Barefoot in Lace (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 2) (2 page)

“Just don’t drop the Fritos.” He gingerly plucked everything else from her hands. “’Cause then I
will
have to rob the convenience store.”

She laughed. “She’s probably already called the cops.”

“We could go all Bonnie and Clyde on her ass,” he joked, meeting her gaze with disarmingly blue eyes, about the color of the sky over Barefoot Bay on a balmy Florida afternoon. “Wanna go rogue with me?”

Right about then, she’d have gone anywhere with him. “Tempting, but it would put a damper on my daily Diet Coke stop.” She couldn’t help but smile up at him. “I’m Gussie McBain, by the way.”

“Gussie? You’ve even got an outlaw name and a cute disguise. I’m—”

“Oh, I know who you are,” she blurted.

“You do?”

Regretting the admission that made her sound like some kind of crazed fan, she pointed over her shoulder. “I mean, I heard you tell Charity. Thomas Jefferson—or TJ—DeMille.”

“Tom to my friends.” He threaded his fingers through his hair to push it off his face, studying her with enough amusement and interest to make her feel even warmer than usual in the summer sun. “And good-deed doers.”

For a long, crazy, heart-stopping few seconds, they stared at each other. Gussie felt her chest tighten and her stomach flip at the instant, palpable, electrifying connection.

“You’re blocking the entrance!” Charity’s grating voice broke the magic. “And look at that mess! You’ll give all my customers flat tires!”

Charity shook her fried and dyed hair, pointing at him. “I know who you are now, mister. I made a few phone calls. Get on your way and take care of that mess your sister left behind. And you.” Her finger slid to Gussie. “Find a pink scarf and lose the stupid wigs. You’d be pretty.”

Gussie felt her cheeks flush as Charity backed into the store.

“We could take her,” he whispered, his voice so low and sexy it practically pulled Gussie closer.

“And all the Fritos we can eat.”

He gave a wry laugh, studying her again. After Charity’s rude comment, he was, of course, looking at her wig. She should have been used to it—and the misperception that she was sick—but he was so skilled at finding and photographing real beauty that the scrutiny nearly flattened her.

“Here.” He handed her the only magazine that made it through the small disaster,
Vanity Fair
. “I owe you at least this much for your effort, Gussie McBain.”

“For a broken bottle of iced tea and ruined magazines?”

He gave the chips a noisy rattle. “You saved my Fritos and thus my backside. That’s good enough for a return favor in my book.” He stepped back to get in the car, but took one more moment, scrutinizing her again. “She’s wrong, you know.”

“You’re not a criminal?”

He shook his head. “You already are pretty. I have an eye for these things, you know.”

I know
.

He slipped back into the driver’s seat and closed the door. Giving a casual wave, he drove off, leaving Gussie standing in the sun, speechless.

* * *

Gussie was still thinking about the encounter after running the rest of her errands and grabbing subs for herself and her two business partners. But thoughts of TJ DeMille—or Tom
to his friends
—disappeared the minute she got back to Casa Blanca Resort & Spa to find glum faces when she entered the Barefoot Brides offices.

Ari Chandler sat at the small conference table, braiding and unbraiding her long black ponytail, the way she always did when she was upset. At her desk, Willow Ambrose had her chin propped on her palms, a phone to her ear, an expression of defeat as she listened to someone on the other end.

“What’s up?” Gussie asked as she dropped the bag of sandwiches on the table, along with the issue of
Vanity Fair
. “Did we lose a bride or something?” she asked.

“Not yet, but we have trouble for the Bernard-Lyons wedding.”

Gussie cringed, falling into one of the conference table chairs. “Really? Then you probably don’t want to know that I just saw the bride’s parents checking into the resort when I walked through the lobby.”

“Ugh.” Ari dropped back and blew out a breath. “It’s only a matter of minutes until Rhonda Lyons is over here demanding a full status report.”

No doubt about that. Rhonda was the quintessential control-freak MOB who’d been breathing down their necks for the last six months in preparation for her daughter’s wedding.

“This universe has been frowning on this wedding from the beginning,” Ari mused. “Remember the snafu with the hundred-year-old save-the-date cards?”

“Hey, we only mailed them. Not our fault she had them printed by a friend who typeset the year as 1914.” Gussie glanced at Willow, who now had a finger over her other ear and closed her eyes to concentrate on the call.

“What’s the problem?” Gussie asked in a whisper.

From her desk, Willow held up a finger as she took a breath to talk. “Well, I certainly understand that couldn’t be changed,” she said. “We will keep looking. Thanks so much.” She hung up, shaking her head as she looked at Gussie. “Dianne Stoddard found her husband with another woman,” she said.

“She actually found him in the
shower
with another woman,” Ari added. “Not to put too fine a point on it.”

Gussie’s jaw dropped. “Big Bill Stoddard? The guy who owns the hardware store? Gross.”

“Apparently,
screws
are Big Bill’s specialty,” Ari deadpanned.

“What does this have to do with the Bernard-Lyons wedding?” Gussie asked, spinning through all of the options. “Are we buying props from the store or something?”

Willow shook her head. “Dianne left him and insisted her sister come along.”

“Her sister?” Gussie thought for a minute. Mimosa Key wasn’t a large island, but she hadn’t lived there long enough to know all the residents and their dirt.

“Her sister, Maggie Wallace,” Willow supplied.

Gussie gasped. “She can’t back out this late. Rhonda will be apoplectic.”

“I do
not
like the sound of that.” The woman’s voice in the doorway jerked them all around. A fearsome Mother of the Bride if there ever was one, Rhonda Lyons glared at the three of them. “
What
will make me apoplectic?”

Just about everything, Gussie thought, barely biting back the comment. Ari bristled, but Willow was up before Rhonda could ask another question.

“Mrs. Lyons, how lovely to see you.” Willow set her pretty face into an easy smile and reached out her hand. “We heard you’d arrived. How’s your villa?”

Rhonda swept into the room, zeroing in on Gussie. “I heard you say someone’s backing out of my daughter’s wedding. Who? Don’t tell me I have to break Hailey’s heart.”

Gussie swallowed, having already been on the receiving end of Rhonda’s wrath when the beaded lace for Hailey’s veil hadn’t been available with a scalloped edge. She’d acted like her darling daughter would walk down the aisle with a garbage bag draped over her head.

“It’s the photographer,” Willow said, breezing around her desk to put a friendly hand on Rhonda’s shoulder. “Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Ly—”

“The photographer canceled?” Rhonda’s voice rose at least three octaves into a bona fide shriek, something they’d probably be hearing a lot of in the next four days. “For a wedding this Saturday? What kind of planners are you?”

“Good ones,” Willow assured her, adding a gentle pat. “We have connections all over the county, state, and country. We’ll get another photographer in plenty of time.”

“Absolutely,” Ari agreed, gesturing toward a notebook in front of her. “We’re already working on it.” Except that notebook was awfully full of crossed-off names, Gussie noticed.

“Working on it?” Rhonda was aghast. “You’d better be doing more than ‘working on it.’ This is my only daughter, and Wayne and I have sunk a small fortune into this event, and I will not, I repeat, I will
not
accept a second-rate photographer.”

“And you won’t have to,” Willow said.

“I want a solution and I want it
now
,” Rhonda demanded. “In fact, I want to meet with the replacement photographer before the end of the day today. And I know that Maggie Wallace was excellent because I loved her work, so I expect someone equally talented, if not more so.”

Ari and Willow shared a secret look that confirmed all of Gussie’s suspicions: They had
nuthin’
.

“Who are we talking to?” Rhonda asked, pulling out another chair to join them at the table.

“Well, we…” Ari subtly pushed her list away.

“Names.” She tapped the table, her fingers hitting the magazine Gussie had set there. “And sample portfolios, right now.”

Willow and Ari stayed dead silent for a few long and awkward beats.

“TJ DeMille.” The name popped out of Gussie’s mouth, and all three of the women stared at her.

“I’ve heard of him,” Rhonda said.

Willow leaned out of Rhonda’s line of view to stare at Gussie in complete horror, then she quietly said, “But we don’t want to make promises we can’t keep.”

“He’s a really big name…as you know,” Ari added, trying to hide her shock at the suggestion.

“He’s huge,” Gussie agreed, snagging the issue of
Vanity Fair
. “He shot this cover.”

Rhonda’s eyes widened. “Get him.”

Willow and Ari blinked at Gussie when the order dropped silence over the room.

“I want him for this wedding,” Rhonda said, inching closer. “You claim to be so good, prove it. Get this TJ DeMille for my Hailey’s wedding. That ought to impress my tennis club. I doubt Sherry Wells is getting him for Brianna’s wedding.” She thought about that, nodding. “Yes, by all means, this is wonderful news. Get him.”

And all three of them looked at Gussie.

“No problem,” Gussie assured them all. And herself. Because it
might
be a problem. A big, fat problem. “I was just chatting with him.” She went for a casual air, despite Ari’s wide eyes. “And, as a matter of fact, he owes me a favor.”

“Excellent.” Rhonda stood, impervious and challenging. “I’m available for dinner and would like to meet with him at eight o’clock in the resort restaurant. I’ll bring Hailey, but the final decision is mine, since I’m footing the bill.” She picked up the magazine and narrowed her eyes at the movie star on the front. “And I don’t expect to be charged one penny more than I agreed to pay the original photographer.”

She sailed out of the room, leaving Gussie under the disbelieving gazes of her two closest friends.

“Please tell me you really know this guy,” Willow said.

“And that he owes you a big, gigantic favor,” Ari added.

“Kind of and maybe.” Gussie wrinkled her nose. “I ran into him at the Super Min and saved him from Charity’s wrath. Does that count?”

“Does that count?” Ari’s midnight-black eyes blinked in surprise. “You meet him on the very day we need a photographer? Now that’s what I call the universe doing her thing.”

“That’s what I call an opportunity,” Willow added. “But how can you possibly get someone of his caliber to agree to shoot a wedding?”

“I don’t have a clue,” Gussie admitted, pushing up and giving them a grin that covered her wave of self-doubt. “But I’m not going to let that stop me.”

Chapter Two

The noise never stopped. Whine, whirr, buzz, beep, and the occasional explosion. Something screeched and shrieked, and the constant sound of motors revving screamed for so long, Tom could swear he heard it in his sleep.

And he did, often. Because his twelve-year-old niece played her incessant, annoying video game of stupid little characters driving around in circles at all hours of the day and night.

Carrying the chips and candy as an offering for the broken raspberry tea he’d promised, he headed into the dimly lit den. Of course, Alex hadn’t opened the cheap vertical blinds on the window. Or cleaned up the kitchen or made plans with a friend or watered the plants or done anything but play that mindless, brain-numbing game that occupied almost all of her waking hours.

Obviously, it was her only escape from grief and shock. Lucky girl. Tom had no such outlet for the miserable situation they were both in.

He stood directly between the television and the controller in her hand, holding out the Milky Ways and Fritos. “Healthy lunch, anyone?”

She leaned around him, not looking up, her attention still on the game.

“Alex?”

Her dark eyes narrowed, concentration intense.

He shifted left to block her again. “
Alex
.”

Finally, she gave up, falling back on the recliner, her gaze as vacant and empty as the day he’d arrived. “You’re in my way,” she said, stating the obvious in her reed-thin voice.

He stayed there but put the snacks on the table next to her, smashing a frustration that was growing far too familiar in every exchange they had. “You haven’t done anything today but play this game.”

She blinked at him, her eyes dark against skin that would someday be pale and creamy but was currently dotted with preteen acne that only seemed to get worse since he’d arrived.

“Don’t you want to do something else?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “Call a friend? Ride your bike? Something?”

“No.” She set the controller next to the candy bars. “I’ll go to my room.”

“No,” he said sharply—too sharply. “Don’t leave, Alex. Just…don’t.”

But it was too late. She stood, barely reaching his shoulder as she slid by him, her waif-like body disappearing around the corner, leaving him wondering why his famed ability to get ice-princess supermodels to open up to him when he was holding a camera couldn’t crack the shell around a twelve-year-old orphan.

Tom closed his eyes and walked as far away from the den as he could, which wasn’t very far in this tiny house that bore his sister’s lively fingerprints on every crocheted pillow and lacy curtain. It all reminded him that Ruthie had made a secure, loving, stable home for her daughter, and then left it all in the hands of the one person who didn’t do
security
,
love
, or
stability—
him.