Villa Blue (3 page)

“Help me how?”

“By jumping off this cliff with you.”

She took a step back. “I’m not jumping off of a cliff. Are you crazy? Never mind, obviously you are. But I’m not. I’m not jumping off of a perfectly fine cliff.”

“All right. Then you can watch.” Aiden tugged off his shirt, stepped out of his shoes, tossed his sunglasses on top of the heap.

Refusing to give him the satisfaction of studying the strength of him, she shifted her gaze from his lean muscles back to the horizon that, by comparison, was unfortunately dull.

“You sure you don’t want to come? It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t feel like having fun.”

“Want to talk about it instead?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good. This would be better anyway. Let me ask you something,” he started, taking stance next to her. “The person who called you earlier. Would they think you’d ever jump off a perfectly fine cliff?”

She thought about it—her ex-husband learning she’d done something dangerous—and a smile hinted like a defiant whisper on her lips.

“Isn’t that reason enough?” Aiden asked, reading her.

Feeling her heartbeat for the first time in months, she surprised herself by joining her hand with his and stepping out of her shoes. “What am I doing? I can’t do this.”

“Yes you can.”

“Are you sure this is safe?”

“No,” he replied. “We go on three.”

She heard the count as she thought of the years spent politely smiling through dinner parties hosted by fellow doctor’s wives, riding the spinning hamster wheel of small talk. She thought of the years spent doing what she was supposed to do, according to others. She thought of the woman her husband had left her for, the woman now carrying his baby.

That woman had life inside of her.

And what did she have inside of her besides a big boulder of artist’s block weighing down her world? Would she sink to the bottom of the sea because of it? she wondered as she heard the final count and found herself soaring through the sky with a man she’d just met.

Chapter Two

Submerged in the depths of the bay, Ivy kicked her way up to the surface where she sucked in a gasp of air. “Holy crap, that’s cold.”

“Refreshing. Feel better?” Aiden’s face was covered with glinting drops of the reflective ocean, somehow looking even more handsome.

“Strange idea of refreshing,” she told him through teeth that began to chatter. “And I’ll get back to you on the rest once my senses return. I think my fingers are numb.”

He gave her a little nudge and they began swimming toward the sandy crescent that cradled the bay. The touch was a gentle form of checking on her—it wasn’t pushing or pulling her in any direction, but rather the easy reminder of a comrade.

As they reached where tourists sprawled on colorful towels and played in the shallow bay, Ivy expected applause for the death-defying plunge. But the only sounds were of waves lapping at the beach, boats sounding their way into the harbor, seagulls squawking demands for food, and that collective chatter of beachgoers. Either no one had seen them or no one cared terribly much, because their approach was broadly ignored.

When her frozen toes reached hot sand, she thawed enough to realize she actually did feel better. Alive. Her lungs and heart had skipped breaths and beats as she’d fallen through the air, and that feeling that had welled in her chest while talking to Greg had been replaced by a potent rush of adrenaline. Realizing that, she tilted her head up to the soothing glimmer of the sun to soak in the warm and glorious sensations.

She may not have encountered a magical muse on her trek into town, but she had come across an adventurous—if not a tad dangerous—man who had somehow managed to get her to jump into the Pacific Ocean.

Goosebumps covered her arms and she felt along them with her chilled fingers. She’d done something adventurous, she thought with a soft smile. Just what had come over her?

When she looked down at the sand that coated her feet, she realized her white linen shirt that had been baggy was now clinging tightly to her petite figure, sheer and showing the lacy bra beneath it. She immediately tugged at the fabric to pull it away from her chest.

“I’ve seen you jump off a cliff. No need to be modest now,” he told her as he shook water from his hair then raked a hand through the thick waves, pushing it back.

His face was striking; his features were hard and angled but there was something boyish about his grin, something unpredictable about his mouth, like it could take you places with one spontaneous breath.

The pulse pumping through her body provided a healthy dose of heat.

Maybe it was the fact that she’d done something so out of character, so far outside of the scope of who she was, that the adrenaline was altering her perspective of him. Or maybe it was clarifying it? She was open to either perspective—after all, she had the heart of an artist and could appreciate contrasting views—but, she reminded herself, the man was still a complete stranger.

“I don’t usually show my bra to men within fifteen minutes of meeting them,” she replied as they made their way toward the sidewalk.

“Good to know. So if you don’t flash men—at least ones you don’t know—and aren’t into adventure—usually—what do you do around here, Ivy?”

A thin twinge vibrated through her at the casual sound of her name rolling off his tongue, like the single string of a guitar being strummed.

“I’m an artist,” she said softly, as any rigid declaration would’ve felt false. Though she’d been painting for almost her entire twenty-six years, the announcement of it was new, the singular identification of it still stiff like the bristles of a new paintbrush, so she spoke tenderly, easing in.

“What style?” Aiden asked as he approached a yellow striped cabana with a sign declaring golf cart rentals.

“Impressionism. Where’re you going?”

“Monet, Renoir, Manet,” he nodded. “To rent a golf cart. Looks like best way to get back up the hill to our stuff, right?”

“I don’t have a wallet with me,” she said, realizing how poorly planned it had been to jump into the ocean. Not that she’d ever plan to do such a thing. “I don’t suppose you do?”

“Nope.”

The messy bun on top of her head started to feel like a heavy, matted mess. “You have to give them a credit card and driver’s license to rent a cart. We can just walk. It’s a ways but—”

“Men don’t walk long distances in wet jeans.”

She eyed him as she pulled the band out of her hair, releasing the tangle of it to fall down her back. “You told me not to be modest with a wet white shirt on,” she pointed out as she squeezed water from the ends of her hair. “So you should have no trouble walking up the hill in your underwear.”

“Not wearing any.”

She fought to keep eye contact with him rather than scan down the length of him to his wet jeans where only the body of man was beneath. Then she gave in and decided, what the hell, and let her eyes take the downward journey as she slowed her steps and Aiden continued walking toward the rental cart cabana.

Stepping off to the side and watching from just out of earshot, Ivy ran her hands through the knots of her hair as she appreciated the sturdy slopes and lines of muscle that made up the man.

Aiden James… An interesting man, she decided. She’d say ‘sexy’ but it was too trite a word for someone so vital. She watched his movements, posture, gestures, like any painter would. He was handsome, sure, but there was a presence to him that palpitated. A very attractive presence.

She wondered, idly, what was beneath those layers of attractiveness. What did he daydream about? Did he ever sit still and ponder or wonder or wish?

Doubting it, as the man seemed more driven toward action, she twisted her hair back up and fastened it with the band. It would be interesting though, to know what he thought about. What he wanted or strived for.

As he approached her with two matching sweatshirts and a key with a plastic dolphin keychain attached to it, she let out a quiet chuckle. Of course he’d rented a golf cart and, it seemed, bought clothes without having any money or identification. He had, after all, managed to get her to take up cliff jumping. He either had magical powers or he was comfortable persuading people into giving him his way. She figured on the latter and wondered why that added to the appeal rather than detracted from it.

“How’d you talk your way into that?”

“Kindness.”

“Excuse me?” she asked.

He motioned toward the number twelve golf cart they’d been assigned, then handed her a gray hoodie with “Parpadeo Island” printed in red block letters across the chest. “Kindness. I was nice to the guy and he was nice back.”

“Kindness.” Ivy frowned as she repeated the word. “You bought me a sweatshirt with kindness?” Puzzled by the experience, or, more aptly, the man, she pulled it over her head and was immediately grateful for what felt like a cozy blanket against her icy skin.

“You looked cold,” he pointed out then tugged on his own sweatshirt. “So I asked for them. You don’t get what you don’t ask for.”

She supposed he was right but as her mind processed what he said, she began to question when last she’d asked for something she wanted. She’d asked for a few of the art pieces collected during her marriage, that was something. But that was a physical thing, and her mind wanted to search for a comparison that dove deeper, a time when she’d expressed what she needed as a human, a woman, an artist. And she couldn’t think of one single time. It didn’t mean she’d never asked for what she wanted, but rather she couldn’t remember when last she had.

Frowning through the introspection, Ivy sat on the vinyl bench seat in the cart and absently reached for whatever she’d sat on. Pulling out the drowned phone from her back pocket, she cursed.

“What’s wrong?”

Amidst the cheerful shouts of Frisbee-throwing tourists, she held up the black device and let it drain of seawater.

As Aiden was now zooming the cart up the neatly paved road, his glance was quick. “Just a phone, right? Easily replaceable.”

Ivy thought of all the texts with her ex as they worked through the terms of their divorce, the texts from her mom and sister asking when she was going to do the “right thing” and return to Carmel. The frayed ends of her former life had been in that phone.

“Pull over.” She pointed to a slim turnout along the harbor. “Right there.”

“You can try to soak the water out by putting it in a bowl of dehydrated rice,” Aiden suggested. “Never seen it work but I’ve seen it tried by one of my brothers. Of course I’ve also seen him sink a fishing boat so take the advice for what it’s worth.”

When the cart came to a stop, she stepped out without a word, walked barefoot to the edge, and heaved her phone out into the blue abyss, got back in the cart, then said, “Okay. We can go now.”

Instead of pulling back onto the path, he stared at her. “You know, I didn’t know you an hour ago but I thought I had you figured out. Yet, you keep surprising me.”

On a shrug, she said, “I paint and sleep.” She wanted to hiss at the idea she wasn’t doing either very successfully, but instead she let out a slow, steady breath of annoyance. She could’ve done without the news from her failed marriage that her ex was happily remarrying. It was petty, she knew, but her own happiness—her art—was on the verge of failing and the contrast was lowering. “I’m not terribly surprising.”

“Yeah, you are,” he told her as he pressed on the pedal and zipped off. “People don’t generally surprise me, but you do. I like it.”

Who was this man? she wondered, eyeing him. Everything about her day—including him, especially him—had been unexpected. She’d woken up and anticipated to drudge through her usual eight hours of painting, ten if she was starting to crack through the artist’s block. Then a string of details had strung her afternoon into a knot that tightened and tugged in her stomach. And this man, this strange, handsome man had done little more than take one thread with his attention and had managed to loosen the snarl.

“Our stuff isn’t too much further,” she told him, still examining the streaks of sun and shadow that crossed his face. “Just head up that road to the right.”

He did exactly that with what she could only think of as affluent ease. He looked like he belonged everywhere in the world and nowhere in particular. “What brings you to Parpadeo Island?” she asked then paused. “Is that a stupid thing to ask after we’ve jumped off of a cliff together?”

His eyes, clear as green glass, smiled when he glanced at her, causing little tingles of heat to dance to life on her cool skin.

“I’m here because I’ve never been here before,” he told her as if that clarified all in great detail.

She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “Well that explains it,” she lobbed back then looked out to the line where the coast of California was a slivered mirage in the distance. It didn’t particularly matter that he wanted to curb the conversation. She was done putting effort toward understanding people. She’d spent her life trying to understand and please her family, then later her husband, and the only thing she’d gotten in return was a hollow tunnel buried deep in her heart, preventing her from truly feeling whole.

But Parpadeo was changing that.
She
was changing that, she knew. She was beginning to feel the quiet murmur of life pulse through her more and more each day. More and more each minute, she corrected.

Because Aiden had nothing more to say, she wished to be back on her perch, painting. There was something new humming through her, some kind of raw newness, and she wanted to express that feeling, putting paint to paper, giving life to what she felt within.

This was it, she realized. She’d been lonely without this feeling, battling the ultimate block of creativity. But this flutter, this rush of energy, this was it.

And, she thought in near desperation, she needed to put that energy to use and paint until her fingers were numb and her body gloriously drained.

She would get Aiden up to Villa Blue, leave him with Donatella, then she’d return to her easel with fresh paper, Ivy decided, her mind plotting the points to return to her art, her purpose.

“Need to jump off the cliff again?”

“No, definitely not,” she said as she surfaced from the microcosm of her mind. “I’m content actually. Yes,” she nodded, figuring that was the best word for it. “Content.”

“We could do a lot better than ‘content’ but your eyes aren’t leaking anymore so I guess it worked.”

Ivy squinted against the glare of realization. “Funny, I don’t think I’ve cried since I got to Parpadeo, until today.”

“You’re telling me that just my mere presence brought tears to your eyes?”

She heard the tone of tease in his voice and tossed it back. “Oh, I bet you’re used to making women cry.”

“Why do you say that?”

She’d said it offhandedly, joining in the banter, so the sincere question made her wonder what she had actually meant. Caught off-guard, she grinned. “I honestly don’t know.”

“It’s all right. I’ll let you make it up to me,” he told her easily.

She felt the fast flutter of flirtation and, uncomfortable, adjusted against the vinyl seat. “I hardly think I have anything to make up for. You’re the one who made me cry.”