by Erika Kelly
But, holy cow, with his thick, powerful muscles, bronze skin covered in ink, shoulder-length dark hair that curled at his neck, and a strong jaw covered in scruff, he’d turned into every woman’s bad boy fantasy come to life.
“What is all this?” Gray jerked his chin toward the mass of white, blush, lavender and a blue so pale it looked gossamer.
She tried to hide the panic from her voice. “Wedding gowns.” Assaulted by a tumult of unwelcome emotions, she stood up in a rush. She needed him—all of them—gone. “You—”
“Wait, we ran over your wedding dress?” Amelia sounded horrified.
“Not mine. I’m a designer. I’ve got a show in six weeks.” Six weeks.
But Martine is coming on Monday.
Oh, God. She couldn’t fix this much destruction in three days.
Wrong. She would, because the alternative was unthinkable.
“Fuck,” one of the guys drew out the word like a balloon leaking air.
“Well,” Gray said. “Let’s get this Jeep out of here and see what we’ve got.”
A rush of energy had her practically tackling him. “Absolutely not. Don’t move anything. I have to see what I can salvage before we back over the dresses.”
“Good point.” He turned to his friends. “Guys, let’s pick up whatever—”
“No.” They all froze at her sharp tone. “I need you to go outside and wait for the paramedics.” At their perplexed expression, she explained, “There are beads and crystals and panels of lace…fine details that I need to handle on my own.” Material created from Luc’s heritage atelier and fabric mill. Nothing she could ever recreate.
Okay, that’s enough. She had to stop catastrophizing. You can’t fix anything if you’re freaking out.
“We can at least pick up the dresses,” Gray said. “Get them out of the dust.”
The careless son of a billionaire, who spent his life chasing waves and snowstorms, Gray couldn’t begin to understand that he’d destroyed not only a year’s worth of work but the launch of her career.
“No. Please…just leave.” No matter how in control she needed to be, nothing could stop the trembling from deep within. “I have until Monday to make it look like your Jeep didn’t mow down my gowns.” At their stunned expressions, she eased back. “I’m sorry, but this is my first show, and I’ve got the backing of the biggest bridal designer in the world. I swear to God, I don’t want to lose it in front of you guys, but this is my life’s work, so please, please, just go. I have to figure things out.”
“Yeah, sure,” one of the guys said. “Come on.” Two of them headed out across the wreckage.
Amelia stood there, slack-jawed, looking destroyed. “I’m so sorry. I…” Her jaw snapped shut. She reached into the Jeep and dragged out a slate gray leather messenger bag.
A five-hundred-dollar Longchamp. It looked totally out of place with these laid-back surfers.
The woman pulled out a crumpled receipt and wrote something on it. “I’m Amelia Webber. This is my contact information. I’ll pay for all the repairs. That includes your house, supplies, and whatever your dresses need.” With a plea in her eyes, she said. “Anything I can do to help, I’ll do it. I’m so sorry.” She stood there a moment, looking helpless, and then turned and moved carefully out into the bright sunshine.
Only Gray remained. Stroking his scruff, he examined the tires. “I’m sure the car’s got a jack. Instead of backing out over them, we can jack it up and let you get the dresses out.” He turned those bright blue eyes on her, and a shudder of recognition traveled through her. “That sound good?”
God, she couldn’t stop shaking. This time, when her phone vibrated, she glanced at the screen. How many times had Luc called? She knew he was going out of his mind with worry, but she couldn’t talk to him until she had a handle on the situation.
With the others in the front yard, huddled together and talking quietly, and Gray opening the back of the Jeep and leaning inside, she had a moment to really take in the damage.
Destruction.
Dust swirled in the slanted morning sunlight, and sparkling glass, beads, and crystals lay scattered across the wood floor. A fine layer of debris covered the dresses heaped on the kitchen table--dresses far too fragile to clean. The dresses under the Jeep were a total loss. The tires had shredded the delicate fabric. Luckily, the fender stopped right before the couch, saving the dresses draped over it. They were covered in particles from sheet rock, though. Picking it out would tear the delicate material. Still, she’d try. She had to try.
Gray slammed the trunk, wielding the tire iron like a trident. “Called for a tow. Better to have a professional lift it. He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
She gave him a skeptical look. Nothing on the island moved that quickly.
He shrugged. “I know a guy.”
Of course he did. Everyone loved the Bowie family. All four brothers were elite athletes blessed with good looks, ridiculously cut bodies, and the kind of confidence that silenced conversations when they entered a room.
He looked at her a little too long—his expression revealing nothing—until a smile softened his features. “I can’t believe you’ve been here a year, and I never ran into you.”
Choosing a house to rent on this beach for her year-long seclusion hadn’t been random. Both her ex-boyfriend and Gray’s families had houses here, and she’d come with them on vacations for many years. She might have godawful memories of her hometown of Calamity, Wyoming, but she had the best ones in this place. “I’ve been working.”
“Right.” A hand on his hip, like a marauding invader, Gray surveyed the living room. “I’m going to send the others back to the house. While we wait for the tow truck, we can take all these dresses”—he gestured to the kitchen table—“to the bedroom.”
“Gray, I’m going to be dead honest with you. I’m about two seconds away from losing my shit. Literally, the only thing between me and a total meltdown is the absolute false hope that I can still somehow make my Monday deadline. So, I’d be really grateful if you’d leave right now and let me get a handle on this disaster. Can you do that for me, please?”
He stood there, this mountain of a man, with his potently masculine features and that same aura of confidence that had always allowed her to lean on him at the lowest points of her childhood. She knew what he wanted. To be her hero. To fix her problems. That’s our pattern. He’d been the one—not the school, not her mom, not her ex—to knock her bullies into next week.
That pattern had ended the night of the prom, when he’d walked away from her. She’d vowed to never be anyone’s pity project again.
Her phone’s screen lit up again, and then, just to make him leave, she held it up. “This is my backer. I was talking to him when your friend drove into my living room, so he’s going to want to know what happened. He’s a total drama queen, and when I tell him what happened, it’s a very big possibility he’ll cancel my show.”
“Don’t tell him.”
“He hired me out of fashion school, included me with his family over the holidays, and backed my show even after I quit on him. I have to tell him.” The adrenaline rush was subsiding, allowing the slow tide of fear to roll in. “He’s sending someone on Monday to pack up the dresses and ship them. And, unless you have a super power beyond being unnaturally good at everything you do, there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to have…” She glanced around the room, making a quick count of the unaffected dresses. “More than ten dresses ready to go. And that’s not a show.”
He stalked right up to her. “Trust me?”
She’d never known her father. Her mom was a good person whose lust for life meant a lot of lonely days and nights for Knox. Other than her ex and Gray, she’d had no friends growing up. And she still had few…okay, fine, no friends. So, it was safe to say, trust didn’t come easily to her.
But she had trusted this man. “Not since the day you walked out and never looked back. Goodbye, Gray.”
Cool morning air whipped through the open windows of Gray’s rental car, bringing the scent of the sea and a hint of plumeria. The road followed the coastline, nothing but white sand and swaying palm trees.
He got a flash of Knox’s ruined dresses, and cold dread prickled his skin, making him sick to his stomach. What the hell did we do to her?
As she’d surveyed the damage, she’d looked utterly stricken. He would fix it, though. Whatever it took, he would get her back on track.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her comment. Not since the day you walked out and never looked back. She’d meant to deliver it cold and flat, but he’d heard that edge of hurt. Seen it simmering in the depths of her hazel eyes.
It shocked the hell out of him to find out he’d hurt her. What had Gray ever been, but her informant, her therapist, her window into her messed up boyfriend?
Of course, he’d thought about her over the years. You don’t break a habit that easily. He’d checked out her social media sites enough to know she’d left town not long after him, moving to New York City months earlier than she’d planned. He’d figured, if she could put Robert behind her, then she wouldn’t have spared him a single thought.
To have hurt her, though, meant he’d mattered.
He steered the car into her driveway, pleased to see the contractor he’d called had boarded up the living room window and cleared the yard of debris. Shifting into Park, he got out. It didn’t sit well that he’d hurt her by walking away all those years ago, but this time…Jesus, this time he’d fucked up her career.
The Jeep had taken out the front door, so he knocked on one of the remaining support beams. When she didn’t answer, he walked around the side of the house, across a row of uneven stones lodged into dirt, and landed in a tidy plot of green grass. A rickety, waist-high wooden fence separated the lawn from the beach.
He climbed the cement porch steps and rapped on the back door, turning to face the thrashing ocean.
He could see why she’d chosen this house. Surfers lined up, waiting to hit those juicy waves. Man, they’d had some good times on this beach. Back in middle and high school, they’d spent their vacations surfing and hanging out. He smiled at the memory of Robert thinking he could teach Knox how to ride. As if he didn’t know she was the kind of person to learn by experience. It had taken her awhile, but she’d figured it out on her own. She’d been fearless, graceful, and athletic.
Damn, he’d loved her. Watching the waves—he estimated about twenty footers—ten feet taller than yesterday’s—he reached behind him and knocked again. In a few days, he’d be riding fifty-foot monsters. Excitement slammed him. He couldn’t wait to get to California.
If they’d stayed friends, would Knox be going with him? Hell, would she have gotten the invitation for Titans with him?
Nah, she’d always wanted to be a fashion designer. She wouldn’t have time to enter competitions on a whim like he did. She’d never have become part of his—as his brothers liked to say—posse. She had a big life, just as she’d always wanted.
Or she’d been about to have one—until they’d destroyed it.
Shit. He’d fix it. He’d bet his Burton custom snowboard that she’d spent the entire day and well into the night assessing the damage, writing up a list of supplies. She’d know by now exactly what she needed to repair the dresses.
“Come on, Knox. Answer the door.” He needed to tell her about the conversation he’d had.
Right then, one of the surfers leapt to her feet on her board. The bright red bikini stood out against tan skin. Knox. He knew the way she surfed. He knew everything about her.
At least he once had. Seven years was a long time.
Folding his arms across his chest he watched her board flip back and forth. She rode with the same fearless energy she’d always had. She was so fucking hot.
Old feelings stirred, and he shut them down. Don’t go there, man.
She rode the wave to shore and then jumped off. Gathering her long hair, she squeezed it, wiped the ocean water out of her eyes, and then reached down to pick up her surfboard. Carrying it under one arm, she sashayed up the beach, features tight in concentration.
Watching her from afar…it was all so familiar. The terrible ache of wanting someone he couldn’t have, the tightening of his skin as she approached, the compulsion to do something—anything—to make life better for her.
He couldn’t think of a time she wasn’t alone and fighting.
He caught the moment she noticed him. Her easy gait stiffened, but she ignored him and went straight for the outdoor shower just steps from the house. Leaning her board against the wooden frame, she turned on the faucet and stepped under the spray. When she tipped her head back, all that dark hair fell in a glossy sheet down her back. He’d always loved her body, lean, toned, with that sexy round ass and perfect, lush breasts.
Desire struck up a low hum at the base of his spine. Jesus, not now.
Weirdly, she’d never known it, that she was smoking hot. Because of the way she’d been bullied, she’d believed she was lowbrow. But he’d seen the way their classmates looked at her. She’d been cool and aloof, mature well beyond her years. They’d made fun of her because they’d envied her.
After a quick rinse, she patted the wall for her towel.
She wouldn’t find it. Her eyelids flew open to find him holding it out to her. She snatched it. “Come on, Gray, I’m not in the mood.” She slid her feet into the sparkly black flip flops she kept inside the shower stall.
He noted the slight tremble in her hands. She was panicking. “Is it worse than you thought?”
She nodded, turning away from him to let her hair fall forward over one shoulder. She patted it with the towel, then sent the terry cloth sailing over the wall to dry in the sun. Grabbing her board, she climbed the porch steps.
He followed, too aware of all that bare skin, the tiny freckle on the inside of her thigh that he’d always wanted to kiss. “How bad?”
“There isn’t a single chance in hell I can have twenty-five dresses ready by Monday. It’s over.” She crouched, peeling back the ratty welcome mat to retrieve a key. Unlocking the door, she stepped inside, blocking him from following. “Thank you for calling that contractor and getting the tarp on the front of the house, but I swear to you, Gray, there’s nothing more you can do. Please, just go.”
“Not until we talk.”
“I can’t talk. If I talk, I’ll fall apart. Look, bad timing, bad situation, whatever, I just don’t have it in me to catch up with you or hang out with you or anything but try and fix my life.”
“Fashion Institute of Technology, critic award winner for the Future of Fashion, job at the House of Bellerose Atelier in Paris, and now preparing for your first show in fashion week.” He gave her a look that said, See? “Thanks to social media, we’re all caught up. Now, we can get to the reason I’m here.” He stepped forward and, where he expected her to back away—being six-four had its advantages—she blocked him. “Look, I did this. I’m going to help fix it. Please let me in so I can tell you about an interesting conversation I had last night.”
Whatever he’d said hit like a slap to her face, because it reddened. “You didn’t drive over my dresses, Amelia did, and as much as you want to help me, this time you just can’t.”
“Why don’t you give me a chance?”
Casting her gaze to the ceiling, she drew in a deep breath. “Look, I know you feel responsible for what happened but, unfortunately, in this situation you don’t know my business, so you’re just going to have to believe me when I say there’s nothing you can do to help. If you really want to make it up to me, please give me a chance to regroup. If I think of anything I need, I’ll get in touch with you, okay?”
Nope, not okay. “I can’t fix your dresses, and I can’t get you in the fashion show, I get it.” He stepped into her kitchen, with its faded yellow Linoleum floor and bullet-shaped refrigerator. “But how about a swe
rve?”
Something shifted behind her eyes. He caught a whiff of hope. “Swerve how?”
“I happen to know two brides with unlimited budgets who’d like you to make their wedding gowns.”
Hope crashed and burned on the landscape of her expression. “That’s not what I do. Look, thank you for trying. Really. But I’m making a name for myself in couture, and my only hope at this point is to get another job with a designer. Start all over again.”
“When you say start over…?”
“I was about to debut my own designs. If I go back to work for someone, I’ll be creating collections for them. It’ll take years to build back up to having my own show.”
“Is there any chance making couture dresses for my future sisters-in-law would fast-track it?”
She eyed him warily. “A wedding gown is special, Gray. They shouldn’t have to wear something of mine because you feel sorry for me.”
“Feel…what? No. This has nothing to do with me. I told them about the accident, and they looked you up online. They want your dresses.”
“Okay, okay.” With a palm to her forehead, she turned away from him. “It’s hard for me to think right now. I still haven’t processed all that I’ve lost.” She shot him an apologetic look. “I’m grateful for the offer. I really am, but…I’m just having a hard time wrapping my head around everything.” She paced across the small kitchen and stared out the window, though he doubted she saw the beach. “My only thought is how I can resurrect the show, my career. I keep racking my brain, trying to think—what if I talk to some of my design school friends? We could all put some dresses together for a show. I’ve got at least ten that are okay. We could create a group collection. Or…what if Luc could get me into someone else’s show—like a little side thing?” She drew in a breath, lowering her gaze to her feet. “I mean, even as I say it out loud, I know how ridiculous I’m being.”
“Your backer, is that Luc?”
She nodded, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so defeated.