Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) (3 page)

“Do as the Barefootians do.” He slipped off his own Docksides, and they left both pairs of shoes on the front step. It took everything in him not to reach for her hand. “Where to?”

“You’ll get the full resort, spa, restaurant, and destination wedding tour later when Misty’s here, so why don’t I show you the beach?”

“The beach is why I’m here,” he said as they crossed a shady stone pathway too narrow for cars, but just right for golf carts and people.

“I thought you were here to be Misty’s man of honor.”

“That, too,” he said quickly. “But I was hoping a little of the opposite coast might clear my head. I’m a California boy, but I guess your gulf isn’t much like the Pacific.”

“Mmm.” She covered her eyes to shade them from the sun, getting a little ahead of him. “Nothing like the Pacific. The Gulf of Mexico is calm and serene. No surfing here. Just trolling in lots of gentle waves.”

“Are you from around here?” he asked, trying to catch up, but she was making it a challenge, walking with purpose. And that purpose seemed to be to avoid eye contact with him.

“Actually, I moved here only a few months ago to start the Barefoot Brides wedding planning business with two friends. We came here for a tour and fell in love.”

Damn. No wonder she had her shields up. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

She lowered her hand, a frown pulling out her brows and then she smiled with understanding. “No, we fell in love with the
place
. Gussie and Ari—they’re my business partners—were on the board of the American Association of Bridal Consultants for a year with me, and during that time, we had to visit about fifteen different resorts.”

“Tough call of duty.”

She laughed, a sweet sound that lilted up with a musical note, floating on that air of familiarity again. Had he heard that distinctive laugh before? “I know, right? All those free spa treatments and sandy beaches.”

“Beats what I did for the last few years,” he murmured.

“You were in the military?”

“Am,” he corrected. “Navy SEAL.”

She gave the impressed look he’d long ago gotten used to seeing on civilians when they heard “Navy SEAL.” Over the past decade or so, his arm of the Special Forces had attained celebrity status.

“Are you on leave?” she asked.

“Medical,” he confirmed, mentally digging for another topic. “So, at the end of your stint on this board you got to pick one resort to work at?”

“Not quite that simple,” she said as they reached a quaint wooden bridge that arched over a thatch of sea oats and led to a wide, pristine beach. “The idea of opening our own firm took hold early in the year, and then we started looking at each resort as a potential new home for our business. We fell in love with Barefoot Bay.”

She gestured toward the beach, taking his attention to the view, which pulled a slow whistle of appreciation from him. “I can see why.” Before him stretched white sand and turquoise water, all glittering under a powder-blue sky and bathed in balmy sunshine. “Nice place to work.”

“It certainly is,” she agreed merrily.

“How’s business?” he asked. “Did the move work out well for you?

“So far. We all had our own individual wedding consulting businesses, with different areas of expertise, so we’ve made a good blend. I’m an F&B specialist.”

He took a guess. “Food and beverage?”

“Exactly. Ari Chandler handles set design and décor.”

“You need a set designer to have a wedding?”

She gave him a playful elbow. The quick tap of skin against skin made him want more. “Have you ever been to a destination wedding?”

“Actually, no. Only the standard church-and-country club kind.”

“Well, this is different. It’s all about the atmosphere, the resort, the ultimate getaway, and, of course, the bride.”

“Not the groom?”

She angled her head. “I honestly don’t know Misty’s groom’s name.”

“Steven…something.” He’d met the guy exactly once, at a bar in Manhattan, and all he remembered was an expensive suit with a phone to his ear.

“You don’t know him?” she asked.

“Like I said, I’m here as a favor for my buddy, Misty’s twin brother, Jason. But I get your point. It’s all about the bride that day.” He threw her a look, unable to resist getting this critical piece of information about her. “Have you had that day yet, personally?”

Her smile was wry as she realized how thinly disguised that fishing expedition really was. “No, I haven’t.”

He waited for more—like a question about his marital status—but got nothing. After a massively awkward beat, he tried something less personal. “What about your other business partner? What does she handle?”

“Gussie McBain is our stylist, so anything related to fashion and beauty—dresses, makeup, that kind of thing—is her specialty. Barefoot Brides is an all-inclusive service for destination weddings at the Casa Blanca Resort & Spa.”

Both their feet hit the sand at the same moment. “And this is our only stipulation,” she added. “Bride, groom, wedding party and guests must go barefoot for the ceremony. They can put on their stilettos during the reception.”

“Nice.” He wiggled his toes in powder-soft sand, so different from the rough grains of Malibu or Santa Monica. “Definitely not the Pacific.”

He tried to keep any judgment out of his voice, but he was a six-foot-surf kind of guy, preferably in a Zodiac with an AK-47 in his hands. This place was a lake, and the only surface watercraft nearby was a large pink inner tube.

“No, it’s not the Pacific,” she agreed. “And I like that.”

The comment pulled his attention back to her. “I’m from there. California. Ever been?”

“Of course.” She gestured them closer to the shore. “But you have to appreciate what we have here. A billion seashells, pure-white sand, stunning sunsets, and the perfect place to”—she opened her arms with a grand and sweeping gesture of invitation, looking up with a mix of hope and hype and humor in her eyes—“be a barefoot bride.”

He laughed, her charm drawing him in and doing a little to erase that nagging sense of familiarity that pinched his gut again. “You don’t have to sell me. I’m merely along for the ride. The decision to have a wedding here is Misty’s, not mine.”

“Just want to be sure you’re on our side.”

He almost turned his response to that into a flirtatious tease. He’d like to be on her side.
Of the bed
. But he swallowed that because something about the way she was looking at him made that sensation of déjà vu so powerful that he couldn’t ignore it.

But how could he forget a woman like this? He looked hard at her, long enough that she took a few steps away, turning to give him a view of her back and all that flaxen long hair. He couldn’t get a read on her, damn it. One minute she was protective and professional, the next she was looking at him like…she knew him, too.

“Come and put your feet in the water,” she called.

Even her voice sounded…man,
had
he met her before? “I don’t suppose you were ever in the military?” he asked, trying to catch up with her as she ran toward the water.

She threw a
not likely
look over her shoulder and marched on like getting to the gulf was the only thing that mattered.

“Where’d you go to college?” Had she been at UCLA? She was probably about his age, nearing thirty, or a little younger. Where else could he have met her?

“Oh my God, look at this shell!” She stopped dead and fell to her knees. “Perfection.”

He caught up to her, intrigued by how intently she studied the seashell. He knew a little bit about people and a lot about women. She was dodging his last question, for sure. Maybe she hadn’t gone to college. That would be a sore spot, then.

He cut her some slack and crouched next to her, more to get close than to see what she’d found. “Pretty,” he said, looking at the way her lashes fanned out atop well-defined cheekbones.

She lifted her gaze and caught him looking. “I meant the shell.”

“I meant you.”

Her lips parted with a slight inhale, her gaze moving over his face with an expression of awe. Surely she couldn’t be surprised at his compliment—she’d probably heard better on a daily basis. Maybe it was the connection crackling between them, real and strong and very nice.

Or maybe they
had
met before.

“This is going to sound like such a stupid line,” he ventured, watching her eyes take on the shade of sky behind her. “But do I know you from somewhere?”

She froze, didn’t even seem to breathe, staying silent long enough for him to reach for the shell but capture her whole hand instead. “Let me put it a better way.
Can
I know you? Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

“Tonight? I…I…with Misty?”

He laughed softly. “No, with me. From what I observed, Misty doesn’t eat.”

She frowned and finally managed to get her head to move in the negative, even though something in her expression told him she didn’t really want to say no. “I don’t know. I have…so much stuff planned.”

“Cancel it.” He gave her hand a squeeze, and she looked so intently into his eyes, he
knew
he’d met her before. But not her. Someone just like her. Maybe she had a sister? Or he’d dreamed about her? Hell, if he believed in reincarnation, he’d say they’d known each other in another life. “I’m only here for a few days.”

“Okay, Nick.”

That pang of familiarity hit hard again, frustrating him deep inside, like when he had a word on the tip of his tongue and couldn’t quite snag it. “Willow.” He heard the hope in his voice. Hope that he’d figure out how he knew her. Hope that she felt the same attraction.

She slowly nodded, as if to say,
Yes, that’s me
.

“Don’t think I’ve ever known anyone by that name.” Or had he?

“It’s unusual.” She stood suddenly, leaving him crouched on the sand, staring at the middle of her body. “We better get you back to the villa. Misty will be here, and surely you want to, you know, sing some more.”

He came up slowly, using the time to really appreciate her curves and shape, brushing some sand off his knees. “She’ll find us. I want to put my feet in the water.”

“I better get back to the office. We have so much to prepare for your weekend so we can wow Misty.” She gave a quick smile. “I can tell she’s going to be an
exacting
bride.”

He ignored the comment, too focused on her. One thing he’d learned in training and on the hairy edge of life-and-death, you never swallow, hide, bury, or otherwise ignore your gut feelings or let questions go unasked. Life’s too short and information is power.

“What just happened?” he asked directly. “You did say you’d go out with me, right?”

She looked at him hard, searching his face again. “Um, Nick, there’s something I have to—”

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

They both turned to see a woman marching over the wooden bridge, her long brown ponytail swinging with purpose, baggy white pants and a see-through tank top hanging off her slender frame. Misty was so different from her twin, Jason. She looked as if a strong breeze could blow her away, while her brother was the size of a boulder and just as strong.

“Didn’t you ask to have her call?” Nick asked Willow.

“Yes.” She slipped her phone out of her pocket and glanced at it to see if she’d missed a call. “She didn’t.”

They started toward Misty, and he could have sworn he heard Willow let out a sigh of relief, or maybe she was bracing herself to meet the “exacting” client.

“Hello,” Willow called out, her tone much lighter now. “I’m sorry. I took your man of honor on a tour.”

Misty didn’t move as they hustled closer, staying put on the bridge, as if she preferred not to get sand in her toes.

“Hey there,” Nick said as they reached her, bending down to give Misty a quick hug. He didn’t know her well—he’d met her only once, on his way home from Iraq during a stop in New York City. But he had to remember this was a favor to a guy he owed his life to, so he was always kind, no matter how much the crispy, self-absorbed model rubbed him the wrong way.

Her attention was riveted on Willow. “Are you…”

“Willow Ambrose,” she said, holding out her hand. “The front desk was supposed to give you my number to—”

“Oh, they did, but…” She squinted at Willow’s face and leaned back, giving her a thorough and complete—and pretty awkward—once-over. “There’s no way you’re Willie.”

Willow paled a little. “Willow,” she corrected. “Willow Ambrose.”

But Misty was having none of it. “Oh my God! You
are
Willie Zatarain.”

What
? Nick whipped his head to look at Willow. What had Misty said? Willie Zata—

“I’m…” She fought for a word that didn’t come, ghost-white now and definitely avoiding his eyes.

“Willie Zatarain?” He choked the name, trying to comprehend what was hitting his brain.

“I’ve seen pictures of you at your parents’ place in New York,” Misty said. “You look…different. You’re…so…”

“Willie?” The girl he knew in college? Oh…
wow
.