Barefoot by the Sea

schedule, one you might love…”

“Or hate,” Gussie offered.

“What is it?” Lacey asked after a second of dramatic silence.

“Well, as you know, part of our role as the board members for the organization is to visit destination- wedding resorts and make recommendations to our members.”

“That’s why you’re coming this summer, right?” Tessa asked, already sensing that the answer wasn’t going to be what they expected.

“Change of plans,” Gussie said, fluttering what had to be a set of false eyelashes, which somehow looked incredibly natural on her pixie-like features. “One of the contenders in the small-resort category fell through.”

“And our annual meeting is in January,” Willow added. “That’s when we present our top recommendations to two thousand wedding consultants from all around the world.”

“And…” Lacey prompted, although they all kind of knew what was coming.

“And we need a replacement. Fast.”

Another beat of silence, this one even longer than the first, making the wedding planners laugh.

“Look, we know this is short notice and that this resort is still in soft opening,” Willow said. “So we’ll cut you some slack in our review, but the annual recs are one of the most important things board members do. Is there any chance we can move our preview up from July to—”

“Yes,” Lacey said, making them laugh.

“—two weeks from now?”

“Yikes,” Zoe said.

Willow nodded with understanding. “I know that’s an impossibly tight squeeze, and if you can’t do it, we are headed over to a place in Naples—”

“We can do it,” Lacey assured her, looking at Tessa for confirmation.

“I don’t see why not,” Tessa said. Except she did see exactly why not. They had no chef.

“You have vacancies?” Willow asked.

“In two weeks we can put you in Bay Laurel,” Lacey confirmed. “It’s our most spacious villa, with room for the three of you. I’ll have Jocelyn, our spa manager, clear spots for every treatment and amenity.”

“Don’t forget your hot-air-balloon ride.” Zoe pointed to the sky. “That’s the best part of a Barefoot Bay wedding.”

Gussie grinned, her bright-red lipstick contrasting perfectly with pale skin. “A Barefoot Bride! What an awesome marketing concept. I can think of three clients right now who would jump all over the idea of getting married barefoot in the sand.”

“That’s exactly how I got married,” Lacey said with a smile.

“We’re volunteers on the board for this calendar year,” Willow told them. “But we each have our own wedding-consulting businesses. And, honestly, we’ve sent quite a few brides to the places we’ve visited this year, for wedding packages and honeymoons. But the top three contenders in each size category get the AABC seal of approval, and those resorts are booked for years.”

They knew that was no understatement. Getting picked as an AABC rec would wipe away all the damage of that nasty review and open more doors than all of Lacey’s marketing efforts combined.

“You most certainly can count on coming for the official visit in two weeks. Whatever it takes, ladies.” Lacey was practically drooling as she made the offer.

But all Tessa could think was We have no chef. Because she’d just grilled him right out the door.

“Let’s finish the quick tour,” Lacey said, waving the women back into the golf cart.

As they climbed back up on the electric cart, Lacey came around to whisper to Tessa, “Did you make him an offer yet?”

She didn’t have the nerve to break the news to Lacey, especially not with the AABC reps so close. “Um, not yet,” she said. “I’m going to call his references.”

“Seal the deal,” Lacey insisted as she slid behind the wheel.

As the cart rolled down the path, their happy voices trailing, Tessa stood stone still, the sun pounding down with almost as much force as Zoe’s gaze.

“What?” Tessa barked at Zoe.

“Calling his references, are you?”

“Yes, I am. And no doubt I’ll find out he’s a liar who will rob us blind and can’t cook his way out of a paper bag because he’s a serial killer.”

Zoe burst out laughing. “You better hope so, hon, because otherwise your determination to ferret out everyone’s truth cost us a perfectly good chef when we couldn’t possibly need one more.”

“Well, if not, then…I’ll get him to come back.” Even though she had absolutely no idea how she’d do that. “I’m sure his number is on the resume in the kitchen.”

“Hope he knows how to fix a crow pot pie,” Zoe said, fluffing her hair with a laugh. “’Cause you are going to be eating some when you make that call.”

“I hope I have the chance,” Tessa admitted glumly. “It seems all I can do with that man is make him run away.”

Ian floored the bike over the causeway, not bothering with his helmet but letting the warm wind slap his face and whip his hair. He had to work, had to show some stability, had to do something with his miserable life besides run and hide and lie and wait.

It was all so completely counter to the man he used to be—the man he still was under this pumped-up, inked-out, anger-fueled body. Ian Browning didn’t run from anyone, he never hid from a problem, he’d despised lying, and “wait” wasn’t in his overachiever’s dictionary. Now those words defined his entire world. He knew that like he knew his name.

The thought almost pulled a sharp laugh from his belly because half the time he couldn’t remember his damn name. He’d wake up, sweating, hurting, sick throughout his body, with memories of Kate and the kids and the smell in the air when he’d gotten out of the tube that afternoon.

He could still see Luther Vane’s eyes when they’d bumped into each other on the street, Ian still clueless about what the man had done. And then he remembered walking into the flat, dropping his suit jacket and briefcase, calling his wife’s name, listening for the still unfamiliar sound of an infant’s cry, and…

The thought made him swerve into the next lane, earning a loud horn blast from a pissed-off truck driver. He ignored the urge to lift his middle finger and instead glanced to his right, the navy water of some Florida river about fifty feet below, nothing but a slim guardrail between him and blissful relief. His arms tingled on the handlebars, his right arm aching with the very idea of whipping that wheel to the side to sail right over that railing, down, down, down to end it all.

He opened his mouth and let out a low, long howl, catching air and dirt in his teeth, trying to release some of the agony in his chest.

Why did this hurt so much today?

Because of that woman. That sweet, warm, pretty, innocent, anxious, tentative, sexy woman who pressed every button he had and held them down until he wanted to scream.

She didn’t look a thing like his honey-haired Kate, didn’t have any similar characteristics—on the surface— that should ignite this old pain. But there was something.

Something that made him want to be honest. And that could be the last moment of security he ever knew. What was wrong with him? Fuck that job and forget that woman. Both of them were way too dangerous for him.

He flew down the other side of the arched bridge, heading into the congested traffic of a much more populated beach town than the one he’d just left. Maybe he should have put his helmet on. Especially in a place where there could be British tourists. Sure, he looked different from when he was Ian Browning, successful investment banker at Barclays, happy, decent, and normal. He was no longer the clean-cut, lanky businessman in suits and ties, but had his canvas of tattoos and shoulder-length hair changed him enough?