Barefoot by the Sea

“A junonia.” He dragged the word out, rolling it around his mouth like a piece of sticky candy. “Never heard of that.”

“Well, if you hang around here long enough, you will. She’s the pride of the Gulf Coast barrier islands. Find a junonia and you get your picture in the paper and become the envy of all the shelling professionals.”

He laughed. “There are professionals?”

“Of course. And lucky beginners.”

“I bet I could find one.”

“Oh, the cockiness of a newbie. And if you do, I’ll kill you.”

“What’s it look like?”

“About this big.” She indicated about four inches with her thumb and index finger. “A spindle shape that’s technically known as a fusiform. Like that.” They stopped and she picked up a Florida cone, the most common spiral on the beach. “But the junonia has the most distinctive spots, like little brown squares, and it reminds me of a giraffe.”

“Really?” He hesitated and frowned. “That’s rare?”

“Oh, I know you think you’ve seen them, but a real junonia is nearly impossible to find, and goes for up to fifty bucks in a shell store. Also, because of its unusual shape and the fact that it doesn’t have this little ridge like other pillar shells”—she took his finger and ran it along the inside of the shell—“that’s called an operculum or a trap door. Anyway, it’s an amazing texture, and there’s a lot of folklore about it.”

“What kind of folklore?” He tucked her deeper into his side, a protective, interested, precious gesture that made Tessa almost tilt her head back and reach up for a natural, delicious kiss.

“Well…” Should she tell him? Would it scare him off? Would he think she was crazy? He already knew what she really wanted in this life and the very conversation had brought things to a fairly sudden halt twice now. But why lie? The last thing she wanted was a friendship or romance built on lies.

“It gets its name from Juno, the Roman goddess…” Of marriage and childbirth. “Who is generally considered a protector of women.”

“Ah, I see.”

But, he didn’t, of course. Not really. “So, I’d like to find one, because if I do…” She slowed her step and took a breath, finally looking up, her face at the perfect angle for that kiss.

“Yes?” he waited.

Then I will have a baby. “Then my…” She couldn’t say it. He’d slip through her fingers again, running scared and far, and right now, she couldn’t stand that.

“Then your what?” he prompted.

“Then my every dream will come true.”

He tucked her deeper into his side. “Sounds like a fairy tale.”

Maybe it was. “Like I said, finding one is really rare and almost never happens.”

“But not impossible.”

The way he said it made her light-headed with possibilities. She gave in to the sensation because, right that minute, nothing seemed impossible. Not hope. Not love. Not even finding a junonia.

Chapter Fifteen

The Batphone buzzed. Right in the middle of a sodding lunch rush.

Ian slipped the device from his pocket, knowing who’d sent the text before he looked; only Henry Brooker could reach him on this line and the only outgoing call the phone could make was to Ian’s government liaison. That made every contact urgent.

The text was simple, and short: Call me now.

Ian looked around the kitchen for help that wasn’t there, but then he’d only been running this kitchen for a few days. Still on abbreviated hours for food service, he was far too shorthanded to walk out. With one prep cook/dishwasher peeling and dicing and Marcus on the line, Ian was far more than an expediting head chef in this operation. He was up to his ass in crabcakes and steaks and no time to breathe, think, or take a piss, let alone find a quiet corner and make a critical call.

Orders from the floor were coming in at a steady clip, the small kitchen finally thrumming with something close to a solid heartbeat. Well, too bad. Nothing, no customers, orders, or rush, could keep him from calling the man who held the key to Ian’s future with his children.

Marcus cruised by, carrying a pan of veal chops from the oven. Anthony, a silent, hardworking prep cook who’d clearly been in a lot of restaurants but had near zero ambition, was head down, dicing ingredients for more pineapple salsa, an unexpected hit on the rum-soaked chops.

“Hey, Marc, can you cover this grill?” Ian asked. “I have to run out.”

The young man whirled around, disbelief in his midnight eyes. “Out?”

“Emergency. Can you flip these steaks to order and finish the crabcakes?”

Marcus raised the dish of veal, along with his eyebrows. “Got four orders for these and those customers are getting antsy as shit.”

They had been waiting, Ian agreed silently, scanning the room again to weigh his options. He could ignore Henry and get the orders up. He could threaten, cajole, or otherwise strong-arm Marcus and risk the chop customer’s order. Or he could walk and get fired.

In his pocket, the phone vibrated again. He knew what it said but looked anyway. One word, clear message: Now.

A cold sweat marched up Ian’s back and iced the nape of his neck. Left hand on the crabcake pan, right- hand thumb out, ready to check the temperature of the steaks, he bit down hard on his jaw.

“Got the fresh parsley and extra pineapples!” Tessa’s voice rang through the noisy kitchen as she sailed in the back door, carrying a bushel-sized basket of greens and vegetables.

Instantly, Ian felt better. He didn’t know why, because she certainly wasn’t the answer to his immediate problems, but that was what she did. She made him feel better. Until he got into bed at night and felt like shit on a stick for lying and pretending and totally fucking with her heart and head.

He squeezed his eyes shut. One problem at a time.

He glanced to the side to catch her distributing her garden goods. The instant they made eye contact, he felt the zing down to his toes and, from the look in her eyes, so did she.

At least he didn’t have to pretend that part. Didn’t pretend to like kissing her or holding her hand or making her laugh or listening to diatribes about seashells and saffron. He had to pretend to be someone he wasn’t and convince her she wanted to—

The phone vibrated again.

He checked the steaks and gauged the rest of the orders. If he could get these out and then—

“You look shell-shocked.” Tessa came up next to him, her cheeks flushed, her hair mussed, her smile as fresh as the food she carried. He didn’t return the happy grin, too torn by the vibrating phone, the half-cooked food, and the need for a savior right now.

“In the weeds.”

“I’d offer to help, but—”

“I’d take that offer.” He tapped the crabcake pan. “Can you flip them for me?”

“Now?”

“In a minute.” He angled the fork to the steaks. “Do you know how to test for doneness? Use your thumb. I have two medium rare, one rare, and one a hint under well with a bit of color left in it.” He waited a beat as the words hit her, clouding her eyes with confusion. “Tessa, can you cover for me?”

“Me?”

He grabbed a spatula and pressed it into her hand. “Just flip the cakes. Look for a deep gold, but no hint of brown, and turn them until you have the same thing on the other side. And the steaks you press until they feel…” How could he describe it to her? “You can do steaks, right?”

She lifted her brows. “He asked the vegetarian.”