pool. The dunes that now surrounded his property built up a wall of sorts.
So that’s what made the carport flood. Run-off from this guy’s house.
 

The ocean looked muddy, which didn’t surprise her since heavy storms had a tendency to churn up the sand. However, it was a bit cooler than she’d expected. She should’ve nabbed a blanket.
 

She searched for a semi-private area—slightly hidden in the dunes—and found the perfect spot. Folding the sheet in half, she spread it out on the sand and wrapped up in it like a human burrito. With the pillow tucked beneath her head, she listened to the waves and the rustling tall grass. The salty breeze chilled her face, the only part of her body exposed to the elements.

Sleep at last. She felt herself drifting off as she imagined her pillow was Brock’s chest—cozy and comforting, his mouth shut, no snippy words leaking out at all.

When a flock of shrieking gulls woke her, the sun was high in the sky, and her face was hot. She’d slept much longer than she’d intended. Unwrapping herself from the sheet had its challenges, but she finally wrestled herself free and stood. She shook out the sheet, stuffed the pillow under her arm, and headed back to the house, hoping Ted and Brock were finished playing with their noisy man toys.

As she climbed the back stairs, she saw Brock relaxing in the hammock, reading a book.
 

Darn it. There was no way she’d be able to avoid him.

She climbed up to the porch with the sheet dragging behind her. Brock looked up. His eyes widened, as a goofy grin spread slowly across his face. Was he happy to see her?
 

Wait. He was chuckling softly, trying to hide his mouth with his book. Did she have rat-nest hair or sheet wrinkles on her face? Probably.
 

She looked through him as if he were made of cellophane. Any man who’d laugh at the way a woman looked when she first woke up wasn’t worth a hello. She went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she saw what Brock was laughing at. The right side of her face was sunburned. Her neck and body were normal, but her face was two-toned.
 

Oh no, not today.
Bikini Quartet had a gig at the movie studios in Wilmington later that afternoon, playing in a background bar scene for a new TV show, and she looked like a freak.

Hopefully, the makeup artist would be able perform a miracle.
 

LEAH STARED AT something on her laptop with her back to the door when Sam entered the restaurant. Sam had taken a shower, thrown on a sundress and flip-flops, and walked from her house, carrying a small suitcase that held performance clothes. Her hair was still dripping wet.

The restaurant’s AC caused her to shiver as the cold air hit her damp skin. The aroma of Jack’s scrumptious stuffed flounder made her mouth water. She sneaked up behind Leah, ready to pay her back for scaring her with that sax honk the night before, but when she got close enough to see what Leah was reading so intensely, Sam froze. She recognized the website—Oldie but Goodie—as belonging to Myrtle Pinkerton.
 

Darling Myrtle had set up a blog post and a voting poll titled—Do You Think Sam and Brock Will End Up Lovers, Friends, or Enemies? Forty-five percent had voted friends, twenty percent enemies, and thirty-five percent lovers.

Sam leaned her mouth close to Leah’s ear and tried to make her voice sound like Mazy’s, “Looks like most everyone has voted.”

Leah jumped and laughed, eyes never leaving the computer screen. “Myrtle’s good at rounding everybody up on short notice.” Leah turned around and gasped when she saw Sam. “I thought you were—“