Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1) (11 page)

“You are fearless.”

“I like that better than having a death wish.” But she wouldn’t be the first to suggest that his endless search to fill his days with dangerous adventures was his way of testing fate. “But the only wish I have right this minute is to do that again.” He dipped his head.

“Well, we don’t have an audience, so you better not.”

“I don’t need an audience,” he said gruffly, stealing another kiss on her temple. “Just because our engagement is fake doesn’t mean we can’t kiss.” He moved his lips down.

She drew back. “Kissing becomes making out, then making out becomes couch groping, then couch groping becomes…”

“A trip to the Jacuzzi for two.”

“Exactly!” She gave him a playful push backward. “And then the Dance of the Decades is the horizontal mambo. Is that what you want?”

More than his next breath. “Oh, no, of course not.”

Her eyes turned to slits. “You told me platonic.”

“I did, and I meant it.” He backed up, holding both hands up in surrender. “I won’t do anything to make you uncomfortable.”

“Too late,” she murmured, taking his hand and bringing him back.

“You’re uncomfortable?”

She shot him a look. “Hot, bothered, and seriously uncomfortable.”

“Sorry.” But he wasn’t. “I promise, no stripping down or making out or couch groping, whatever the hell that is.”

She gave a low grunt. “As if you don’t know.”

He draped an arm around her and started walking slowly toward their villa. “Pretty sure I skip that one with most women.”

She fell into step with him. “You find a lot of companionship on those adventure treks?”

“Some,” he admitted. “Nothing that, you know, matters.” As soon as he said it, he regretted the statement. He felt her stiffen slightly, like her guard had just risen to protect her.

And who could blame her?

They crossed the sand in silence, reached the path, and finished the short walk to Blue Casbah.

He used the card key to let them into the dimly lit villa, and she separated from him and turned, backing toward the bedroom.

“Good night,” she said softly, holding out her hand. He wasn’t sure if she wanted him to take it so she could pull him along with her or not.

So he closed his fingers around hers, lifted her hand, and kissed her knuckles lightly. “Good night, Emma.”

She stood still for a long moment, not pulling her hand away from his mouth, but just looking at him, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she took a step forward, pulled her hand from his lips, and replaced it with her mouth.

This kiss was light, sweet, and gave him a shocker of a rush, like falling into thin, clear air or finding the sweet spot on a black diamond run.

But before he could slide deeper down that steep slope, she broke the kiss, gave him a smile, and disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

She didn’t lock it, because she knew she didn’t have to. He’d be on the couch, groping nothing and no one, and probably not doing much sleeping at all.

Chapter Eight

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. I got you a present.”

Emma rolled over and blinked into the morning light, yanking herself out of slumber. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was or who was pounding on the door.

Oh yeah, her fake fiancé.

“Hang on,” she mumbled, pushing back the comforter and stepping out of bed, tugging the sleep shirt down to cover her thighs.
Sort of
cover her thighs. “What time is it?”

“Seven fifteen. Up and at ’em.”

She scowled at the door and pushed her hair off her face. And breathed into her hand. Oh hell no.

“One sec.” Good God, it was early. Wasn’t she on vacation? He probably climbed a mountain and jumped out of a hot air balloon before sunrise, and she…was so not a morning person.

In the bathroom, she swished with mouthwash and dared a look in the mirror. A little sleepy, a little tousled, but not horrible. Not as bad as when he’d found her snorting like a pig in pain on the step yesterday. And she wasn’t trying to impress him anyway, right? They were just doing this…charade together.
Right?

“Right,” she whispered, padding to the door and opening it.

Oh, not right. It wasn’t fair he looked that good at this hour.

“Greetings, sleepyhead.” He stood inches away, wearing nothing but loose-fitting shorts that hung low on his hips and absolutely no sign of a shirt. Abs. Pecs. Shoulders. Dusting of hair.

“Oh man,” she muttered.

“I’m an early riser,” he replied.

She forced her gaze north and blinked at his right hand, extended and holding a…a canister of biscuit dough?

“And you want breakfast from this night owl?”

“I don’t care if you bake them or not, but you’re opening this.”

She retreated a few inches. “You want me to wake up at dawn’s early light and…face my fears.”

“There’s no better time.” His smile widened, and he reached for her hand, turning it palm up to place the cylinder in her grip. “Come on, against the counter in the kitchen. Three times.”

“Oh, that sounds…”
Sexy as hell
. “Noisy.”

“You’re going to pound it until it pops.”

She burst out laughing as he pushed her into the main living area. “It’s too early for innuendos and puns.”

From behind her, he leaned closer, his lips in her hair. “Not too early to stare down what scares you and make it bow to you.”

“I’m not really that scared of a can of biscuits.” That bare chest, low voice, and warm breath, though? Definitely making the knees a little shaky.

“Then bang it.”

She bit her lip and looked up at him. “That sounds very, um, dirty.”

“Banging the biscuit tube? You Gen-Xers. What’ll you think of next?”

She laughed again, because how could she do anything else? “You want me to open this right now?”

“Before you even think about it. Just do it.”

“Is this some kind of weird adventure-seeking ritual you mountain-climbing, car-racing, parachuting types do? Get each other out of bed and jump off a cliff just to see if you can?”

He covered her hand with his. “You’re procrastinating.”

“You’re crazy.”

He lifted a brow and looked at the can. “Three…two…one…”

She inched back, cringing, and held the can to the counter’s edge. This was ridiculous. This was stupid. She glanced up, falling into ice blue eyes.

“Then…bang.”

And, just like that, she wanted to. Not just to conquer her silly little hang-up, but to show him how brave she could be.

Closing her eyes, she held her breath, lifted her hand, and thwacked, jumping backward into him with a tiny shriek when the pressure popped.

“You did it.” From behind, he wrapped both arms around her. “Want to try another one?”

She wanted to turn and kiss him. Couldn’t she work on
that
fear again? “Do I have to?”

“Two more times and you will reign over those biscuits.” She heard a plastic bag rustle. “I cleaned out the local convenience store and received a dressing down and inquisition from the old lady who still owns it and remembered me. All so you could conquer Mount Biscuit. You’re welcome.”

She glanced into the bag he held open next to her. Sure enough, five cans of Pillsbury Flaky Layers rolled around in the bag.

“We can’t just waste these biscuits,” she said.

“Exactly what the sourpuss owner of the Super Min said. I assured her we won’t waste a bite. Don’t make excuses, Emma. That’s what fear does to you.”

“We can’t eat thirty biscuits.”

“Of course not.” He pulled out another canister. “We’ll bake the three you’re going to open and drop them off at Heaven’s Helper, the food bank in town. My mom used to volunteer there, and they’d love a donation.”

Was he for real? “You want to bake bread for the homeless?”

“After you conquer biscuitcanphobia.” He put the tube in her hand. “Go ahead. Give it hell, Em.”

Em
. The way he said the single syllable made her almost moan out loud.

“All right. Here we go. Hell for Heaven’s Helper. How’s that for a headline?” She grabbed the tube, but this time, she didn’t close her eyes or step back.

She held her breath and slammed it against the edge of the counter, her shoulders jerking when it popped.

“Way to go,” he cheered. “Two down, one to go.”

“Why not?” She snagged the biscuit container from his hand, spun around, and whacked it so hard the biscuit dough almost fell out. Fearless. Smiling, she turned to him. “That was fun. I believe I am officially cured of this particular phobia.”

“That’s my girl.” He opened a few cabinets, locating a baking sheet, oblivious to the gooey, great way being
his girl
made her feel. “Can you preheat the oven?”

She just stared at him. She really shouldn’t want to be his girl. That was a recipe for disaster, not biscuits.

“Uh-oh. Don’t tell me you have a fear of ovens.”

She finally looked away at the stainless built-in, touching the screen to preheat. “Not afraid of ovens.”

Just…
heartache
. Not that he would intentionally hurt her. A man this fundamentally good? No. But if she let herself start feeling things she shouldn’t be feeling? Yes.

And she had every right to be afraid of that.

“You want a cup of coffee?” Mark asked, indicating the countertop coffeemaker, definitely on the wavelength where she should be.

She shoved her fears aside and considered the question, automatically curling her lip. “I’m kind of a coffee snob, but at this hour? I’d drink motor oil to get started.” Pulling the biscuits out of one of the open containers, she started placing them on a cookie sheet.

“There’s a coffee bar in the lobby if you require a toasted cinnamon caramel whipped peppermint swirl with salt and cream and your name on the side.”

“Ohhh, someone doesn’t like Starbucks.”

He laughed, finding a cup. “I like coffee in a tin cup around a fire before a good climb into the mountains.”

“After sleeping in a tent. How lovely.”

He leaned into her from behind. “Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.”

“I think I’d be scared of sleeping in a tent outside. Bugs and snakes and bears, you know?” She finished lining up the biscuits on the tray, then accepted the freshly brewed cup he handed her.

“And the occasional brown recluse in Death Valley.”

She closed her eyes. “No.”

“I killed it with a canteen,” he said calmly. “You never did answer my question last night. Why do you have all these random fears?”

She added cream and a heaping teaspoon of sugar, thinking about the question. “I don’t know. My mom was always sure disaster was right around the corner and, for her, it was. Disaster in the form of my dad’s next tall tale and…
diversion
.”

When the oven beeped, she slid the biscuits in and finally took a first sip of coffee, which she reluctantly had to admit wasn’t bad. Probably because it was made by the gods. Well, a god.

“So Dad was an issue?” he asked.

“Just a liar and a cheat, if that’s an issue.” She went around the counter and settled on a stool. “It was for my mother. It is for me.”

He nodded, his hands around a mug of steaming black coffee, his blue eyes locked on her. “And have any of these fears you have actually blown up in your face? Have you nearly lost a limb to a biscuit can?”

She felt the smile threaten. “Look who’s mocking now.”

“I’m just curious where this all comes from.”

She thought about it for a moment, realizing she’d never analyzed herself that much before now. And she certainly had never been with a man who showed so much interest.

Not even her real fiancé.

“One of my fears came true,” she said, surprised at how easy the admission rose. “The fear of walking into an empty house at night.”

“What happened?”

“I found my dad on top of the next-door neighbor.”

His jaw dropped. “Gross.”

“On so many levels, you can’t even imagine. But he couldn’t lie his way out of it when his thirteen-year-old daughter was the witness. At least my mom finally filed for divorce.”

“Wow.” He put the cup down and studied her. “That must have wrecked you.”

Again, the fact that he actually thought of it in terms of what the event did to her touched her. Folded her heart in half, to be honest.

“The divorce wrecked my mom more,” she told him, easily opening up on a subject she normally kept locked and hidden. “But mostly because she would have happily gone on believing his lies because she had a good life with a lot of money and friends. All of that dried up at the hands of a slimy divorce attorney.”

“So now you don’t trust men,” he said, as if it was so simple and he’d figured her out.

“I trust men,” she replied. “It’s liars and cheats I don’t trust.” The oven beeped as the aroma of buttery biscuits filled the kitchen.