Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides)

by Roxanne St Claire

  She would simply treat him like she would a gallon of mint chocolate chip. Ignore, retreat, replace with something more appealing. Like…like…God, nothing was more appealing than that man.

  Misty fished through a bag the size of Willow’s laundry sack and pulled out a file, smacking it on the table. “You’ll love these,” she said to Willow. “Mama O’s a genius.”

  “Mama O?” Holy hell. By the end of this ordeal, she’d be face-first in a gallon of mint chocolate chip.

  Misty flipped open the file folder.

  Her mother’s sketches were so damn…awesome. And unique. And beautiful. And created for a girl who…well, who could carry off the name Willow.

  “Holy cow,” Gussie exclaimed, turning the paper to face her. “That is absolutely stunning.”

  Misty smiled, her angular, sharp features stark and clean and beautiful. Willow didn’t want to hate her. That emotion was small, and she was above that kind of petty jealousy. Usually. Sometimes. Maybe not right now.

  “Now you understand the sand palette,” Misty said. “Is that color not to die for?”

  Nick leaned forward and picked up his third scallop. “The only palette I understand is the one in my mouth. Did you make these?” he asked Willow.

  She shook her head. “Our chef is amazing.”

  Misty clapped her hands with the satisfaction of a person granted a brilliant idea. “Here’s what we’ll do,” she announced. “I’ll go over the setting and fashion with these two”—she pointed to Ari and Gussie—“and, Nick, you and Willie go meet in the kitchen or whatever and figure out the menu.”

  “Willow,” she corrected.

  “Good idea,” Nick said at exactly the same time.

  Misty looked relieved. “Honestly, don’t take this personally, but food is the part I’m the least interested in, and you two, well…” She lifted a shoulder. “You have a lot in common. You know each other, and you both love…food.”

  Willow opened her mouth to protest, but Nick was up in a flash. “Let’s go.”

  For one long second, Willow debated which temptation to give in to—an hour with Nick Hershey, or the need to punch the client in the nose.

  Once again, Nick won.

  Chapter Four

  The kitchen was chaotic, the dining room filling up with the lunch crowd, and all of the Casa Blanca offices were in use. After Willow gathered up a few files of menu selections and price lists, she was forced to take Nick outside and sit at a table near the kidney-shaped resort pool.

  She talked too much, fanned herself too often, and did her level best to keep the conversation professional and avoid any rehash of their meager past. To his credit—maybe to his relief—Nick seemed to go along with that.

  Until he got through the third sample menu, then pushed it away, leaning back on the two legs of his chair again, a position so natural she imagined he took it at every table. This time, the move inched him out from under the shade of the umbrella, allowing sunshine to pour over his tanned face.

  “I don’t have a clue why she asked me to do this,” he said.

  “To be in her wedding?” Willow asked.

  “To look at menus. I know why I’m in the wedding.” He sounded a little sad, or mad, she couldn’t quite tell which, but there was definitely some emotion there.

  “Because her brother doesn’t have a chance of getting home in time?”

  He flipped the menu card around on the table like a pinwheel, drawing her gaze to his strong hands and blunt fingertips. “Slim to none, I’d say.”

  “It’s very nice of you to do this for him.”

  “Least I could do,” he said. “Jason Trew saved my ass—er, life.”

  And what an ass, er, life, it was. “That’s good.” She gave a quick smile at how lame that response was. “I mean, obviously.”

  He came down on the two front legs of the chair, slowly and softly this time, his dark gaze slicing her. “So how have you been for all these years?”

  So much for keeping things professional. She silently thanked him for not rubbing in the fact that she’d basically lied to him on the beach. Would he believe her if she said she’d been about to tell him how they knew each other when Misty arrived? Didn’t matter now.

  “Oh, good, fine,” she said, trying to brush off the question. “I can put together a really popular and standard menu for Misty and—”

  “You look like a different person.”

  She’d been in enough Weight Watchers meetings to know that most formerly overweight people loved to bask in the success of their diets, but if Willow could have wiped away the person she’d been from the face of the earth and his memory, she would have. “I am,” she said simply.

  “Is the, uh, ‘new you’ the reason you dropped Zatarain?”

  “There were many reasons,” she admitted. “Now I get the chance to be at the front of the alphabet for a change.” The quip sounded hollow, but he seemed to accept it. “So why the military?” she asked quickly, anxious to return the conversation to him. “I do remember that you were in ROTC, but hadn’t expected you’d make a lifelong career of it.”

  “Not sure if it is a lifelong career now,” he said, reaching up to tap his ear. “I lost hearing in one ear, so the Navy put me on inactive.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “You lost hearing? In combat?”

  He didn’t answer right away, his gaze moving over her shoulder toward the water beyond them as he nodded. “Yeah.”

  “How long does that mean you’re on leave?”

  “I’m waiting to hear. I had surgery done a few months ago, but the results aren’t quite at the level required for active SEAL duty. But I just had another test, and I’m waiting to hear the results, but these things can take forever in the military.” He glanced from side to side, as if someone might be listening. “In the meantime…” He lifted his shoulder, almost a little embarrassed.

  “You’re a man of honor,” she supplied. “Don’t worry, it’s not that unusual anymore.”

  “No, I…” He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “I’m writing a book.”

  He made the admission so fast, she wasn’t quite sure she’d heard him. “A book? What’s it about?”

  “War,” he said simply, humor leaving his eyes. “It’s my feeble attempt to rewrite history.”

  She couldn’t resist a sympathetic touch to his arm. “Was it so bad you have to rewrite it?”

  “Parts were ghastly, parts were…awesome.” He laughed softly. “A lot like my book.”

  Wow…a book. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Nick.”

  “It’s not exactly what I went through BUD/S to do,” he joked. “But then you’re the daughter of a songwriter, so maybe you’re more forgiving than most.”

  “I think it’s awesome,” she said. “How far along are you?”

  “I got stuck in what I guess you’d call act two. The murky middle. Actually, I was hoping to get some creative juices flowing here, and that’s why I jumped at the chance to come when Jason suggested it.”

  She smiled. “A little sea and sunshine to help writer’s block?”

  “And quiet,” he added.

  “What has you stuck?” she asked, genuinely interested, and so very happy to have the conversation off her and on him.

  “‘What doesn’t have me stuck?’ is a better question.” He pushed the chair back again, assuming his favorite precarious position. “I can write the battle scenes and the training stuff like I’m reciting the alphabet, but I know a good story has to have more than military action.”

  “So, it’s fiction?” Somehow she imagined him writing about life in the Navy or recounting battles, not a story.

  “Mostly, drawn from real life.” He leaned forward, scratching his neck as if unsure how to proceed. “I know it has to have some kind of male-female…thing.”

  She fought a chuckle, more at the way he said it than what he’d said. “A romance?”

  “A relationship. Part of the plot
is about this SEAL who’s been stuck babysitting this embedded journalist, and some shit gets messed up and…” He paused, the emotion brewing in his eyes. “She died. I mean, she dies. In the story.”

  Her heart dipped, getting the gut feeling that that wasn’t fiction. “Well, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure you’ll lose the happy-ending fans over that one.”

  “I don’t care about a happy ending. I just want to…” He balled a fist and gave the table a gentle tap.

  “Rewrite history,” she supplied.

  “Exactly.”

  “Why? What will it accomplish?”

  “I’m not sure it accomplish anything, but I’d like to try anyway. Plus…” He laughed again. “When the words flow, it’s amazing. Almost as good as…” He winked. “It’s good.”

  “I bet.” Safe bet that anything with him was good. “So…” She fought the urge to ask everything about this embedded journalist. Was she real? Did he have a relationship with her? None of her business, though, so she fished around for a less personal question. “Is that how you lost your hearing? When things messed up?”

  He shook his head. “It was after, unrelated. Like I said, Trew Blue—that’s Misty’s brother—really came through, but I still fu…messed up my hearing pretty bad.”

  She remembered how loud she’d had to yell to get his attention. “And do the doctors recommend you listen to rock music with headphones on?”

  He laughed, pointing at her with a teasing grin. “No one was supposed to know about that little infraction. Anyway, I keep the sound off in the left ear. But come on.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “Don’t you have a weakness, Willow?”

  I might be looking at it. “Many,” she acknowledged.

  “Then you understand that sometimes I can’t resist the music.” His eyes lit as he studied her. “But you must know that, being the daughter of a guy who wrote some of the best music ever recorded.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go as far as the best ever recorded, but he’s my father, so I’ve never been quite as enamored with his success. I remember you were a fan.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry about that.”

  “For liking my dad’s music or for butchering the world’s most annoying song while you were committing your ‘little infraction’?”

  “Most annoying song?” His jaw dropped. “Will Ya, Will Ya is a work of art.”

  “Not the way you sang it.”

  He let out a hearty laugh. “Well, I’m half-deaf, remember?” His face changed after his laugh faded, dark eyes slicing through her, the smile faltering to an even more handsome, serious expression. “But that’s not what I’m sorry for.”

  She waited, part of her knowing what was next.

  “I’m sorry I talked to you only because of your dad. Because I thought you could, you know, arrange a meeting.”

  Her heart sank a little, an old ache pressing down. “Why didn’t you just ask me for backstage passes, then? I would have gotten them for you in a heartbeat.”

  He lifted one of his mighty, strong shoulders. “First of all, I didn’t just want backstage passes. I wanted an open door into the music industry. I had delusions of drummer grandeur. But I chickened out every time it came up, so I never asked you.”

  “Well, that was crazy, especially in a business where who you know is everything. Heck, I could have had my dad bring you into one of the practice sessions at the studio.” Anything. She’d have done anything to be closer to him back then.

  He closed his eyes and grunted like she’d slammed his solar plexus with a power-punch. “Shit, I’m an idiot.”

  “Yep.”

  “But at least I have integrity.”

  “No, you were right the first time. Idiocy, not integrity.”

  His smile faded completely. “I meant I had integrity about…that time. That night…when you…” His voiced drifted off to an embarrassing silence.

  She sighed, closing her eyes as she lost any hope of controlling this conversation and steering it in another direction. “And this would be why I wanted to talk about the menu and not the past.”

  “Why should we dance around the elephant in the room?”

  She snorted softly. “Or the elephant that was in that room. Meaning me.”

  “Willow!” He reached forward and closed his hand around hers, holding too tightly for her to jerk back. “Listen—”

  She managed to free her hand. “Nick, you don’t owe me an apology. I understand what happened.” Please don’t make me relive it.

  “I wasn’t honest that night, and it’s important that you know why I did what I did.”

  She knew why. Because he was grossed out by the idea of sex with a girl who weighed more than he did. “I’d rather not rehash it, Nick. It’s ancient—”

  “I have to,” he said, leaning closer. “Otherwise, it’s just going to sit between us and fester.”

  A festering fat elephant. Did he have any more lovely metaphors as memories? “Look, you had every right to turn me down. I was a little drunk, and you were—”

  “Not at all drunk.”

  She swallowed, certain he didn’t realize that just made it worse. Tipping her head to one side, she narrowed her eyes at him. “I weighed”—she took in a ragged breath—“a lot. A whole hell of a lot.”

  “Do you really think that’s all I saw?”

  “At eighteen? At UCLA, home of the pencil-thin co-ed? Yeah.”

  “You’re wrong. But that night, when you kissed me, I knew I’d be using you to get to your dad. I felt like shit about it. So I took off and acted like I wasn’t interested.”

  She managed a laugh, despite the sting to her heart. “I guess as excuses go, that’s a pretty good one.” She kept a smile as she looked at him. He didn’t need to know that just sitting here talking about it was like reliving that night in the dorm hallway all over. The distant strains of a Linkin Park song coming out of someone’s room, the smell of burned popcorn and beer, the scuffed linoleum floor she stared at after he’d walked—no, damn near run—away. Did it matter why he’d turned her down? Either way, it still hurt like a bitch.

  “Then you forgive me?” The hope in his voice told her just how important her absolution was.

  Fine. He could have it. Why should he know how lasting an effect that night had? Talk about embarrassing. “I do,” she assured him. “It’s forgiven and forgotten.”

  He let out an audible sigh and then quickly added, “Good. Then our date’s still on for tonight?”

  She drew back in surprise. “You still want to go out with me?”

  “And not because I want to meet your dad, I swear.” He snagged her hand again and gave a confident squeeze. “I’d really like to get to know you now.”

  Now that she wasn’t two hundred and sixty pounds. She gave a shaky smile and purposely didn’t answer. Of course she wanted to go out with this hot and sexy Navy SEAL. But he was also a constant reminder that, under all her muscle tone and dieted-down body, she was still Willie Zatarain. And that scared her in a way she couldn’t describe.

  “As a rule,” she said, “I don’t spend time with people who knew me…before.”

  One brow lifted in surprise. “No one?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then I have an idea.” He took out his phone and tapped it. “Give me your address?”

  Something told her he wasn’t a man who took no for an answer. But did she want to say no? She told him the address, watching his hands work, imaging those hands…working.

  He put the phone down and then threaded her fingers with his, slowly lifting her knuckles to his mouth. She eyed him carefully, aware that he was drawing her whole body closer to his but absolutely unable to back up or stop him until his cheek was touching hers. “Guess what we’re going to do together, Willow?”

  Goosebumps blossomed up her arms as possibilities danced in her head. But she couldn’t. She absolutely couldn’t give in to this temptation. Didn’t she have any co
ntrol? Of course, she lived by control. She owned control. Control was her bitch.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked softly.

  He lightly kissed her cheek. “Rewrite history.”

  And just like that, control evaporated.

  Chapter Five

  The vague ringing in Nick’s left ear had become so much a part of his life that he didn’t even hear it anymore. Especially not when his clumsy index fingers somehow found the right keys and his brain dug up some powerful sentences and his laptop screen slowly went from white to words…words that told a story.

  He saw everything in his head, as vivid as a movie, but that didn’t make him some kind of great writer. That meant he had a good memory for details. The foul stench of a dusty, vacant stairwell in the north observation post. The jab of rubble and stones in his knees as he positioned himself for a long watch. The flat central Iraq horizon with only the few buildings of Habbaniyah breaking his visual out to the gunmetal gray water of the Euphrates. The grit of sand in his teeth. The tin taste of anticipation.

  He remembered it all. But in the story, something dramatic should happen here. Sighting an insurgent? A grenade in the distance? Something to throw this lieutenant over the edge.

  Like the tine of a fork against crystal, the ringing sang in his damaged ear, but he leaned forward, taking an imaginary step in the story. Something dramatic did happen in that stairwell, he mused. But this wasn’t an autobiography. And that conversation probably wouldn’t win any literary awards. It had been…nice. And nice wasn’t the stuff of novels.

  Still, he closed his eyes and let himself slip back to that first encounter with Charlotte Blaine, which had happened in a moment much like the one he’d described. On watch, in Habbaniyah, on a quiet night in a bunker.

  The whole team had been pissed as hell to get a female embed, even for the brief time they were on this particular mission. A journalist among them was a pain in the ass, but a woman? That went against everything, injecting high-quality estrogen into a group that thrived on nothing but nerves, sweat, and testosterone.

  But maybe that was the action he needed at this point in the story. Maybe he should bring the character of Christina into this scene—yeah. He nodded, picking up his pen to jot a note and think about what he’d written weeks ago, before the block. She and Gannon had already had their run-in at the old airport when she announced how long she’d be there.