Unafraid (Beachwood Bay) (4 page)

I would spend hours working to transform the old clothes, graduating from a needle and thread to an old secondhand sewing machine. My early attempts ended in disaster most of the time, but by the time I started high school, I could whip up a cute tank from an old sweatshirt, and turn an oversize pair of jeans into a cutoff skirt. I would never be one of the popular girls in their fashionable jeans and store-bought shirts, but at least I didn’t look like I was desperately trying to keep up with them and be something everyone knew I wasn’t.

These days, I’ve moved on from just altering stuff. Now my sketchbooks are filled with wild, outlandish designs: amazing dresses, bold and crazy—and totally impractical for life in Beachwood Bay. I keep most of them in my imagination, but some, I can’t help but try to recreate. I sew them from scratch, painstakingly cutting patterns and mock-up canvas until finally, I can risk it with the real fabric and bring to life something that once only existed in my mind.

I daydream half the afternoon away, until Emilia finds me, poring over lace samples to use as a trim on a camisole top. She clucks her tongue, guiding me away, “This is no the good stuff. I have some, I put aside special for you.”

“You’re a gem.” I smile, following her to the back of the store. Emilia always saves me the good stuff: the odd-sized ends of a roll, and scraps of expensive fabric other buyers don’t think to bother with. Good materials cost more than I can afford, so I make do with what I can find, and usually, a slip of silk will inspire some new design in my sketchbook—even if I can’t afford to make the whole thing a reality.

Emilia digs out a basket from under the table, and spreads her wares for me to see: thin swatches of the lace I’m looking for, delicate as silken spiderwebs but bright in black and red; ribbon trims; a length of bold, orange printed satin; and more of the stiff, scratchy canvas I use to mock up my designs and fix the patterns before I graduate to real fabric.

“This is perfect,” I tell her, stroking the lace. I’ve been doing more lingerie-inspired pieces this year, adding flashes of lace and silk trim to camisoles and bra tops. I love how wearing something bold against my skin makes me feel extra-daring, like I have a secret nobody knows. “You’re the best.”

Emilia waves away my compliments with a smile. “What you work on now? Something pretty, maybe. You always so dark, aggressive. Try a little lightness…” She offers me a cotton in sprigged pink, but her suggestions fade as I look past her to the next table.

“When did these come in?” I ask, drawn forwards as if I’m pulled by some magnetic force. The table is covered in bolts of silk, every color of the rainbow, shimmering and lustrous even under the cheap lights.

Emilia follows, looking at the fabric proudly. “Just this week, my guy in India.”

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, stroking the silk. It’s soft under my fingertips, draping and folding in a gorgeous, heavy sway. I lift a length of the purple. It’s deep as midnight, with a rosy-colored sheen. I could drown in the depths of the color. I feel a shiver of anticipation. I can see the dress already: simple, floor-length, strapless. Timeless.

“How much?” I ask.

I know from Emilia’s pause that it’s more than I can afford, but I don’t care. Suddenly, I have to have this fabric. “I’ll take it,” I tell her, before she can answer. It’s probably more than my earnings for a month, but it’ll be worth it. This fabric is made to be mine.

Emilia gives me a knowing smile. She’s probably seen it a hundred times, the spell a piece of material can cast over you. “I’ll go cut,” she tells me, whisking the bolt away before I can have second thoughts. Before I know it, I’m out on the street again, my heart racing—half in shock at the amount of cash I’ve just parted with, and half with nervous exhilaration at my find. But as I drive back to Beachwood, the excitement takes over, and the thought of what those bags hold. Dresses have never really been my thing—not unless they’re cut to stun guys into submission—but this fabric is crying out for something sweeping and elegant. Not a fairytale princess dress, all frou-frou and glitzy, but something bold: the kind of dress that would stop you in your tracks.

I’m still swept up in plans for my precious bolt of silk when I pull into the drive back at the beach house and find a strange truck already parked up front, this one even more dusty and battered than Garrett’s.

And behind it, sitting on the front porch steps, leaning back on his elbows like he owns the place, is Hunter.

“How did you find where I live?” I demand, slamming the car door behind me.

He unfolds his limbs and stands, coming down the steps to meet me. “I asked around.” Hunter replies. He’s wearing another of those preppy Oxford shirts and a pair of jeans that fit way too good. “Small town hospitality,” he grins happily, “It really can’t be beat.”

“It’s a treat, alright.” I mutter. This is something else I won’t have to deal with when I get out of town: people dropping by unannounced, without any warning.

Without any time for me to prepare.

“The lady at the café even wrote me out directions.” Hunter holds out his hand to show pen marks scribbled on his palm. He’s so casual and relaxed, it’s like he’s totally oblivious to my hostility.

His gaze drops to my bags. “Been shopping, huh?” Hunter reaches to help, but I duck past him, heading inside. He follows me through the hallway and back to the living room, which I’ve set up at my temporary studio. Fabric samples are piled on the table, my sewing machine sits under the window to catch the best light, and there’s a dress form in the corner wearing an unfinished negligee.

I dump my bags on the table and turn, my hands on my hips.

“What do you want?”

The edge of Hunter’s mouth quirks in amusement. “What do you want?” he echoes. “That’s it? No, ‘How you been?’ ‘What are you up to?’ ‘Sorry for ditching you three years ago?’”

Is he for real?

“I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Hunter continues, glancing around the room. He wanders over to the corner, looking closely at the nightgown I’m working on. “Finished college, the folks are doing great. What about you?”

“Spectacular.” I bite out. “Will you—don’t touch that!” I leap across the room to stop him from pulling my work-in-progress apart. Hunter stands back, hands up in surrender.

“Sorry. This is great, you do all this yourself?”

“Had to do something to pass the time.” I drawl, crossing my arms protectively over my chest. “I don’t spend my life waitressing, you know.”

“I didn’t think you did.” Hunter’s smile fades, and he looks at me for a moment with an unreadable expression. “It’s good to see you again, Brit.”

The sound of my name, soft on his lips, does something to me. A shiver rolls right through my body, delicate and sweet. I remember the touch of those lips, kissing their way across my skin. Suddenly, this room is way too small, and Hunter is standing way too close.

Close enough to kiss.

“So now we’re all caught up, maybe you can answer my question,” I snap, retreating behind the safety of my sewing table. “Like I said before, what do you want?”

“I’m just being neighborly. I took over my grandpa’s ranch,” he explains. “You remember, it’s a couple of miles that-a-way.” He nods in an eastward direction.

My heart drops. “You moved here? You mean, you’re staying?”

Hunter seems amused by the shock in my voice. “Looks like it. Wait, I brought you something.”

While I’m left reeling from that bombshell, Hunter disappears back out to the porch, re-emerging a moment later with a familiar green-patterned bakery box.

Krispy Kreme. A full dozen.

“You bought me donuts,” I mutter, my head spinning.

“I thought about flowers, but I remembered, you always had a sweet tooth.” Hunter grins at me, proud as a little kid as I dumbly take the box. The scent of sugar and fried dough drifts up, and despite myself, my mouth starts to water.

He brought me donuts. I don’t think any guy’s ever given me a thing, save a warm six-pack of beer and a morning after filled with regret.

Hunter watches me. “So, you want to have dinner with me to say thanks?”

Wait, what?!

“Dinner?” I repeat. “Like, a
date
?”

And I thought this encounter couldn’t get any stranger.

“You say it like it’s a dirty word.” Hunter teases. “Yes, a date. We’ll go eat some food, make small talk, fight over who pays the check.” He strolls closer, just the narrow table between us now. “Just so you know, I’ll win that one,” he adds, reaching over to take a cruller from the bakery box, still open in my arms. He bites down and smiles at me, his lips dusted with powdered sugar. “I don’t care what you say about equality and women’s lib. My mother raised me to be a gentleman, and a gentleman always pays.”

I blink at him, stunned.

Hunter Covington. Here in my living room. Munching on a donut, and asking me out to dinner.

There’s only one thing I can say to this.

“No.”

Hunter chews thoughtfully. “Why not?”

“A girl doesn’t need a reason to turn you down.” I reply archly, struggling to cling on to my last shred of control. “I don’t want to, that’s enough.”

“But you do want to.” Hunter reaches for the bakery box again. I snap the lid shut.

“Oh yeah?” I’m getting pissed at his arrogance now. Or maybe it’s because he’s not buying my ‘keep away’ act, when every other guy in town would have cut bait and bailed for an easier target by now.

“Yeah.” Hunter fixes me with a knowing look. “You want to spend time with me. You want to hang out, and laugh over a couple of drinks, and have me kiss you senseless on the front porch out there when I bring you home. So why don’t you drop this bullshit tough girl act, and give me one good reason why not.”

Kiss me senseless…

My mind races. How can he see through me like this? What can I say to make him leave me alone?

“I’m working!” I finally blurt, but the words make me glance over to the clock above the mantle, and I realize that my excuse is true. “Shit, I’m late. Garrett!” I exclaim.

Hunter’s face darkens. “Is Garrett your boyfriend?”

I’m tempted to lie, but that would only drag this out longer. “My boss.” I drop the donut box to the table, grab my purse and head for the door. “Or rather, soon to be ex-boss, if I don’t get my ass to Jimmy’s in the next five minutes.”

I steam outside, this time glad that Hunter follows on my heels. “You need a ride?” Hunter offers.

“I can take care of myself.” I lock up, and head for Garrett’s truck without another look.

“Think about what I said,” Hunter calls after me. “You, me, a bottle of wine, the lame excuse for fine dining this town has to offer. You’ll have fun, I promise.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” I yell back, starting the engine. “I’d rather pull teeth.”

Hunter’s laughter echoes after me as I squeal out of the driveway. When I glance in my rearview mirror, he’s standing there on the front porch, golden in the setting sun, reaching into—

Damn. He took the donuts.

I rush into the bar, breathless and apologetic. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” I yelp, grabbing my apron and yanking the ties into a knot around my waist. “I know, I’m late.”

“That’s OK,” Garrett sounds chill, and when I get it together enough to look around, I realize why. “This is Jade,” he says, introducing me to the cute, African American girl already wearing her work apron. She’s standing by the bar, gazing adoringly at Garrett. “She’s going to be helping out now that Melissa is gone.”

“I bet she will.” I give Garrett a glare, then switch on a smile for poor Jade. She doesn’t know what she’s in for. “Welcome to Jimmy’s. You need me to show you around?”

“Already covered.” Garrett interrupts me, flashing Jade an irresistible grin. “Why don’t you head on back and grab me some paper napkins from the store room?”

“Sure thing, boss!” Jade disappears down the hallway.

Garrett watches her go. “I like the way she says that.
Boss
.”

I lean over the bar and punch Garrett in the arm.

“Oww!” he glares. “What was that for?”

“That was for Jade.”

“I haven’t laid a finger on her!” Garrett protests.

“And she’s been here all of ten minutes.” I roll my eyes. “You must be getting sloppy.”

“You make it sound like I’m some lecherous old perv.” Garrett puts on his wounded, puppy-dog face. “I can’t help it if women find me irresistible.”

“What a dreadful curse, my heart breaks for you!” I slide his keys across the bar. “Here,
boss
. The truck’s right outside, I even filled her up with gas.”

“Thanks.” Garrett takes the keys and sets about taking down the chairs from the tables and getting the bar ready for opening. He pauses, looking over at me. “You good?” he checks.

I nod.

“Sure?” he asks, awkward. “Because if you want to talk about it…”

“And then we braid our hair and paint our nails and talk about boys?” I joke, trying to change the subject.

Garrett laughs, clearly relieved. He’ll happily beat Trey to a pulp for me, but he’s more the playful, joking type—talking about feelings is definitely not his thing. “I don’t know how much braiding you’ll get done with this,” he runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair.