Finally, at the very end, a few awards for the lacrosse team and a nod to the football teams of the last few years. It seemed sports was no longer king of this school.
“Looking for someone in particular?”
Mark turned at the gravelly voice, his smile pulling at the sight of a very old man shuffling into the hall using a cane. Good God, it was Wigglesworth. The former principal had stayed at Lacey’s party for only a few minutes, taken by his daughter back to his home.
“Hello, Mr. Wigglesworth,” he said, approaching the man. “We didn’t get to talk the other night, but I’m Mark Solomon. Class of ’86. Do you remember me?”
White brows creased a face that already looked like an ancient parchment map. “I ran this school from the day it was one room for a few kids of the island founders to the day I retired fifty years later. Been back every week since then. Bet I’ve met more teenagers than the law allows.”
“Of course,” Mark said, feeling a little ridiculous for thinking he’d be remembered. “But I certainly remember you, Mr. W.”
He leaned forward on his cane, narrowing watery gray eyes behind thick bifocals. “Mark Solomon. Quarterback. Smart kid. Stayed out of trouble, if I recall, and had a pretty steady girl.”
Mark drew back, stunned. “I’m impressed. And honored, sir.”
He laughed, which caused him to cough a little. Mark waited while the man caught his breath. “Don’t expect me to know what day it is or what I had for breakfast, though,” he finally said.
“Still, that’s quite a memory.”
“And that’s what you’re doing here?” He waved his cane. “Looking for your memories?”
“Something like that.”
“These trophies?” He snorted indelicately. “All that talking and adding and subtracting. School’s become a breeding ground for sissies.”
“And millionaires,” Mark couldn’t resist adding. “I’m a tech guy myself, or I was.”
“Well, good for you. Come with me. I’ve got something to show you.”
No one ignored a Wigglesworth command, so Mark followed, moving at a snail’s pace to keep up with him. They walked down a short corridor and reached a metal door that Mark guessed led to the janitorial break room.
It had been, once, but now it was a storage area, and along one whole wall were the ancient scarred trophy cases that had once stood sentry outside the old cafeteria.
As he shuffled forward, he stole a glance at Mark. “A tech guy, you say. You do look quite healthy and wealthy. What are you doing with your life?”
“I started and sold a business,” he said.
“Question was present tense, son. What are you doing now?”
Now? He heard Emma’s voice, capturing his “career” with her clever words. Sounds more like you escape and enjoy risking your life.
Just how true was that assessment? “Now I travel quite a bit and do some rock-climbing, hang gliding, and skydiving.”
Wigglesworth slowed his shuffle and gave Mark a look of true incredulity. “That’s your job?”
“Like you, I’m retired.”
“Unlike me, you’re a kid. Why aren’t you working?”
He let out an exhale, suddenly feeling very much like he’d been summoned to the principal’s office for a reprimand. “My company sold for a lot of money. I give to charities,” he added, so he didn’t look like a complete loser in this man’s eyes.
Wigglesworth scowled at him, unimpressed by his money or charities. “What about your wife? Didn’t you marry that pretty blond cheerleader?”
Holy shit, the guy had a good memory. “I did, but she passed away sixteen years ago.”
If he expected sympathy, he didn’t get it. Instead, Wigglesworth’s gray eyes cleared as they leveled on Mark. “Get another one?”
“Actually, no, sir. I’ve never remarried.”
“My wife passed away, too,” he said. “Almost forty-five years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that.” He knew Wigglesworth was a widower back in the eighties, but honestly never gave the man’s life a moment of thought before this.
“I was about your age, more or less,” Wigglesworth said. “And I spent the next forty-five years…” His voice trailed off, and Mark stilled, waiting for the rest. “What were we looking for again?” he asked, his eyes suddenly clouded.
Answers. Messages. Wisdom. “Trophies,” he said.
“Oh yeah. Over here.” He moved to the last case, the glass so dusty and smeared, Mark could hardly see through it. There were football pictures and the basketball team, but peering out from behind an oversize baseball trophy was a picture of a group of cheerleaders in a vee formation, the face at the center so familiar, he actually sucked in a sharp breath.
Julia Coulter. Just as pretty and pure and bright and beautiful as he remembered.
“Oh, I know what I was going to say,” Wigglesworth continued with a victorious tap of his cane on the linoleum. “How I spent my forty-five years after Wanda died.”
Wanda Wigglesworth? Emma would love that name. The thought of her sent another strange sensation through him. Like he shouldn’t think about her here, in these halls where he’d first found love. “And how was that, sir?”
He gave a slow smile. “Lonely,” he said.
Mark’s chest tightened. “Is that so?”
“Biggest regret I have in nine and a half decades on this earth is thinking I could never replace my Wanda.”
“I’m sure she was special,” Mark said, his gaze shifting to the cheerleading squad. Special.
“Of course she was special!” he boomed. “I married her. She could cook like that French lady with the funny voice and kept the house squeaky clean and never missed church and not one time did she raise her voice to me. Not one single time.”
They had different definitions of special, obviously, but Mark got the idea. Wanda had done the trick for this old guy.
“But I was stupid,” Wigglesworth insisted. “I spent forty-five years telling myself I wasn’t lonely. That Wanda was it for me. And that if I even kissed another lady, I’d be somehow cheating on her.”
Mark swallowed, the words hitting too hard.
“So I never did kiss another woman, not for forty-five years.”
Damn. “I can see regretting that,” Mark said.
“Now I’m too old to remember how. Or why.” He chuckled, working to keep it from turning into another coughing fit. “But you’re not.”
“No. No, sir, I’m not.” He remembered how and why. And who.
“So take my advice, young man.” He tapped the trophy case with the knob of his cane. “It’s nice to remember your youth, but don’t hang on to the past so hard you completely miss the future.”
Mark didn’t respond, but took one more look through the foggy glass at the tiny face smiling out at him. And he smiled back.
I hear ya, Jules. Loud and clear.
Chapter Eighteen
There was a reason they suggested clients should plan to spend forty extra minutes in the post-massage relaxation lounge before getting up and walking around, Emma decided. Because getting up and walking around after an hour and a half of having her metabolic fibers purified and rejuvenated—she was definitely going to have to reword that—would have been impossible.
Emma was mush. Complete and utter jelly, head to toe. In fact, she wasn’t sure she could actually walk all the way back to the villa without collapsing in a heap.
After drinking her second glass of cucumber water, she dressed in white yoga pants and a T-shirt, then brushed out her hair and took a long look in the mirror. She already looked pretty damn satisfied. And after tonight?
She sighed again, thinking of the sexy exchange in the kitchen and all that had led up to it. Something had clicked last night. Maybe it was some kind of closure with Kyle—knowing he’d shown up at the place where they were supposed to honeymoon for the sole purpose of saving his business. Maybe it was the carpe diem conversation and the confidence h
er meeting with Lacey had infused.
Maybe it was just that she was tired of showing so much restraint.
Whatever, she was ready to sleep with Mark. Although, there’d be no sleeping, but plenty of lovemaking.
No, no. Not that. Just sex. And that was fine. That was better. That was all.
Finally gathering her things, she stepped out to the reception area and stopped short at the sight of Mark Solomon on the sofa, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his head back, eyes closed.
When the door opened, he lifted his head and smiled at her, and all her detoxed and purified metabolic fibers shot back to tense, achy anticipation.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Waiting for you.”
“That’s good, because I’m not sure I can walk to the villa on these massage-wobbly legs.”
“Liked it, did you?” the receptionist, not Jocelyn but another young woman, asked with a teasing smile.
Emma sighed. “I loved it.” She took a moment to sign for the services and added a generous tip for her massage therapist. “It was a few hours in paradise.”
Mark stood and reached for her hand, pulling her to him, surprising her with the strength of his grip. “Time for a few more,” he whispered.
She inhaled a shaky breath and leaned into him. “You’re slaying me.”
“I haven’t even started to slay.”
Oh boy. With a far too quick good-bye to the receptionist, she let him lead her outside to the lobby. Everything seemed bright and bold and beautiful, especially the man who had his arm around her.
“I really didn’t expect you to show up here,” she said.
“It was impulsive. I was out and parked the car, checked the time, and decided to walk you back.”
She nestled into him, the glow of the massage and scrub along with the time in the relaxation room warming her almost as much as the muscles of his body. “Where did you go while I was getting rubbed and oiled and scrubbed and spoiled?”
He laughed. “Put that in the ad copy, okay? You are one clever woman.”
“I don’t know about clever, but I’m relaxed, restored, and revived.” She sighed and looked at him, then around. “Look at how beautiful this place is. Heaven, Mark. Barefoot Bay is heaven.”
With an arm around her shoulders, he led her toward the stone path shaded by massive palm fronds and lined with insanely colored tropical flowers.
“You’ll be great as the marketing VP,” he said.
“I’m beginning to think I will,” she agreed. “I can just see me walking VIP clients through this section.” She glanced around and made a sweeping gesture with her arm. “Our guests enjoy exquisite sunsets every afternoon that turn the blue skies to tangerine tones and offer the opportunity to take sandy strolls and dip their toes in the beautiful blue waters of Barefoot Bay.”
“Did you write that already?” he asked.
“No, I just made it up.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “How do you do that?”
“I look at the picture or scene and describe it in a way that makes it come alive.”
“I would have said, ‘There’s a nice beach.’”
“And you would be the world’s worst copywriter.” She slid her arm around his waist so they were arm in arm. “Good thing you have that pretty face to fall back on. Don’t quit your day job.”
“Can you sell anything, or are travel accounts your specialty?”
“Oh, anything. I can sell Thin Mints to a Girl Scout and a nice big bag of ice to an Eskimo. Name a product, and I’ll make it marketable.”
“Okay. How about…” He looked around. “Beach umbrellas?”
“Sturdy in the sand, unwavering in the wind, Lemon Drop Umbrellas promise to protect you from a burn and cover you in comfort.”
He came to a stop, his mouth opened. “You didn’t even have to think about that.”
She shrugged. “I told you, it’s my freakish gift.”
“It’s amazing, really. You can do that with anything and everything?”
“Pretty much.” She pointed to a two-story guest house on their right. “Bay Laurel is the crown jewel of the Casa Blanca property, your private piece of paradise hiding among the hibiscus.”
“You’ve written that already.” He gave her a squeeze. “You didn’t just make that up.”
“I most certainly did. I’m telling you, I can sell anything.”
They reached their villa, and Mark got out the key to open the door. “What about me?”
“You.”
He slid the card key in and opened the door. “How would you sell me?”
“Depends on who’s buying.”
Closing the door behind her, he wrapped his arms around her to bring her closer. “You’re buying.”
“I’m already sold.” She dropped her head back to look at him through tapered lashes. “But I could write it.”
He ran his hands up and down her back, looking hard at her. “What’s your tag line for me?”
“Mmmh.” She reached up and fluttered her fingers through the hair at his temples. “Let’s see…Mark Solomon. Older. Wiser. Hotter. Silver.”
“Older? Silver? Who’s going to buy that?”
“Already he’s a picky client.” She lowered her hands so they were on his cheeks, holding his head steady to look at him. “Mark Solomon. After you’ve had a boy, it’s time for a real man.”
He grinned at her. “Now we’re talkin’.”
She dragged her hands down his neck and over his chest, loving the corded muscles and masculine feel of him. She stopped when her hand reached his heart, which beat with unexpected urgency.
“Magic Mark. Strong and…” Words escaped her as she felt his erection press against her belly. “Hard.”
He laughed into her neck, sucking lightly. “You’ve lost your touch, Madam Copywriter.”
“Along with my balance…” She rocked her hips. “And my mind.” Pressed her breasts against him. “And my control.”
“Good riddance to all three.” He kissed her mouth, placing his hands on her shoulders and slowly slid them down, lower, until he covered her breasts. He stroked until her nipples hardened.
“I like that,” she sighed.
“I like you,” he said gruffly, pushing her gently against the door behind her. “I like you so damn much.”
He intensified the next kiss, adding pressure, growing harder against her, invading her mouth with a clever, persistent tongue. His hands moved with ease over her body, covering her breasts, her waist, her hips, and over her backside.
Still boneless from the massage, she practically fell into him, stroking his chest and shoulders with the same urgency, stopping only to catch her breath, moan his name, or just appreciate how glorious everything felt.
“Come with me, Em.” He led her toward the bedroom, pausing for a kiss, a touch, a searing look. He stopped in the doorway, turning her to face him, kissing her once, then putting his hands on her shoulders. “You’re sure?”
“Quite.”
“You’re one hundred percent ready for this?”
“Completely.”
“You won’t have second thoughts or morning-after doubts?”
“Second times and morning-after delights, more like.”
“So this is what happens when you get in bed with a copywriter.”
She reached up and kissed him, slow and long and with everything she had. “No, this is what happens when you get in bed with a copywriter.”
She went with him to the bed and, there, he laid her back on the puffy down comforter.
For a moment, he said nothing, then climbed onto the bed, straddling her. “I’m not good with words like you.”
She put her hands on his hips, slowly moving in to get the button of his jeans. “This isn’t about talking.” She unbuttoned and let the heel of her hand press against his erection, getting a thrill from his reaction.
“But I want to say something
.”
She rolled her eyes and fought a smile. “If you insist.”
“I insist.” He lowered himself on top of her so their faces were close. He kissed her cheek, his lips featherlight, but the little bit of contact sent fiery sparks to every nerve ending. “I want you to know…there’s something about you that is different from any woman I’ve ever known, and even though that scares the hell out of me, I want you. I want you. Not just…this.” He glanced down at their connected bodies. “But…this.”
A whole different set of nerves tingled. Nerves she associated with…fears. Not little left-turn fears, but big, major heartache fears.
This was sex. Or it should be. Short-term, hot, mutually agreed upon as the right time…sex.
Not this—whatever he thought this was.
But telling him that would kill the moment and maybe take that sweet gleam out of his eyes. She went for humor.
“Let me get this straight. It’s not this, but this.” She tapped his lips, purposely playful. “Word-challenged but damn cute.” Sliding her hand to the back of his head, she brought his face to hers. “Now use your mouth for good.”
She took control of that kiss, using enough passion and pent-up pleasure to remind them both that this was sex, and that was good. Anything more and the risk was far, far too great.
With every kiss, every touch, her thoughts on the subject melted along with every cell in her body. Clutching his shoulders, she pulled him all the way onto her, wrapping her legs around him to feel all of him through the thin material of her yoga pants.
Long, lean muscles. Powerful thighs. Corded, cut abs. And one sizable hard-on spearing her belly.
They rolled together and started taking each other’s clothes off with slightly shaky hands. She battled his shirt buttons and he finished for her, sitting up to strip out of the sleeves. He tugged at her top, sliding it over her head and smiling down at her before he reached around, unsnapped her bra, and slipped it off her arms.
Sighing with raw pleasure, he hovered over her, torturing her with a long, slow trail of kisses from her throat to her chest, searing her skin, and then finally taking her nipple in his mouth to suck and lick it to a painful point.
Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1) Page 17