Instead of a blissful blanket of nothing, a pretty face teased his consciousness, eyes so big and brown that he wanted to fall into them, and a kiss that promised—no. They promised problems, that was all.
With a soft grunt, he rubbed his eyes, grit and exhaustion burning behind his lids. That face and those eyes slowly morphed into another…one much more familiar.
Rolling over, he smashed his face into the pillow, despising the punch of pain in his gut and the squeeze in his throat. No, no. Not tonight.
Think about the pretty girl and her sexy mouth and perky tits. Oh, hell, think about the jealous husband and desperate motel owner. Think about any fucking thing but—
Kate’s body on the dining room floor, a pool of blood spilling over the hardwood, the sound of two helpless infants screaming in their cribs.
Too late. He was there. Smelling the blood, hearing the cries, breathing in the anguish of a perfectly wonderful life snuffed out by the hand of a coked-up, crazed-out, black-hearted killer named Luther Vane.
“Oh, God.” His cry was muffled by the pillow and the fist he slammed into the mattress over and over and over until his shoulder throbbed like his poor, miserable heart.
His wife was dead and nothing would ever bring her back again. Not sex with a stranger, not a bottle of booze, not wind in his face. Nothing. Kate was dead.
Why couldn’t he just shove a pistol into his mouth and join her?
Because of Shiloh and Sam. As long as there was a ghost of a chance he’d see them again, he’d do anything…
And Ian fell farther and farther into the depths of his personal hell.
Tessa marched to the compost bin with purpose and anticipation for the next chore.
There was a reason she loved to compost, and it wasn’t simply the money they saved creating natural humus to fertilize the farmette grounds that provided so much food for the resort. Ever since she’d walked onto her first collective, fresh out of college with the totally useless degree in sociology, and the farm manager had stuck a pitchfork in her hand and told her to “turn the trash,” she’d enjoyed composting.
Of course, there had been a collective member by the name of Billy Fontaine hanging around that compost bin, and maybe he had something to do with her love of creating “black gold” from the unlikely mix of table scraps and dried leaves.
Approaching the side of the bin, Tessa took a deep breath, letting the earthy, natural scent calm her. Wiping the first stings of perspiration from her forehead with her sleeve, she opened the wire door and eyed the breakdown of this batch. The smell told her they were making progress, but it was time to turn and water.
Taking her pitchfork, she stabbed hard, instantly gratified by the strain of her muscles.
She fluffed for a long time, probably more than the pile required, but every poke of the pitchfork was relaxing to her. Each time she lifted a few layers, her mind slipped back to that first farm and that first true love.
She’d loved Billy, yes, but she couldn’t give him all the credit for the pleasures she discovered in gardening and farming. Growing something from nothing thrilled her; she loved the systems, the process, the bone-deep satisfaction of doing something a certain way—the only way, the right way—and getting exactly the desired result.
After a month on that farm, she’d known she’d found her calling in life. And after a few months with Billy, she’d thought she’d found the man who’d be the love of that life.
And he had been—for a while. She stabbed the fork into the heap, heaving a full load with a grunt, letting the old failure demons work as if they themselves held that pitchfork. Guess not everything gets the desired result, no matter how much you do things the right way. She’d failed in her marriage, failed at her attempts to be a mother, failed—
“Tessa, here you are!”
She spun at the sound of a man’s voice, surprised to see Clay Walker coming around the greenhouse. Lacey’s husband, and the resort’s main architect, rarely made it out to the gardens.
“Where else would I be?”
“At the resort, with Lacey.”
She drew in a soft breath. “Shoot. I was supposed to go over the chef apps with her, wasn’t I?”
“I told her I’d look for you on the way to the house. I need to relieve the sitter.”
“I thought Lacey had the baby with her today.” A little disappointment tugged inside her chest. The only thing she liked more than planting, harvesting, and composting was a chance to hold Elijah, and she’d planned to do just that while they reviewed resumes.
“No, she’s interviewing.”
“Interviewing?” That wasn’t right. “I thought we were going over the new applications first.”
“There was a walk-in who blew her away. She didn’t even want to leave to get Elijah—that’s why I’m going home.” He stepped back, obviously anxious to leave. “Better hurry, and so should you.”
She looked down at her khaki work shorts and boots and a T-shirt streaked with dirt. She had to interview a potential chef smelling like the compost bin?
Taking only the time she needed to wash her hands, she jogged across the western border of the gardens, past Rockrose, one of the prettiest and most secluded villas at Casa Blanca, and straight to the beach.
As she hustled along the walkway that cut through the property parallel to the shore, she looked out to the Gulf, noticing that the drier winds brought a slight wave to the usually calm swells. That meant the best shell- hunting possible.
Could this be the day she’d find a junonia?
She crossed a quaint bridge to the sand to take a faster route to the resort. Keeping her eyes down, she scanned the shell-laden beach, looking for
She was a practical and sensible woman who knew her secret game was flat-out silly. Finding a junonia didn’t really mean she’d find her lifelong dream. It wasn’t some imaginary “sign.” What she wanted didn’t come from a seashell, for God’s sake. But it was fun to play this game even as she bounded down the beach.
She paused at the sight of a chipped giant cockle, the brownish color close to the giraffe-like spots of the junonia, but she wasn’t fooled. She looked up to check how close she was to Casa Blanca’s picturesque hotel building, taking a minute to admire the view. The resort’s khaki-colored barrel-tile roof angled over creamy Moroccan-style archways always reminded her more of a sandcastle built on the shores of northern Africa than a typical Florida resort.
In a couple of minutes, she was close enough to see the upstairs pool deck peppered with a few guests enjoying a late breakfast.
So who was Lacey interviewing?
As she approached the employee entrance, Tessa took one more glance at the sand, slowing when she caught a glimpse of brown about ten feet away. Was that a jun—
“Tessa!” The back door popped open and Lacey’s coppery hair appeared in the sunlight, along with her not-so-thrilled expression. “I thought you’d never get here. Why don’t you answer your cell?”
Because it was probably under a pile of seed invoices in the greenhouse.
“Gosh, I’m sorry.” Tessa squinted at the shell, then Lacey. “I didn’t know we were interviewing anyone.”
Lacey didn’t say anything in response. Whoa, was she mad? Maybe. She leaned on the door, arms crossed over a pretty white sweater that hung down to her hips and showed off the figure she’d been working so hard to get back to pre-baby weight. Her expression was tight, and strange.
