No Strings Attached (2 page)

Dune figured everyone would forgive and forget once Shaye became pregnant. She and Trace wanted to start a family. Dune anticipated her announcement any day now. No one would want to miss the birth of the couple’s first child.

He absently rubbed his wrist. He’d played a big part in Barefoot William’s financial recovery, only to suffer for it later. Tendonitis was a bitch. Freak accidents occurred in all sports. Some were career-ending.

He’d taken a dive at the South Beach Open and fallen on his outstretched hand prior to his hometown tournament. He’d suffered a scaphoid fracture.

His orthopedist put him in a short, supportive cast and recommended that he not take part in the event. Dune refused to let his family down. He managed to serve and spike with one hand as well as others could with two. He’d played through the pain.

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have participated. He’d aggravated his fracture further. Despite additional surgery and extensive therapy, he never regained full strength in his fingers and wrist.

He was a man of quick decisions, yet the thought of retirement left him feeling restless, indecisive, and old.

Sophie was so young. She was twenty-five to his thirty-six. Their age difference concerned him. He’d dated sweet young things, all worldly and experienced. But Sophie was unlike any woman he’d ever met. She was sensitive and vulnerable, and made him want to protect her.

He preferred no strings attached.

Here she was now twenty feet from him, her head down, watching her steps so she didn’t fall. She made it onto the boardwalk without mishap and visibly relaxed. Her sigh and small smile indicated she’d accomplished a great feat and was proud of herself.

Mac stared at her, too. “It’s Sophie. Damn, she’s cute. Let’s go talk to her.”

Dune hesitated. “Let’s see where she’s headed first.”

He removed his Suncats, a brand of sunglasses he’d recently endorsed on the tour. The lenses were small and oval with a dark olive tint. The sporty frame never slipped down his nose, even when he sweat or wore sunscreen. He hooked the sunglasses at the neck of his white polo.

Sophie was slow to move. It took her several minutes to catch her breath. Once she had, she entered Crabby Abby’s General Store. The cherry red door caught on her rubber boot heel. She shook her foot until it released.

“Let’s follow her,” Mac said, tossing his coffee cup and the bakery box into a trash receptacle. “I need my Sophie fix.”

Still Dune held back. “She’s working.”

Mac looked skeptical. “In that outfit?”

“She has a change of clothes inside,” he said. “Abby’s employees all wear shorts and a tank top.”

“What’s she doing on your boardwalk?” Mac asked. “Padding her trust fund?”

Dune shook his head. “She doesn’t need the money. According to my sister, Sophie’s trying to find her niche in the working world.”

“Her niche wasn’t Saunders Shores?”

“Not from what I understand.” Dune then shared what Shaye had told him. “Sophie’s shy and has struggled to fit in. She spent time at Trace’s office, the Sandcastle Hotel, several boutiques and bistros, but nothing appealed to her. She’s yet to settle on a career.”

Shaye had further mentioned that the elite businesses overwhelmed Sophie, a fact Dune chose not to share with Mac. Sophie was quiet, reserved, and avoided crowds whenever possible. She was drawn to couture, but found it difficult to outfit upscale clientele.

Food service was not her strong suit, either. She’d messed up orders and dropped trays. She hadn’t been fired, but the owners were relieved when her ventures took her elsewhere.

Dune ran a hand along the back of his neck, blew out a breath. “My sister’s taken a special interest in Sophie,” he said. “Shaye suggested she explore job opportunities on our boardwalk. Sophie refuses to be paid, so she’s volunteering.”

“She may like Barefoot William so much she decides to stay,” said Mac.

Sophie as a permanent fixture on his boardwalk made Dune uneasy. He hoped that wasn’t the case. He wasn’t certain he wanted her here full-time. She was too nice, too naïve, and too in need of a keeper. She’d prove distracting.

He wasn’t in town long enough to watch over her. Nor did he have anyone in mind to appoint to the task. No one he’d trust, anyway.

He could easily understand her fascination with his hometown. The Cates’s northern cement boardwalk linked to a wooden pier that catered to fishermen, sun worshippers, water sport enthusiasts, and tourists who didn’t wear a watch on vacation.

Amusement arcades and carnival rides drew large crowds. The specialty shops sold everything from Florida T-shirts to ice cream, sunglasses to sharks’ teeth, and shells to Hula-Hoops.

A century-old carousel whirled within a weatherproof enclosure. Its walls of windows overlooked the Gulf. The whir of the Ferris wheel was soothing, while the swing ride that whipped out and over the waves sent pulses racing.

Neon lights flashed at night and music poured from many of the shops. People danced down the boardwalk, free and uninhibited. Many played blacklight volleyball on the beach. Glow-in-the-dark Frisbees were tossed along the shoreline. A few tourists skinny-dipped near the pier after midnight. Barefoot William was as honky-tonk as Saunders Shores was high-profile.

Waterfront mansions welcomed the rich and retired in Sophie’s world. Yachts the size of cruise ships lined the waterways. Private airstrips replaced commercial travel. The wealthy were a community unto themselves.
Forbes
listed Saunders Shores as the wealthiest resort community in the country.

“So?” Max nudged Dune with his elbow. “Do we surprise Sophie or not?”

He shrugged, still reluctant.

Mac rolled his eyes.

Dune scanned the beach. A
NO
LITTERING
sign caught his attention. He’d played Big Word, Little Words as a kid, a game where the player made shorter words out of the letters of the longer one. He did so now to distract himself from the matter at hand. Littering:
Let, get, ring, in, gin, it.

“You never told her good-bye and you regretted it,” Mac persisted, interrupting his game. “It might be nice to say hello. You’re home for a month. You’re bound to bump into her.” He paused. “You know you want to see her.”

Dune was conflicted. He and Mac could go together or Mac would go alone. A part of him didn’t want his partner alone with her. Mac had a soft spot for Sophie. He used to tease her until her whole body blushed. She blushed more than any woman Dune had ever known. Mac could easily turn his teasing into hitting on her. That bothered Dune a lot.

“I’m in,” he finally agreed.

Mac grinned.

“What are you smiling about?” asked Dune.

“You know what I’m smiling about.”

Mac knew him as well as his own brothers. Dune had always considered Mac family. Mac was the bat-shit crazy cousin who pushed everyone’s buttons. And got away with it.

Approaching Sophie now gave Dune the opportunity to establish boundaries. He didn’t want hero worship or fan girl from her, only a friendship. Keeping her at arm’s length worked best.

He braced himself as he walked the few feet to the general store. He hated the fact Sophie threw off his breathing. His chest hitched just as it always did right before the first serve in a volleyball game.

Anticipation wound him tight.

Sophie Saunders was on her hands and knees on the hardwood floor when Dune Cates and his partner Mac James pushed through the door.
Dune.
Her stomach dipped and her body went soft. The Windex spray bottle and cleaning cloth she was using to wipe down the glass shelves of the pharmacy counter slipped through her fingers. The bottle hit the floor and rolled just out of her reach.

She pushed her orange half-frame reading glasses higher on her nose, then peeked through the crack of the small wooden doors and watched the two men approach. She knew them both, but hadn’t seen either one since the previous summer when she’d partnered with Dune for the pro/am volleyball tournament to raise money for Barefoot William.

It had been the best three days of her life. They’d scored the winner’s trophy in the loser’s bracket. She cherished the small trophy, designed with a silver volleyball on a block of polished wood. It sat in a place of honor on the top shelf of her antique glass-front barrister’s bookcase between her clothbound first editions of Louisa May Alcott’s
Little Women
and Augusta Jane Evann’s
St. Elmo
.

The trophy was visible from all angles in her library. She would look up from reading, see the award, and smile. The trophy made her feel like a winner. It gave her strength and contentment.

Her inner peace vanished the moment she saw Dune. He made her jumpy and edgy and nervous. Gossip on the boardwalk had him coming home in June. But it was only the middle of May. Sophie hadn’t expected him today.

Shaye had mentioned her older brother was taking a short break from the pro circuit. His thoughts were centered on retirement, although he’d yet to make the formal announcement. He and Mac were to play in the Huntington Beach Classic the first weekend in July. After that it was anyone’s guess as to his future.

Sophie secretly hoped he’d be returning home. She’d had a crush on him ever since elementary school. Time had not diminished her feelings. She could still recall their long-ago first meeting.

She’d been on her bicycle riding home from school when her backpack had slipped off one shoulder and knocked her off balance. She was a chubby, uncoordinated seven-year-old, and when her bike tipped, she fell hard.

Her glasses had flown off and the zipper on her backpack split. Her books had skidded over the pavement.

She had so many books to gather. Her last stop of the day had been at the library. With the weekend ahead, she’d stocked up on reading material. As a child, she had found a great escape in fairy tales.

She remembered that a horn had honked and a car swerved around her. She’d looked up and noticed she’d stopped traffic. The more she hurried, the clumsier she became. Books dropped as fast as she picked them up.

Her classmates had passed her on their own bikes and snickered. She wasn’t popular. She had one close friend whose mother picked her up every day.

Dune had come to her rescue. He’d ridden up on a motorcycle that roared so loud she covered her ears. He’d cut the engine, set the kickstand, and removed his helmet. She’d stared at him, this older boy with the mussed blond hair and Lion King–gold eyes.

He’d climbed off his bike and collected her books. In a very short time he’d fixed the zipper on her backpack, then doctored the cut on her chin with a Superman Band-Aid. She’d been good to go.

They’d exchanged first names, but back then neither had known they were sworn enemies. Cates and Saunders didn’t mix, yet he’d been nice to her. She’d never forgotten his kindness. Her mended childhood backpack still hung in a storage room in her garage. He’d made a lifelong impression on her. She’d hero-worshipped him as a kid, then been awed by the man when she entered her twenties. Her biggest wish was to know him better.

She sighed softly. She’d hoped for the perfect moment to get reacquainted. Now was not good. She was stuck behind the counter on sore knees with the scent of Windex on her hands. She quietly rolled her shoulders and neck. She should’ve stood up the moment she saw Dune and Mac and made her presence known. As it was, she’d look like a jack-in-the-box should she pop up now.

She squinted down the aisle, studying both men. Mac was tall and rangy with shaggy dark hair, blue eyes, and an easy smile. He wore a gray tank top printed with
I Win, You Lose, Game Over
and black board shorts. He lived life on a dare and laughed easily. He charmed women out of their swimsuits with no more than a smile.

Then there was Dune. Sophie’s breathing deepened. At six-foot-six he wore a white polo, worn jeans, and a lean masculinity. His hair was shorter than she remembered, which only sharpened his features. His shoulders were broad and his body toned. He was one fine-looking athlete.

He’d recently turned thirty-six, and photographs of his birthday celebration had surfaced in a dozen sports magazines. She’d purchased copies of each one. Those pages featuring his sexy grin were dog-eared.

Mac had thrown the bash on Huntington Beach in Dune’s honor. The party was open to the public. Thousands had attended. Volleyball fans were loyal and loved to celebrate one of their own. Dune belonged to them.

Women surrounded him in the photos, standing twenty deep in their string bikinis, all trying to claim his attention. Dune stood among them in a tropical pair of his designer swim trunks and a disarming smile. He’d had to hire a tractor trailer to haul away his gifts.

Dune was a champion in his sport. He’d won every tournament on the professional beach volleyball tour. Media followed him as closely as the cheering crowd. He was accessible to the press and never declined an interview. There’d been no rise and fall to his career. He’d been a solid, dominant force from his first serve. His talent and sportsmanship were legendary. He’d received the coveted
Sports Illustrated
Sportsman of the Year Award, a top athletic honor.