Return To Us (Sand & Fog Series Book 6)

by Susan Ward

  She wanders across the sand and plops down on a fallen eucalyptus log. Not the variation I planned, but not a bad one either. In fact, it’s going to work well.

  I move to stand in front of her, and ease down on my knees between her legs, holding her gaze in mine as I drink in how she looks at me. “I’m broke, Willow. I haven’t got a lot of money left and I need to go back to work soon.”

  I pause. That first line came out wrong…and why the fuck is she laughing?

  “Why are you having a giggle fit over me saying I’m broke? Trust me, it’s not funny.”

  “Sorry, but your notion of broke is amusing to me.” She smirks as her glance darts around the beach. “I should also point out that it was very cute how worried you sounded when you told me you had to go back to work soon. Oh, Eric, how life has changed for you.”

  She busts up even more, and then I understand what this is. We’re both a bit delirious from being together and happy. A clean high unlike any I’ve felt before.

  I chide her with my eyes. “Stop it. This was very romantic in my head. Do you want to give me crap or hear what I want to say?”

  She beams. “It’s been wonderfully romantic so far.” She inhales deeply and sits up straight. “I’ll behave if it gets me faster into bed with you.”

  I cover my forehead with my hand, hiding my face from her, and laugh. Sassy, horny, sexy Willow is on the beach tonight even though I’ve been a bumbling fool thus far.

  I’m wondering if my mom ruined my game by spilling the beans to my girlfriend that I asked for the rings tonight. Yep, Chrissie would do that. Not intentionally. But possible.

  I recompose myself and take her hands in mine. “Back to what I was trying to say. I don’t have much. I have this house. That’s what Jack left me in my letter. It’s a good place for me, Willow. I know you love Seattle, but I think I have a solution to that. I’m taking that contract with ABO for the TV gig. Walker pitched a concept to them for me. They agreed to what I want. If you approve, we’re going to shoot live inside Mel’s. That means we’ll be thirteen weeks in the summer in Seattle. The third floor will make an amazing loft for us. I like summer there, but you’ve got to admit Santa Barbara is better for the rest of the year.”

  I take a beat to assess how this is going. Oh, she’s alert and I’m thinking from how she’s staring at me that she’s getting the picture and most eager to hear the rest.

  When I don’t immediately continue, flustered, she murmurs, “Eric, what is it you’re trying to say?”

  I brush her cheek with my thumb. “Sorry, baby. Sometimes I get lost in looking at you.”

  Her gaze liquefies, and I have to kiss her one more time before I do it. I can see she’s anxious. I’m anxious, too.

  I let my index finger touch her lips. “I’m a recovering addict. I’m always going to be that, Willow. I don’t have much, but you can have all of my heart.” I reach into my pocket for my grandmother’s ring. “Willow, will you marry me?”

  She blinks at me as tears fall from her eyes. I love her so much, and a tidal wave of emotion hits me as I wait.

  “Yes.” She sobs, and I slip the ring on her finger then scoop her up into my arms. Graham Carson’s text said he’d had the guys set up everything east of the stairs. It better not be far. I can’t take much more.

  “Eric, where are we going?”

  I scan the beach.

  Thank fuck.

  There it is.

  A tall tent structure, the kind we keep for parties on the lawn, and inside there better be everything I requested.

  “There,” I tell her, jutting my chin. “Sex on the beach is hot, Willow. But it’s even better inside our own private tent. With pillows, blankets, and candles. You. And me. Making love to each other. Until dawn.”

  Epilogue

  Eric

  Five Years Later

  IT’S A BRILLIANTLY SUNNY June day and I pause at the top of the cliffs and scan the beach. Crap, it’s crowded even on our stretch of shoreline far from public access.

  Where are they…

  Where are they…

  Ah, there’s Hank, so the girls can’t be far.

  I trot down the creaky, slightly zigzagging planks of wood, kick off my shoes at the sand, and go to the shoreline. I catch my first visual of the kids and cringe. It seemed like a good idea to send them off to the beach while we packed up to go to Seattle, but Willow’s going to have a fit when I get them up to the house and she sees them.

  Hank’s lying on a towel against a backrest, Hana’s beside him busy on her phone like always—no time for Dad now that she’s a tween—and Reese and Elizabeth are chasing the waves, two wet and sandy messes. Damn, he took off their water booties; they’re going to have tar on their feet.

  I stop beside Hank and glare down at him. “You’re supposed to be the best of the best in security, ya lazy buggar. Couldn’t you keep them in line for an hour? We’ve got a plane to catch.”

  Hank shrugs. “You wanted them tired for the flight, EJ. They’re going to be tired. Don’t wank about how I got them that way. I’m a bodyguard not a childcare worker. Limit of my goals has been met. They haven’t gotten hurt and no one’s harmed them.”

  “New limit of goals,” I grouse. “You’ve gotta find their shoes and help me get them cleaned up before Willow sees them. I’m getting Reese. You get Elizabeth. And we’ve got to be at the front door ready to go in twenty minutes.”

  As I head toward the younger girls, Hana’s face snaps up and she says, “Dad—”

  How she says Dad warns more grumbling is about to come my way and I cut her off. “Not now, banana. You pack up the stuff and take it to the house while Hank and I get your sisters.”

  I trot toward the surf then scoop Reese up into my arms and growl, and she giggles. I’d have never caught her so easily if she’d seen me coming. Three-year-olds are wily.

  “How’s my sunshine? You have fun with Uncle Hank?”

  She nods, and I turn to find Elizabeth running as fast as she can from Hank, her black curls streaming behind her. “Hank, get a move on if you want to keep your cushy gig working for me. We’re late.” That was said to irritate him.

  Hana’s shoving their junk into the tote when I reach her. Her waist-length blond hair falls over her shoulders, and she still looks beautiful to me even though she’s scowling.

  “What’s wrong, Hana? You love our summers in Seattle. What’s with all the attitude about going this year?”

  Her expression is annoyed when she looks at me.

  I frown, wondering what’s up with that.

  She used to be such a daddy’s girl; now she prefers to butt heads with me.

  She shoves the beach bag strap over her shoulder. “How come it’s all right for you to have everything you want, but when I want something it’s attitude?”

  Ah—I used the A-word: attitude. Why does that get kids riled up so fast? I pout. “I shouldn’t do that, should I?”

  “No.” She shakes her head vigorously. “In fact, it’s downright sexist. I never hear boys accused of having attitude.”

  “Trust me, I heard it a lot as a kid. From both my parents. It’s not a gender-specific thing at all. What is it you want, Hana?”

  Blue eyes meet blue. “I don’t want to go to Seattle this summer. I want to stay in Santa Barbara with Isadora.”

  I ignore the flash of hurt from that and say firmly, “No. Not happening. Get a move on, Hana.”

  She groans.

  I can live with that.

  I head toward the stairs.

  “Why can’t I stay?” Hana bemoans, trailing after me.

  “Because I’d miss you too much. We all would. I shoot for thirteen weeks. That’s too long to miss you.”

  “That’s not even close to fair.”

  “Well, it’s how things are today. Hit me up with that question again in about twenty years. You might do better.”

  “Not funny,
Dad.”

  “Admit it. It’s a little funny, Hana.”

  More groans. She’s not backing off an inch today.

  I sprint up the stairs. I can hear Hana pounding the planks behind me. How can a little girl sound like she has lead in her feet? Fine, you’re still annoyed with me. So noted.

  On the grass, I adjust Reese on my hip and put the arm I freed up around Hana’s shoulders. “Listen, Dad’s got to work and Dad’s not leaving you and that’s how it is.”

  “Not even if I want it?”

  Especially not then. I’m saved from this discussion by my cell trilling. I set Reese on her feet and go for my pocket. “It’s Uncle Ethan. I’ve gotta take this. Take Reese to the patio and try to get as much tar off her feet as you can and use the hose to get the sand off her legs.”

  Hana’s shoulders slouch. “How come you’re allowed to answer the phone anytime you want to and push off everything to everyone else when you need to?”

  “Because I make the rules.”

  “No, you don’t. Willow does.”

  “Then ask her if you can stay behind. And if she’s willing to give up Isadora for the summer in the bargain.”

  She glares. “She’ll say no, and you know it.”

  Yeah, I do. Why do you think I said that? I swipe on my cell and put it to my ear. “Yo, bro, what’s up? You guys in Seattle yet?”

  “Got here last night.”

  “What do you think of the new house?”

  “Nice. Very nice. But why the hell did you buy one on the same street as your sister-in-law? Not smart, EJ. Learn from my mistakes. Never good to have your in-laws too close in your business.”

  I laugh. “Willow wanted to be near to her sister, and now that I can afford a place in Madison Park there didn’t seem a reason to say no.”

  “Have you heard from Khloe? I tried to call her yesterday when we got here, but she didn’t answer or call us back.”

  “I spoke to her last night, E. She’s on the set today. She said it’d be a wrap in a couple of days and she’d try to hit us up while we’re both in Seattle.”

  “What’s up with her? I’m starting to get really concerned.”

  “Me, too. Nothing she does makes sense. One minute she’s jet-setting around the world on the party circuit, then dropping out of sight to live like a hermit.”

  “That was so weird,” Ethan says. “But that Venice thing was out of hand. I get that it shook her up. But how she handled it—totally off, don’t you think? Khloe’s not acting like her.”

  “Crazy, if you ask me. The folks pretend to be cool with it, but they’re not. She’s twenty-eight years old. What are they going to do? She’s allowed to do what she wants to do with her life.”

  “I don’t know about you, but it’s time she told me what’s going on.”

  “I’m down with that. I think it’s time we both know and not take no for an answer.”

  “Sound check is at six. What time you hitting Seattle?” Ethan asks.

  “Three hours depending on how much tar Elizabeth has on her feet and how pissed off Willow gets that we’ve got to get the girls dressed again.”

  Ethan laughs.

  I’m near enough to the patio to see Reese and inwardly I grimace. Oh fuck. Cute, Hana. I said hose on her legs not on her dress.

  “Hey, E, I’ve gotta run. I’ve got an emergency.”

  I hustle across the concrete and grab Reese, getting splashed by Hana in the process. “Great. Now I’ve got to fly to Seattle wet. That wasn’t funny, Hana.”

  “Admit it. It was a little funny.”

  Reese wiggles in my arms and I drop a kiss on her nose. Her tan face scrunches up and this time I notice the tangles in her formerly brushed blond curls and that she’s lost her hair ties.

  “Give me a break, kid. We’ve gotta get you in dry clothes fast.”

  Instead of going through the house dripping, I go down the grass and through the slider into Reese’s bedroom. I set her on the bed and point. “Take off your wet clothes and stay there.”

  I grab clean duds from a drawer and head to the bathroom for a towel. Vigorously, I rub the dampness from her. She smiles at me.

  “You think this is fun?”

  She nods, her dark eyes gleaming in a way that tells me everything.

  “You asked Hana to shoot you with the hose, didn’t you?”

  She lifts her nose in a pert, happy way. This one never cops to anything. But the nose lift—dead giveaway.

  Once she’s dressed, I take her hand and we go down the hall to Isadora. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

  Willow’s still packing when I get to the bedroom. I dart into my closet. “You almost done?”

  “Almost. Why are you changing again?”

  “Hana. Hose. Need I say more?”

  Willow’s laughter floats into the closet. “What’d you do wrong now?”

  I poke my head out. “Nothing. I told her she couldn’t stay in Santa Barbara without us.”

  “Smart Dad.” And Willow clams up.

  I frown. “What don’t I know?”

  She puckers her lips as her eyes go wide, a warning I’m not going to like the answer. “Never mind, Eric. We’ll talk on the plane. The car’s here.”

  I’m smoothing my hair with my hands as I follow my wife toward the foyer. Fifty percent success. Hana and Reese at the rally point.

  I send the driver to our bedroom for our bags and I manage to snag a fast kiss from my wife. “Go on with the girls, baby. I’ll go find Hank and Elizabeth.”

  “Dad!” Hana exclaims loudly. “You have to stop doing that. You shouldn’t call Willow baby. It’s so gross. It’s demeaning for a woman.”

  I stare at her. Give me a break.

  She crosses her arms and tilts her head.

  “Hana, can we have an out-of-court settlement on that one? It’s only demeaning if the woman doesn’t like it and if I call anyone other than my wife by that endearment.” I point. “We good?”

  She rolls her eyes.

  Willow smiles. “Nice try, baby. Go get Hank and Elizabeth, and we’ll be waiting in the car.”

  ONCE ELIZABETH AND REESE fall asleep beside Isadora, I head to the private cabin on the jet.

  Alone at last.

  I lean back against the door to admire how my wife looks lying on the bed. The only thing that would make it more perfect is if she were sprawled out naked and waiting.

  I pull off my shirt, then balance on my arms to kiss her. “The girls are zonked out, we’re at cruising altitude, we’ve got two hours. This is our only opportunity for today. Get your damn clothes off now, woman.”

  Willow giggles. “You better not ever let Hana hear you call me that.”

  My lips roam her neck as I work the buttons on her shirt. “Why do you think I keep that one for us in the bedroom?”

  She relaxes back against the pillow so I can slip off her pants. “Smart man.”

  Khloe Manzone

  THE MAKEUP GIRL IS touching up my face when the countdown begins.

  Five.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  In a flutter of blurring fast movement, the set’s cleared.

  One.

  The cameras are rolling.

  I wait for the MC and the promo sounding in my ear. Unlike other shows of this genre, mine is a live feed. Nothing edited. Nothing cut out. The network’s contract demand, not mine, but hell, it’s been fun.

  I take a deep breath and then hear, “Welcome to season three, episode one of The Last Girl. We’re in Seattle with Khloe Manzone and our first eligible billionaire of the season vying for her to say I do. Let’s recap how the rules work. Each season our computer matches Khloe up with her perfect man, and he’s got thirteen dates to make her believe it. And at the end of the season we’ll find out if Khloe’s going to be the last girl he ever dates, or if she sends him home.”

 
; I hear walking and that’s my cue. I adjust my pose for the cameras and tilt my head in expertly practiced sexiness. Sex sells. Trite concepts like this show sell. My acting like a virgin tease gets ratings. The men lusting after me and being denied, higher ratings. And off we go on the third season of this pathetic girl hurt trying to get a man’s attention farce beaming out across the globe.

  There’s no point to this.

  Why did I renew my contract?

  The chances of him seeing me do this are zero.

  The chance that he’d even care, less than zero.

  “Straight from the United Kingdom,” fills my ear as I stare out at the elegant patio eatery the show booked for this shoot and wait for the latest man vying for my hand. I decide not to look at him until he’s at the table. He’s going to be a disappointment. First two seasons’ bachelors certainly were. Handsome, masculine, and rich, exactly my type—I’ll give the software that—but not even close to right.

  Will there ever be a right man for me again?

  There was once.

  I feel my throat convulse and my emotions flaying.

  I need to empty my mind.

  We’re shooting live.

  He’s not watching tonight or any night.

  Fuck him.

  It’s stupid that I still care.

  It’s stupid that I hurt.

  It’s really stupid that I did this show so he’d have to see me when all I want is to forget him.

  I’m never going to get him back, not this way. Their hold on him is much stronger than mine. And here I sit, burning for him. I need to figure out a way not to burn for him. How to be less hurt. How to let go.

  I feel a body near my chair. Bachelor Three has arrived at last. This one took a hell of a long time walking across the restaurant to reach my table. He could be nervous. It might be his first time live on camera. I shouldn’t be so harsh.

  I lift my chin as I wait for him to take my hand per the directing instructions. Come on, Number Three. Speed this up. We’re two minutes into rolling. Get on with it. How hard is it to remember to lightly hold my hand and introduce yourself? Is the age of chivalry so dead that’s hard?