Barefoot by the Sea

grueling infertility had been. “And the baby won’t be perfect because these are my eggs, which I harvested already.” Defensiveness lifted Tessa’s voice as she raised her beer bottle. “Or else I wouldn’t be drinking this.”

“But you need to line up a donor,” Lacey insisted.

“I’m thinking about that. I keep reading these horror stories about donors who lie or have six hundred kids running around and—”

“Didn’t I tell you to stay off the Internet on this subject?” Lacey asked.

Tessa ignored the comment and took a sip of beer. “I just haven’t made a decision how to handle that when it comes test-tube time.”

“Ugh, test tubes are so clinical.” Jocelyn groaned. “I still think you should try the old-fashioned way.”

Of course they’d all think she should. Her best friends were falling in bed every night with the men they loved. Lacey had a baby, and Zoe’s was due in five months. No doubt Jocelyn would be next.

“I tried the old-fashioned way for ten years with my ex-husband.” Tessa fought to keep any bitterness out of her tone but might have failed. “And now he’s the father of two kids, and I’m…” Alone. “Obviously not capable of getting pregnant by traditional methods.”

“But Joss is right,” Lacey insisted. “Maybe your infertility was Billy’s fault.”

Tessa angled her head and gave a “Get real” look. “Tell that to his children. Both of them.”

“I’m only saying maybe you should try the traditional way,” Jocelyn said. “There is such a thing as being inhospitable to certain sperm. It’s an acid and pH-balance thing.”

“I know all that.” Tessa halted the conversation with a flat hand. “Billy and I were experts on the subject of fertility.” Or futility, as he sarcastically called it. “I think the conversation was the only thing that kept us together so long. Once we gave up trying, our marriage fell apart.”

Zoe pulled her gaze from the bar to give a cynical choke. “Yeah, ’cause it had nothing to do with him boning a twenty-two-year-old yoga instructor.”

Well, there was that. Tessa studied the moon on her beer label but Jocelyn nudged her arm. “Tess, you need to make history, not change it.”

“Ah, the life coach speaks.”

“The life coach is correct,” Lacey said. “When was the last time you had a date? Gave a guy a chance? When was the last time you even thought about getting intimate with a man instead of a test tube?”

“I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question.”

“How long?” they asked in unison.

“Obviously, I think about sex, since I have a pulse. But a date? No. Not since I found out Billy was doing more than the downward dog with a fertility goddess. So, three years at least.”

They shared a suitably pitying look, further irritating Tessa. “Guys, we’ve been a little busy building a resort and I’ve started a functioning farmette from nothing.”

“None of us has been too busy to fall in love,” Jocelyn replied. “And, trust me, some of us did not have it on the to-do list.”

Lacey leaned forward, tightening her grip on Tessa’s hands. “She’s right. Look at the three of us. We’re living proof that love can happen when you least expect it.”

Tessa looked to the ceiling and breathed a sigh, mining for patience. She didn’t begrudge them their happiness, not one single bit. Since they’d met in college and especially since life and love had brought them all together in Barefoot Bay, these women had been sisters to Tessa. Their joy was her joy.

But staring all this love in the face every single day wasn’t easy. And think if they did succeed in making Casa Blanca a premier destination-wedding resort. All the guests would be lovestruck, too. Oh, kill me now.

“We want you to be happy,” Jocelyn said.

“And pregnant,” Lacey added.

The din of Mimosa Key locals blowing off steam competed with an old Fleetwood Mac song on the jukebox, but none of it was loud enough to drown out Tessa’s well-meaning friends. Or the truth.

“I don’t believe the guy exists who could make me happy or pregnant,” she finally admitted.

Lacey shook her head. “You don’t know that. Someone amazing could be right around the corner.”

“Someone amazing is right around the corner,” Zoe whispered, pointing to the bar. “And I’ve been studying him for the last twenty minutes. Let me tell you, if that man right there can’t make you happy or pregnant, then he can certainly make you scream for mercy. Probably a couple times a night.”

Jocelyn swung out of the booth to peer into the crowd. “Whoa. Is that a scorpion tattooed on his neck?”

“Lovely.” Tessa took a deep drink, refusing to look.

Lacey popped up to look over the back of their booth. “You mean that guy with the long hair and…damn. Those are some serious biceps. And triceps. And”—she squinted—“all ceps.” She slowly dropped back into her seat. “Speaking of smokin’-hot bad-ass sex gods.”

Tessa rolled her eyes again. “Excellent, since ‘smokin’-hot bad-ass sex god’ was at the top of my donor checklist.”

Jocelyn took another look, and then turned back to face the booth, her eyes wide like she’d seen something unspeakable. “He certainly looks like he’d make a potent…protein smoothie.”

Zoe’s smile wavered. “And, oh wow, I think he’s—”

“Enough,” Tessa ordered. “I don’t care if he looks like Channing Tatum’s twin brother.”

“He kinda does,” Zoe said. “Only hotter. Is that even possible?”

They couldn’t help it; they didn’t know what it was like to be in her position. “Guys, I was kidding, okay? I’m not going to walk up to some guy and say—”

“You don’t have to,” Zoe said softly.

Tessa closed her eyes and raised her beer bottle in the air. “Hey, smokin’-hot bad-ass sex god with the long hair and deadly tattoos, can you fill ’er up with some of your potent liquid gold?”

Silence. Dead silence.

Tessa opened her eyes. She felt the presence more than saw it in her peripheral vision. Something smokin’ hot, bad ass, and—

“Liquid Gold? Is that a local brew?”

Oh, man. Sex god was really kind of an understatement.

In Ian’s experience, they didn’t usually keep the best-looking one hidden like this. Normally, females used the real beauties as bait. But this girl hadn’t even gone out of her way to check him out. And that made the sweet- faced beer drinker begging for action even more appealing.

The blonde who’d been staring at him for the last ten minutes wasn’t his type. The one with the wild red curls sported a shiny gold wedding band, and the other one was a little too conservative for his tastes.

But the hottie tucked into the corner was just right, looking at him with wide eyes a shade darker than the amber beer bottle she slowly lowered to the table. She wore barely a hint of makeup, so Ian could see her creamy complexion deepen with a flush as they held eye contact for one heartbeat past casual.

“Beer’s a good choice in a place like this,” he said, rattling the ice in his rocks glass. “The scotch is watered-down piss.”

Surprise flickered in her eyes. Because of the curse word, or had the pisswater been enough to bring out his accent? After all these years, he should know better than to slip and give away his British birth.

“What was that beer called again?” he asked.

“It was…a joke,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear her over the bar ruckus.

“Can I get you something else, then?”

“No, thanks. I’m…fine.”

“You sure are.”

The other three reacted instantly.