No Strings Attached (14 page)

“Check the city records,” she suggested. “The official bylaws allowed for expansion of the boardwalk and pier, but not much else. Go back in the archives and honor your founder’s wishes.”

The mayor eyed Sophie with respect. “You’re quite the historian,” he said. “I agree with you. Stop by the courthouse sometime. My office door is always open. I’d like to carry on our conversation. William was an interesting man.”

Dune caught her surprise. She was an encyclopedia on Barefoot William history. People had stopped to listen as she spoke about their town. A significantly large group circled them now. He could tell that they hoped she’d continue, but she didn’t. She seemed embarrassed to have drawn attention to herself.

A meeting with the mayor would boost her self-esteem. Dune wanted her to feel good about herself. He had yet to read William’s journals. Perhaps it was time to meet his ancestor through the man’s own words.

They mingled further and Sophie survived. He knew everyone from Barefoot William, which was nearly everybody present. He recognized a few people from Saunders Shores, but didn’t know their names. They were Trace’s business associates, who arrived late and left early. He imagined they wrote sizable checks to support parks and recreation.

“Full moon and I’m wanting to howl,” Mac James said as he came up behind them.

“Howl and I’ll muzzle you.” Jenna joined them, too.

Mac took a long pull from his bottle of beer. “I have the urge to skinny-dip.” He waggled his eyebrows at Sophie. “Are you with me?”

Sophie blushed. “I’m scared of the water.”

Her fear didn’t faze Mac. “No need to worry. I’ll hold you tight.”

“No, you won’t,” said Dune. Not tonight, not ever. The thought of Sophie naked with Mac tightened his gut. The fact Mac even suggested it rattled his cage. “Shaye would kill you if you flashed her guests.”

“I’d take him down before he shrugged off his suit jacket,” Jenna warned.

“I’d drag you down with me.” The look on his face was so suggestive, Jen punched him on the arm. He winced. “Lighten up. I’m out for some fun.” He finished off his beer. “I’m ready for another.”

“Three-beer limit, that was our deal,” Jenna reminded him.

“Buzz killer.”

Their exchange had Dune shaking his head. Mac was restless, bored, and about to do something stupid. He’d be a handful for Jen. Dune glanced at his watch, then took charge. “It’s close to two a.m. and the crowd’s thinning. Let’s call it a night.”

“What about sex?” Mac asked Jen.

“You have two perfectly good hands.”

“Guess I’m going home to make balloon animals with my condoms.”

“Blow softly. You don’t want them to pop.” Jen turned and walked down the boardwalk toward the parking lot.

“Worst date ever,” said Mac as he took off after her.

“I heard that,” Jen called over her shoulder.

“Worst, worst, worst,” Mac repeated.

Sophie watched them leave. “Not the worst, but the best,” she said. “Years from now their grandchildren will smile when they hear about their grandparents’ first date.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Dune. “They don’t even like each other. They’re acting like children.”

“I say they like each other a lot. They just don’t know it yet,” she said. “They’ll be engaged by the end of the summer.”

He couldn’t help himself. He laughed out loud. Sweet, romantic Sophie was dreaming. “You don’t know Mac like I know Mac. He’ll drop Jen at her house, then peel out, leaving rubber. He won’t think about her again.”

“She’ll be on his mind all night long.”

His brow creased. “What makes you so sure?”

“Mac likes the chase and Jen won’t be caught.”

That was true. However, Mac never pursued a woman who made him work too hard. He liked his relationships easy. He and Jenna rubbed each other the wrong way.

“Care to wager?” he asked.

She thought it over. “I’ve never gambled, so this might be fun. For every move Mac makes on Jen, I win a prize,” she said. “Something small, fun, nothing elaborate.”

Sophie was competitive. Dune liked that side of her. “For every day he avoids her, you owe me. I’m betting Mac never looks at Jen again.”

“I say he stops by the T-shirt shop on Monday.”

“I say you’re wrong.”

“I’ve decided to volunteer at Three Shirts next week,” Sophie told him. “I’ll be at the store when Mac shows up.”

“It’s going to be a long day with you watching the door.”

She yawned then and quickly covered her mouth. Dune saw she was tired. It had been an eventful evening. Sophie had outlasted most of the guests. She’d overcome several of her fears and lived to tell about it. He was proud of her.

“Shall we call it a night?” he asked. “The DJ and the bar have shut down and the clean-up crew just arrived.”

She lifted one foot, rolled her ankle, then admitted to him, “My feet hurt.”

He walked her toward a wooden bench. “Sit down and take off your sneakers.”

“Go barefoot?”

“Your feet will thank you.”

He helped her with a small knot in one of the laces and off came her dressy tennis shoes. She stretched out her feet, small feet with red marks across her toes. Her toenails were painted red. Sexy, he thought.

Sexy?
Not a word he usually associated with Sophie. There was something about her small, pale, shapely feet that made him want to start his hands low and work high, right up her body.

A jarring thought and one he dismissed as fast as it formed. It was time to drive her safely home, then walk her to the door and say good night.

Sophie stood up and sighed. He took her high-heeled sneakers and stuck them in the pockets of his sport jacket. She held out her hand, an unassuming gesture, but one that made her secure. He had no problem holding her hand. He rather liked it.

Neither spoke on the ride home. Anticipation settled between them. Dune felt it and wondered if Sophie did, too. A question weighed heavily on his mind: should he kiss her? He debated the kiss from every angle.

Pro: Her sweetness and innocence appealed to him. He’d always dated sun-bronzed beach babes who’d been around the block at least once and knew the score. He’d never take advantage of Sophie. He liked her. A lot.

Con: A solid friendship lasted longer than most lovers. Sophie had a romantic heart. Women often read more into a kiss than was actually there. He never led a woman on if he could help it.

A short time later he pulled the SUV into her driveway, then cut the lights and engine. The full moon turned the crushed pink seashells to gold. Dune helped her out and, being barefoot, she took to the grass as they walked to the door. Two outside lanterns lit the entrance. They stood beneath their amber cast.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” she said. “It meant a lot to me.”

“I had fun, too.” And he meant it.

Neither moved, they only stared, for a very long time. Her gaze was wide, hopeful, expectant. Time seemed to stop, as if waiting for him to make his move. He’d yet to decide what move to make.

The Sneaker Ball was a big night for Sophie. Memories were important to her. Ruffling her hair was out of the question. A handshake seemed lame. He went with the kiss.

Slowly, gently, he framed her face with his hands. Her skin was pale and smooth. Youthful. The pulse in her throat quickened. She was fragile and feminine. Genuine, giving, and kind. She had a good heart. And a kissable mouth, sweet and generous. Inviting. He found himself studying every detail of her face, taking his time, making every second count.

He leaned toward her and she lifted slightly on her toes. They came together. The front of his starched shirt pressed her fan-pleated bodice. His knee sought space between her thighs. He supported her against him.

She gave an involuntary sigh.

His throat was suddenly tight.

The brief brush of their lips quickly complicated his life. She was a woman worth kissing. His chaste kiss soon deepened. She kissed him back, softly at first, fitting her mouth to his, responsive and seeking.

She clutched his forearms, a woman of trust and innocence. Their kiss was as perfect as any he’d ever known. Her inexperience excited him a little too much. Heat swelled between them. His body stirred. He’d lingered too long.

He eased back and released her. Her eyelids were heavy, her green gaze veiled. His after-midnight stubble had scratched her cheek. Their scents mingled: her vanilla, his lime, and their arousal.

She was Trace’s sister, he reminded himself, a young woman with a lot of world to conquer. She would continue her summer adventures with or without him. He planned to keep an eye on her. It wouldn’t be a hardship. He could teach her to swim, maybe even to drive, when she wasn’t busy seeking her career.

He needed to leave now before his dick talked him into staying. “’Night, Sophie,” he managed to say.

She fished her key out of her purse, inserted it in the lock, and gave him a small smile. He then passed her the high-heeled sneakers he’d kept in his jacket pockets. She opened the door and stepped inside. The slide of the dead bolt and beep of her security system called it a night.

He took a solo walk back to the Tahoe.

Six

T
he front door to his grandfather’s stilt house hit Dune in the ass when he entered. His granddad lived ten miles from the beach, preferring to distance himself from the tourist trade. He had an orange grove along with grapefruit, banana, and peach trees. He liked to pick fresh fruit.

Dune rubbed the back of his neck. He was tired and moving slow. Sophie lingered on his mind. All he wanted was a good night’s sleep. It wasn’t to be.

There was a two-man party in the living room. Mac James sprawled on a papasan chair. The chair was large and bowl-shaped with a gold cushion. Zane was stretched out on the couch. The men wore only their boxers.

Mac’s boxers were white with big red lips down the fly. Most likely a gift from some woman he’d dated. His pin-up girl tie draped over one shoulder. A flex of his pec and she appeared to wiggle.

Mac’s lower lip was cut and slightly swollen. Dune frowned. Surely his partner hadn’t gotten into a fight after leaving the pier. He didn’t want an explanation on what had happened. He’d save his questions for morning.

Empty LandShark Lager bottles littered the coffee table. The guys were tying one on. They played Best-Ever, he noted, a drinking game that drew heavy debate. Their raised voices drowned out the television infomercial for organic nuts and juices. The present topic centered on the best outfielder of all time. Their discussion was getting heated.

“Has to be the Phillies third baseman, Mike Schmidt,” said Zane. “He hit four home runs against the Chicago Cubs in nineteen seventy-six. He earned ten Golden Gloves and was a three-time National League Most Valuable Player.”

“Shortstop Cal Ripken was a member of the three-thousand-hit club,” Mac shot back. “He hit more home runs than any other shortstop in the history of Major League Baseball.”

“My vote is for Stan Musial,” Dune said as he crossed the room. The stilt house was old, but never smelled musty. It had a lived-in feeling that took him back to his youth; back to family cookouts, games of hide-and-seek, and lazy afternoons on the porch swing.

There was hominess in the faded and frayed blue-and-green braided rugs that scattered the hardwood floor. The hutch in the corner had three good legs. Puppy teeth had gnawed an inch off the fourth. No one had scolded Ghost.

His grandmother’s commemorative and collectible plates gathered a light film of dust on the shelves. Nineteen-fifties sheet music was propped on the upright piano. His Grandmother Emma had tried to teach Frank to play, but he’d gotten no further than “Chopsticks.” “Our duet,” he’d called it.

Stacks of newspapers and magazines crowded the La-Z-Boy recliner. His grandfather wasn’t a pack rat or a hoarder. He got rid of items when he was darn good and ready and not before.

The man was eighty-six. He could do whatever the hell he wanted as far as Dune was concerned. He might suggest a cleaning woman come in once a week. Someone who’d keep up with Frank’s laundry and chase dust bunnies. Someone who did windows.

He slipped off his sport jacket and tie, then shoved Zane’s legs off one end of the couch and dropped down. He grabbed a beer, leaned back, and stretched his arms along the low back. He returned to the conversation at hand. “Musial had quick feet for a first baseman and was a strong base runner. He was an All-Star twenty-four times and hit twelve walk-off home runs for the Cardinals.”

“You three don’t know baseball,” Grandfather Frank said as he joined them. He wore pajama bottoms and an old robe. He was a tall man and still carried himself well. His face was weathered and he had bed head.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Park it,” said Mac.

Frank settled on the worn La-Z-Boy and reclined. He yawned widely. He was a widower of twenty years and still missed his wife. She’d been the love of his life. He slept only a few hours a night, claiming he hated sleeping alone. He was loyal to her memory.

Frank was both ally and friend to his grandsons. They often crashed at his place when they were in town. He didn’t mind their noise and bickering. The cedar stilt house wasn’t very big and, with three additional grown men, the wood stretched at the seams.

“You three are forgetting Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, and Ty Cobb,” Frank stated. He expanded on their greatness. Zane and Mac went on to drink another beer while Dune’s thoughts shifted to Sophie Saunders and their good night kiss.

The sweet kiss had him wondering if and when he could kiss her again and if the second kiss would be as good as the first. He was certain that it would be, maybe even better.

He’d see her again tomorrow. They’d made a bet, an easy win for him. Mac wouldn’t show up at Three Shirts. When he didn’t, Dune would collect a winner’s kiss. A good prize—

“Dude, you’re drifting.” Zane kicked Dune in the calf to get his attention, far harder than was necessary. “We’re going to order pizza. Are you in?”

“Make mine with the works,” he said. “Who delivers at this hour?”