Barefoot by the Sea

nothing from landowners who wanted out after the storm. From there, she built this.”

He nodded, mouth turned up in approval. “She’s a driven woman.”

“Two years ago, Lacey would have guffawed in laughter over that statement. She was the original self- doubter. But then…” She smiled, thinking of her closest friend’s remarkable transformation. “Clay Walker showed up on this beach and she’s been a firecracker ever since.”

“Ah, the love of a good man and all that.”

The comment slipped under her skin, and it shouldn’t have, so she nodded, pretending to enjoy the view.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“Pretty much from the beginning. My divorce was final around the same time as the hurricane and we—Zoe and Joss and me—all gathered here to help Lacey. I liked the area and decided to settle here and start the gardens and oversee a lot of the landscaping. Now Joss and Zoe are here, so…”

He gave her a sideways smile. “So there are a lot of roots taking hold around you, aren’t there?”

Asked the man who moved in with a weekend’s worth of clothes as all his belongings. She attempted a shrug in response. “It’s great to live near my friends. Like I told you, they’re family to me.”

He didn’t respond to that but put a warm, strong hand on her back to guide her to the stone trail that cut through the property.

“As far as your commute,” she said, “you have two choices to get to work. This path, which will take you through the entire resort to the main building.” She gestured toward the canopy of live oak trees mixed with several different kinds of palms that lined the wide walkway, meandering more or less parallel to the beach. “Or cross the bridge and walk the beach.”

“Which do you prefer?” He took her hand, the most natural move that sent the most unnatural thrill through her.

“Depends on my mood,” she said.

“What kind of mood are you in now?”

She made no attempt to unthread their fingers. “Let’s see. Unsure? Surprised? Maybe a little tense?” And happy, excited, and wary.

He brought those joined hands a little higher, closer to his mouth. Was he going to kiss her hand again? “Tense? You’re taking a walk. It’s perfectly harmless.”

“Harmless?” She gave a soft snort. “No one could look at you and call you harmless.”

“I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“But you could destroy a woman’s heart.”

The slightest shadow of a reaction darkened his eyes. It was gone before she could grab hold of it, but she knew what she’d seen. Guilt. He’d probably thought all about the baby issue, and decided to…

Come and hang out with her.

She waited a beat, so he could contradict her accusation, but he didn’t.

“Points for not denying the truth,” she said softly.

“I wouldn’t destroy a woman’s heart on…” His voice faded.

She laughed softly. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—even say “on purpose.” “I’ll give you this, John Brown. You’re not a liar. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your honesty.”

He bit his lip, letting out an exhale, that darkened expression clearing again. “What I am,” he finally said, dragging his gaze to her face, “is interested in everything you have to say and do.” He lifted their hands again, and this time he did put his lips on her knuckles, holding her gaze as he kissed.

Just relax and enjoy, Tess. She smiled at him, listening to her mental instructions and those of her friends for the past, well, thirty-eight hours. The girls had pronounced him perfect, utterly focused on how nurturing he was with Elijah.

Maybe they were right and she’d rushed him with the baby talk. Spooked him again. He was looking for sexy time and there she’d gone proclaiming her baby dreams one more time.

Vowing to keep those dreams in the background, she gave him a purposely coy smile. “You want to see my pride and joy?”

“Yes.” The answer, without a second’s hesitation, earned him more points.

“Then we’ll take the path and start right here.” She pointed to the shrub bursting with fuchsia-and-white blooms. “Because it shows some of my best work.”

“Is this a hibiscus?” He fingered one of the flowers, the petals appearing delicate in his large, masculine hands.

“Actually, no, but that’s an understandable mistake. And to be honest, anyone could grow hibiscus in Florida; it’s just this side of a weed. But this isn’t.” She touched a flower. “This is rockrose, which is the name of that villa.” She indicated the cozy one-bedroom villa about twenty feet away. “All of the villas at Casa Blanca are named for flowers, herbs, and spices that are indigenous to Morocco and North Africa.”

“The inspiration for the architecture and the name?” he asked.

“Exactly. And I took it as my personal challenge to grow each one of the plants outside of the villa that bears its name. And, let me tell you, it was a challenge growing some African plants in Florida. But every single one is thriving.” She tugged his hand, pulling him down the path to the next villa. “Come see the best one.”

They wound around the curve of the path to the gates of the next villa and she pointed to the twenty-foot- long bed where she’d spent an inordinate amount of time trying to coax the purple crocuses to life. About a dozen blooms remained, but two months ago there’d been almost a hundred. “They’re not as robust as they were in September, but still…” She kneeled in front of the flowers. “I’m proud of those blooms.”

He crouched next to her, touching the withered petal gently, then sniffing. “Saffron?”

“Exactly, and that’s the name of this villa.” She beamed at him. “Of course a chef would recognize that.”

“One of my favorite ingredients, living in Singa—” He shut his mouth quickly, flinching almost imperceptibly. “Saffron is one of my favorite spices.”

She frowned, certain he was going to say “Singapore,” but there’d been no mention of that city when he’d given her his life’s history at dinner or on his resume. “Did you live there?” she asked. After a beat of silence, she added, “In Singapore?”

“Very briefly.” He studied each petal of the crocus intently, as though he’d never seen one so close before. “Between California and Nevada.”

“That’s quite a detour between those states.” Living in the Far East was a fairly major piece of a person’s background. Why not mention it? “How long were you there?” she prodded.

“Not very. It was more like an extended vacation. Too short to count as actually living there.”

Except he’d just said he’d lived there.

“Do you use this in the kitchen?” he asked quickly, brushing the orange stigma with a feathertip touch. “Or are these for show?”

“I can’t grow enough to dry the stamen for cooking, but I have a good supplier if you really want saffron in your recipes.” She stood slowly, the oversight on his past still pressing a familiar hot button: secrets. Not to mention men who lie about where they’d spent time.“Why didn’t you mention living in Singapore when you told me your life story?”

He didn’t look up. In fact, she could have sworn his fingers stilled. “It didn’t seem that important.” He flicked the flower. “Were these hard to grow?”

Did he really care about the flowers, or was this a way to keep her from asking more questions?

“Hard enough. How long were you there?”

“I’ve heard they travel deep in the soil and lots of people think they’re dead when they’re just deep.”

She frowned at him, processing the comment on one level, but stuck in Singapore on another. “That’s exactly what happened,” she said. “I thought I’d failed completely when I couldn’t find one bulb with life. But when I went to dig them out and start over, I realized the bulbs must have grown legs because the roots were deep in the soil.”

He still didn’t look up, working his way to the next blossom. Something about this conversation was way, way off.

“It wasn’t that long.” He looked up at her. “That I lived there, I mean.”