Barefoot by the Sea

go with this.

“I don’t shy away from anything,” he finally said. “When I see something I want, I get it.” He gave her a hard, straight look.

Did he mean the job as chef or…her?

“So, what are you here to get?”

“My plan is that we start all over again.” Reaching down, he lifted her hand and very slowly drew off the gardening glove, sliding one finger out at a time out of the rough canvas. She couldn’t do anything but stare at his large, tanned, masculine hand undressing her much smaller one, her throat parched and every nerve ending dancing at the touch.

“We could shake on it,” he said, dropping the glove to the ground but still holding her hand. His skin was warm. A little rough, a little dry, but very warm. “But I’d rather do this.”

He lifted her fingers to his lips, barely brushing the knuckles, the sensation shooting fireworks down her arms. “To new beginnings, pretty Tessa. A new job, and a new…” He looked up from her hand and met her gaze, his own so serious she forgot to breathe again. “Friendship.”

For a moment, she stared at him, a thousand emotions erupting like a volcano in her chest. Disbelief and excitement and desire and disbelief and longing and—yeah, mostly disbelief.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Well, I’m not really trusting by nature, so I’m fighting the sensation that you might be full of shit.”

He laughed. “I deserve a chance.”

Did he? “And you’ll probably get one, but what happened?”

He lifted both brows. “I want the job.”

“So you’re suddenly Prince Charming? After being guarded, evasive, and walking out in the middle of an interview?”

He curled his fingers around her hand and sighed with resignation. “I guess I’m going to have to do some seriously high-quality groveling.”

“Major high,” she agreed.

“Let’s start with dinner tonight. We can finish the interview.”

Obviously, he didn’t know she’d called all his references and they glowed like polished gold, and he certainly didn’t know about the wedding planners and the urgent need for a chef. Instead, he’d come to grovel and take her to dinner.

“I’ll give you time to clean up and change for our date,” he said, as if she might be looking for an excuse to say no.

As if a groveling man offering dinner and looking like a sex god fell into her lap on a daily basis.

“I thought it was an interview,” she said.

He shrugged. “You call it an interview, I call it a date.”

“I call it a pretty remarkable turnaround for the guy who suggested a one-night stand of tongue-tattooing the last time we talked about going out.”

His smile was sinfully slow and so damn confident. “Haven’t you ever changed your mind about something, Tessa? Ever looked at a situation in the light of day and realized you’d need a new approach to get what you want?”

She tried to ignore the little thrill of his words and be smart about this. “What about trust?”

He lifted his brows. “What about it?”

“Did you change your mind about the advice you gave me in the bar? Or don’t you remember when your one word about trusting you was ‘Don’t’?”

She could have sworn a little bit of color left his face. “How else are you going to know if you should or not unless you have dinner with me?”

She couldn’t argue with that logic. Or maybe she just didn’t want to.

Chapter Eight

I think he’s kind of crazy, Lacey.” Tessa whispered into her cell phone, hoping the running water drowned out any chance of him hearing her. The bungalow where she lived on the edge of Casa Blanca’s property wasn’t big, and right now John Brown was prowling about her living room, waiting for her to shower and dress for a dinner date.

“But he did accept the job.” Lacey was completely stuck on the wrong point.

“Not technically yet, but this has nothing to do with work.” Tessa shook wet hair back to look in the mirror.

“Are you sure?”

“Should I wear makeup?” The question was more to herself than Lacey, but her friend gasped softly.

“Makeup? I’m sorry, I thought I was talking to Tessa Galloway.”

“Very funny.” She took a breath. “He’s all dressed up in khakis and a button-down shirt.”

“Bet he looks hot.”

“There are no words. And he came out to the vegetables and…” Kissed my hand. “Started courting me.”

“Courting?” Lacey laughed. “Who does that anymore?”

“I know, right? He’s up to something, I’m sure of it.” Tucking the phone in her ear, she pulled open the bathroom drawer to root for anything she could put on her face. Way in the back, she spied the mascara and blush Zoe had made her buy for Lacey’s wedding.

“You thought that this morning when he wouldn’t tell you anything, now he wants to take you to dinner, presumably to tell you all the stuff he didn’t tell you this morning, and you don’t trust him again. Listen to yourself, Tess.”

“Well, look at him.” And she had. Stared like he was a two-headed alien, as a matter of fact. “How can you trust a guy who looks like that?”

“’Cause he has some tattoos and hair that touches his shoulders?” Lacey tsked. “I told you, you are asking the wrong woman.”

So true. She let out a sigh and unscrewed the mascara wand, turning the foreign object in her hand. “I’m so not ready for this.”

“For what? For sex? For fun? For a hot guy on a cool night? For another chance at love?”

She rolled her eyes. “For mascara. And, please, love, Lacey? The man wants sex. He must have decided that since we’re going to work together, he has to pay for dinner first. But it’s still sex.” She opened her mouth in the “O-face” she’d seen Zoe make for mascara ever since they were roommates in college.

“And that’s a problem, how?”

“Seems like I called the wrong number, too.”

“What?”

“I thought I called Lacey but apparently I got Zoe.” She swiped the brush, darkening her lashes.

“Zoe isn’t the only one of your friends who wants you to know the pleasure of four orgasms. In an hour.”

She laughed, smudging the lid. “Shit. Who would do this every day?”

“Maybe five orgasms.”

“Excuse me, Lacey, you’re the mature one of this group. Aren’t you supposed to be wishing me happiness and not orgasms?”

“They usually go hand in hand.”

Tessa didn’t answer because she was too busy licking her finger to get it wet enough to wipe the mascara off. Which was stinkin’ waterproof. “Damn it,” she murmured, looking around for lotion. “I’m so ill equipped to do this.”