by Tamara Lush
Her tail, her curvy hips, her curly blonde hair, her tiny waist and big tits. My dream girl, my mermaid. Then, the five points of the starfish on my shoulder.
With a quick motion, I flicked off the sweat that had nestled near my collarbone. Why the hell was I wearing only a pair of cargo shorts while sitting on a park bench in the middle of the night?
I looked down. Barefoot?
How did I get here?
Heart pounding, I wiped the sweat off my chest with my palm, my hand smearing across the hard planes of my pecs. I was working out more and more these days, hoping physical exhaustion would help me sleep. More sirens ripped through the night, and I tilted my head and inhaled deeply through my nose.
Was that...smoke?
Yes, smoke. And fire. Squinting into the distance, I saw an orange flicker coming from the strip mall near the park.
That's where the Marine recruiting center was, the one I'd walked into five years earlier. The one I'd wished a thousand times had never existed.
I launched to my feet as fear settled in my chest.
What the hell have I done?
Chapter 3
Tall, Dark, and Shirtless
TWO WEEKS LATER
JESSICA
I marched past the tall royal palm trees gracing the entrance to Palmira Island's most gorgeous stretch of sugar-white sand.
Eighty degrees and a cloudless sky—perfect winter weather, at least for a Florida girl like myself. The sight of those green trees against that impossibly blue Florida sky in February was enough to make my heart sing.
Scratch that. It's what used to make my heart sing. Now, I concentrated on surviving each day, each week, without losing my dignity, my temper, or my sanity.
Grimacing, I walked past a speaker disguised as a faux rock piping bubbly pop music for beach-bound tourists. I passed under a banner hanging between two palm trees, lightly swinging my oversized bucket filled with shovels, small rakes, and other tools. I felt like a kid, but I didn't give a damn.
Winterfest Sand Sculpture Contest.
This was my third time competing in the contest held for the island's business owners. Everyone had ten days to create a sculpture, and it could be as elaborate or as simple as the entrant wished.
The first few days were usually for practice, then the competition was on. I always created beautiful, detailed sculptures. Because of this, I'd won all three years and was determined to win again. Because of everything that happened over the past several months.
Despite everything that happened.
I strode across the boardwalk connecting the parking lot to the beach. When my feet landed on the fine, sugary grains, I kicked off my flip flops and tossed them in the bucket.
The beach was warm and comforting on my bare soles as I trekked toward the huge mounds of sand a short way off. The chamber of commerce had trucked in some two million pounds for the festival, and the piles were as tall as I was.
Perspiration accumulated at my temples and neck. It was way too hot for sculpting today.
I'd just check the sand mound, get a feel for what to sculpt, then return after sunset. My fingers itched to work the soft sand, but I'd do so in the cooler hours. I'd create something beautiful tourists would ooh and ahh over.
More than anything, I loved beautiful things. Life was so ugly.
Last year, I'd carved an elaborate replica of The Beacon, my family's art deco hotel. The year before, a sailboat. The year before that, a pod of dolphins. This year, I felt like sculpting a big hand with a middle finger pointing skyward, my message to the world. Of course, I didn't dare do that. If anything, I was always polite—too polite, and too much of a pushover, my sister claimed.
Well, this was the year that would change.
The entire sculpture zone was cordoned off from the public near the lifeguard shack, which meant it was monitored during the day. At night, the beach patrol kept an eye on it so drunk partygoers didn't wreck the sculptures.
Waving at a lifeguard in the distance, I ducked under a rope. Scanning the piles of sand, I spotted little flags with numbers next to each mound. Mine was station number four. I ticked off the numbers as my heels dug in the sand. The sculptor at station seven hadn't started yet. Neither had the person assigned to pile six.
My thoughts skidded to a stop as I approached station five.
There was a guy kneeling in front of the mound, and the sight of his bare muscular back, broad at the shoulders and tapered at the waist, made me grin a little. I'd sworn off men, but that didn't prevent me from admiring a beautiful thing from afar.
And he was an extremely beautiful thing. His sculpture would be right next to mine.
Maybe the Adoins was sent by the universe as inspiration.
I moved lightly, never taking my eyes off the guy. His skin was a warm bronze hue, and his knees sunk into the sand, showing off muscular thighs. He wore only blue surf shorts, and while I'd grown up on the beach, it was rare such a stunning specimen of manhood graced the sleepy Palmira shores.
If only I could remain invisible while sculpting my creation, free to admire this guy's beauty without having to make small talk, then life would be perfect.
I stopped swinging my bucket so the tools wouldn't make a sound.
A sketchbook sat in front of the guy, and he held a pencil in one large, masculine hand, drawing with broad strokes. I took a few more small steps toward my sand pile, conveniently allowing me to get a better look at the guy's profile. What I saw turned my grin into an open-mouthed gape.
No. It can’t be.
Inhaling a long, thin breath, I narrowed my eyes.
Is it possible?
I took off my sunglasses. Was it really him? Yep, it was. I could tell by the shape of his long, straight nose. And by the way his full lips pushed out slightly as he concentrated on the sketchbook. The memory of all the places those lips had touched made me shiver in the hot sun as if a single ice cube had been dropped down the back of my shirt.
"Jess, you're my first. And I'm your first and I don't want there ever to be anyone else."
It made me unsteady to recall his lazy New Orleans accent and how he'd whispered honey-sweet promises and dirty declarations in my ear all while he did wicked things to my body—things I'd allowed no one to do in the five years since.
Leo and his father had vacationed on Palmira and stayed at the hotel for two weeks. My mom and his dad were old friends. Old, good friends, apparently, because the minute they arrived, my mom miraculously became less strict. Leo and I had taken to each other quickly, talking about music and video games and movies. He'd been surprised that I liked Iron Man as much as he did.
We'd kissed on Christmas Eve—the second night we knew each other—and spent the next several days doing everything but sex. I'd been wary, but so excited. Leo never once tried to push me to do more than I wanted, and soon, I was ready to try it all with him.
A week later, it happened. Leo slipped into my room after the adults were asleep. We'd lost our virginity to each other—awkwardly. I remembered how I hadn't had an orgasm from sex like I had with his hands and tongue, but it was pretty wonderful, nonetheless. We'd kept having sex over the rest of the vacation, seemingly every moment we could steal away. Things quickly stopped being awkward. More like explosive.
"All of you, from your head to your toes and everything in between, is mine. You're mine, Jess. And I'm yours. Always will be, babe. Forever. I love you."
How supremely unfair. I hadn't felt this kind of adrenaline rush around any guy in years. Not with the couple dudes I'd gone out with in college, and not with Jacob, my ex-boyfriend. No, there was only one man who'd ever made me feel this crazy, and he was the one who'd disappeared after what felt like a soulmate connection. And now he was kneeling on the beach in front of me, looking hotter than any man had a right to.
Oh. My. God. Turn around and run. Fast.
I couldn't move. The sight of him riveted me in place. Instead of the cute, sinewy boy who'd
stolen my teenage heart that winter five years ago, this was a man kneeling before me. He looked like he'd been sculpted from fire—and sin. What the heck was he doing here?
My eyes scanned the beach. There was no one around except me and this newer, hotter version of my first love. Couldn't a rogue wave crash ashore and sweep me away?
He definitely hadn't had biceps like that five years ago. Or all those tattoos. His dark hair was short and severe now, no longer curly. His skin looked lickable and smooth, with only a slight sheen of sweat that made me want to glide my hands over his body and linger on every ridge and valley. Like I used to. When I knew him before, he'd looked like a sweet lead singer in a boy band. Now, those high cheekbones made him look a little feline and a lot arrogant. Hard and sexy, like he was used to taking what he wanted—to hell with everything else.
Or was I imagining all that?
I stepped back, poised to turn, but a curious voice inside me commanded me to stay. I hadn't thought of Leo in a long while, mostly because other, bigger tragedies had taken his place. And because what was the point of revisiting the past?
Slipping my sunglasses over my eyes again, I felt an uncomfortable awkwardness wash over me. What could I even say to this near stranger? I suspected, after all these years, we'd have nothing in common—if we ever had. We'd just been a couple foolish kids...with an insane amount of physical chemistry.
Tugging at the hem of my oversized T-shirt, I wished I'd worn something other than it and this old pair of jean shorts. As always, I wondered how I looked. Ugly? Fat? I was bigger than I'd been in high school. More womanly. Well, there was nothing I could do now unless I sprinted off the beach.
My heart thumped hard. With a pulsing, annoying cadence, my right eye twitched in time. Since everything had happened with Mom, my eye did that when I was stressed or anxious. It was unnerving how one tiny muscle could sense my emotions.
I had to say something to him, be polite and act like a mature adult, not a brooding, heartbroken teenager—which was what I felt like as I blinked several times as if to clear the sight of him out of my eyes. My sister was always telling me to put on my big girl panties and stop being a baby. "Woman up," Nicole always said. Well, this was the time for it. I was overreacting, anyway. Right?
I'd been staring at him for several moments. He hadn't seen me and appeared to be deep in concentration, which was fine with me. It allowed her more time to gawk at his hard body, which practically radiated testosterone. I needed to get a handle on what I'd do before he finally acknowledged my presence. I took a big breath, willing myself to stomp down the excitement of seeing him in the flesh.
It was only February, and I was determined to have a better year than the last.
But seeing Leo again almost guaranteed life was about to get very, very complicated.
Chapter 4
Lucky For Me
LEO
I ran my fingers through the warm sand, scooping the grains into one cupped palm, then letting them pour into the other.
My shoulders, normally somewhere near my ears with tension, eased downward with each rhythmic scoop. This was the best I'd felt in months, though I still didn't feel all that great.
With both hands, I piled the sand into a little mountain in front of my knees, then picked up the pencil and began to sketch an idea for a sculpture. With each pass of the pencil, my muscles loosened. Maybe Palmira's warmth had been exactly what I needed to help erase the pain of Afghanist—
Oh, screw that. I was running—from my past, and possibly, probably, something so hideous, I didn't want to even contemplate the consequences.
My hand went instinctively to my beard, but my fingers found only the smooth skin of my chin. I'd shaved and cut my hair right after that night in the park, right before I packed my shit into the truck, strapped the Harley onto a trailer, and hauled everything to Florida.
My father's plans to open a business on Palmira had been well-timed, at least. Leaving the luxury of my family's Garden District mansion was for the best, even if it meant being alone with tortured thoughts for weeks.
I preferred being nearly a thousand miles from everyone in Louisiana and their happy, well-adjusted, socialite families. I didn't need a reminder of how much shame I could potentially bring to my family name back in New Orleans. I'd wanted to annoy my old man, not ruin him.
Well, here I could zone out on the beach and no one would notice. Hell, I'd been doing it all afternoon as I moved sand around, stopping only to swim and float in the crystal-clear water.
At least that soothed my soul: the blue Gulf of Mexico.
Something about hearing the ocean instead of city traffic—or worse, bomb blasts—made me nostalgic for that previous trip to Palmira five years ago. If only I could return to the past, to before joining the Marines, to before Afghanistan.
I wanted to be the happy eighteen-year-old on a Florida beach on New Year's Eve again, kissing a beautiful girl without a care in the world. In the moments when I treated myself kindly, I almost allowed myself to believe I could reclaim that innocence.
The rest of the time, which was most days, I knew otherwise. I was too damaged and jaded to feel like that again. Too physically and mentally ruined.
Still, I had to try like hell not to think about that previous trip. Or Jessica. Memories of her had come roaring back when I first saw the island's tall palm trees and drove by her family's hotel. What had happened to her? Was she still here?
I smoothed the sand with my palms and patted it down, praying an anxiety attack wasn't imminent. Those episodes always lurked in the shadows now that I'd gone off my medicine. Taking a deep breath, I filled my lungs with ocean air. Just breathe. That's what the therapist had told him. Breathe. I closed my eyes, and sunshine touched my cheeks. Breathe and be in the moment.
The dual lilt of shorebirds and surf was interrupted by a sudden crunch of sand. My eyes flew open, and I saw a woman standing about six feet away. I froze, and a hum fluttered through my body.
Shock. Happiness. Sadness.
"Jess? Jessica Clarke?" It was as if my thoughts had summoned her to me. I immediately regretted my questioning tone. The last thing I wanted was for her to think I'd forgotten her. It was the very opposite.
She stared at me, her beautiful pink lips slightly parted. Did she not remember me? The idea cut through me. What we'd shared was incredible. Or so I'd thought. Deep down, I'd been hoping to run into her. And I'd wanted an amicable reunion at the very least. Was that possible?
With shaking legs, I rose and approached. I brushed sand off my thighs and noticed her mouth set in a narrow, hard line.
"Hey. Wow. It's been a long time, Jess."
She took a step back. "Leo Villeneuve."
Still so damn gorgeous. Her hair, which had been chin-length as a girl, now flowed over her shoulders in tawny-blonde curls. There was a lightness in my chest that hadn't been there moments before, and my mouth was suddenly dry.
She was so scorchingly hot, it made me tongue-tied.
My eyes lingered on the soft curves of her breasts barely hidden under a shapeless pink T-shirt. She wore tight jean shorts, and it was difficult for me not to stare at her tan legs and remember how they'd tangled perfectly with mine. She'd filled out beautifully. Before, she'd complained about her body, but I'd always felt her ample curves were the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
With her long, wild hair and flushed cheeks, Jess was my fantasy come to life. My mermaid girl.
I stopped myself from grunting with need like a caveman. Even though I'd been a Marine, deep down, I was a southern gentleman. Or I wanted to be. Around her at least.
"Leo Villeneuve," she repeated. Her voice was flat. "I didn't think I'd actually lay eyes on you again in my lifetime."
I grinned, thinking I might as well be flirtatious to hide the anxiety lurking in my mind. No way would I let her see how nervous I really was—about everything.
"Lucky for me you were wrong."
I held out my
arms, making sure to twist the right one so she wouldn't immediately notice the latticework of scars running across my skin. If only she wasn't wearing sunglasses. I wanted to see her eyes. I'd never forgotten the way they pierced my hormonal teenage heart.
"Nice tattoos."
Was she being sarcastic?
She dropped a bucket of tools on the sand and slipped her sunglasses atop her head. Her sea-glass green eyes were every bit as flawless as I remembered. My stomach clenched.
"You look amazing."
I immediately regretted blurting those words when I saw the disgust on her face. Or was it something else? I couldn't tell. With no makeup, she was fresh-faced and young-looking—or maybe it was just that I felt old next to her—but her eyes, and the way her mouth quirked into a droop, revealed a hint of sadness. There were dark circles under her bottom lashes.
"Thanks." Her eyes skittered around the beach, toward the water, and I noticed she didn't return my compliment. "What...are you doing here?"
"My family's business bought The Daily Bread. I'm opening a bakery here in the next month or so. I've entered the sculpture contest. Thought I'd do a little early advertising while I waited for contractors to do some work."
I studied her as she inhaled a long breath, then exhaled for just as long. She said nothing, so I decided to fill the silence.
"I've been wondering what happened to you."
I hoped to come off as casual, as if it was no big deal we'd just run into each other on the beach after five years apart. After I'd spent time in hell. After...
She smirked. "Have you now?"
"Yeah, 'cause we're practically neighbors. The bakery's only two blocks from your hotel." I flashed her a big grin. "Does your family still own it? I was thinking of stopping by."
Jess nodded, but still wasn't smiling. "Right. You're a big thinker. Had a lot of plans five years ago, if I remember right."