Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) (5 page)

Her relationship with her mother was moot, and her brief, unpleasant history with Nick Hershey was over.
Ever onward!
Clinging to the two words that got her down one pound a week for one hundred and sixty consecutive weeks, Willow swept into the office, where Nick and Misty waited at the small conference table by the window.

Nick had his chair pushed back to balance himself on two legs, arms crossed over his impressive chest. He was listening to Misty, who leaned close, but she stopped whispering the moment Willow walked in.

“Refreshments,” Willow said cheerily, gesturing for Ari to put the tray on the table. “I wanted to give you an opportunity to taste-test a few samples of our chef’s work while you tell us your vision for the big event.”

Misty inched closer, staring. “How much did you lose?”

Nick slammed the front legs of his chair on the floor with a thud. Guess he was interested in that answer, too. Heat crawled up Willow’s chest as her friends took seats at the table. “Much,” she answered.

“Ona must be thrilled that you can finally wear her clothes.”

The warmth moved into her cheeks as she made a show of giving them the plates and linens she’d tucked on the tray.

“This part of the meeting is about you,” she said pointedly. “We’ll listen while you tell us what we like to call your themes and dreams, your every wedding fantasy.” She managed not to even look at Nick at the same time she said the last word. Did he remember she’d told him that he was her fantasy?

Right before he bolted like a scared jackrabbit.

Misty pushed her plate away with that skinny-girl disinterest in food that Willow never understood or trusted. “I think we should build the entire theme around my dress, which is, of course, an Ona Z custom-made original.” She gave a sly smile. “Would you like to see the sketches?”

The sketches were possibly the last thing in the world Willow wanted to see. “Of course, but that would be Gussie’s department.”

Gussie settled into her chair, with Ari next to her. “I’d love to see the sketches,” she said, enthusiasm genuine. “I absolutely adore Ona Z designs. But do you want to tell us about the overview for the day first? Afternoon, evening, number of guests, how many bridesmaids, that kind of thing?”

Misty shot a thumb to Nick, who’d just put a cannoli in his mouth. “There’s my bridesmaid.”

Willow met his gaze across the table, her heart stuttering as he grinned around the sweet, cheesy treat between his teeth. She didn’t know which she wanted to eat more—mascarpone or man. Both, she thought, feeling a physical longing churn in her stomach as her desire glands rocketed into overdrive.

That’s all she was feeling, she reminded herself sharply. A glandular reaction to sex and food. Nothing more. She’d learned to control one a few years ago, and she certainly could figure out how to control the other. Nick was nothing but six feet of negative impulses, easily kept at bay by her finely tuned willpower.

She would simply treat him like she would a gallon of mint chocolate chip. Ignore, retreat, replace with something more appealing. Like…like…God, nothing was more appealing than that man.

Misty fished through a bag the size of Willow’s laundry sack and pulled out a file, smacking it on the table. “You’ll love these,” she said to Willow. “Mama O’s a genius.”

“Mama O?” Holy hell. By the end of this ordeal, she’d be face-first in a gallon of mint chocolate chip.

Misty flipped open the file folder.

Her mother’s sketches were so damn…awesome. And unique. And beautiful. And created for a girl who…well, who could carry off the name Willow.

“Holy cow,” Gussie exclaimed, turning the paper to face her. “That is absolutely stunning.”

Misty smiled, her angular, sharp features stark and clean and beautiful. Willow didn’t want to hate her. That emotion was small, and she was above that kind of petty jealousy. Usually. Sometimes. Maybe not right now.

“Now you understand the sand palette,” Misty said. “Is that color not to die for?”

Nick leaned forward and picked up his third scallop. “The only palette I understand is the one in my mouth. Did you make these?” he asked Willow.

She shook her head. “Our chef is amazing.”

Misty clapped her hands with the satisfaction of a person granted a brilliant idea. “Here’s what we’ll do,” she announced. “I’ll go over the setting and fashion with these two”—she pointed to Ari and Gussie—“and, Nick, you and Willie go meet in the kitchen or whatever and figure out the menu.”

“Willow,” she corrected.

“Good idea,” Nick said at exactly the same time.

Misty looked relieved. “Honestly, don’t take this personally, but food is the part I’m the least interested in, and you two, well…” She lifted a shoulder. “You have a lot in common. You know each other, and you both love…food.”

Willow opened her mouth to protest, but Nick was up in a flash. “Let’s go.”

For one long second, Willow debated which temptation to give in to—an hour with Nick Hershey, or the need to punch the client in the nose.

Once again, Nick won.

Chapter Four

The kitchen was chaotic, the dining room filling up with the lunch crowd, and all of the Casa Blanca offices were in use. After Willow gathered up a few files of menu selections and price lists, she was forced to take Nick outside and sit at a table near the kidney-shaped resort pool.

She talked too much, fanned herself too often, and did her level best to keep the conversation professional and avoid any rehash of their meager past. To his credit—maybe to his relief—Nick seemed to go along with that.

Until he got through the third sample menu, then pushed it away, leaning back on the two legs of his chair again, a position so natural she imagined he took it at every table. This time, the move inched him out from under the shade of the umbrella, allowing sunshine to pour over his tanned face.

“I don’t have a clue why she asked me to do this,” he said.

“To be in her wedding?” Willow asked.

“To look at menus. I know why I’m in the wedding.” He sounded a little sad, or mad, she couldn’t quite tell which, but there was definitely some emotion there.

“Because her brother doesn’t have a chance of getting home in time?”

He flipped the menu card around on the table like a pinwheel, drawing her gaze to his strong hands and blunt fingertips. “Slim to none, I’d say.”

“It’s very nice of you to do this for him.”

“Least I could do,” he said. “Jason Trew saved my ass—er, life.”

And what an ass, er, life, it was. “That’s good.” She gave a quick smile at how lame that response was. “I mean, obviously.”

He came down on the two front legs of the chair, slowly and softly this time, his dark gaze slicing her. “So how have you been for all these years?”

So much for keeping things professional. She silently thanked him for not rubbing in the fact that she’d basically lied to him on the beach. Would he believe her if she said she’d been about to tell him how they knew each other when Misty arrived? Didn’t matter now.

“Oh, good, fine,” she said, trying to brush off the question. “I can put together a really popular and standard menu for Misty and—”

“You look like a different person.”

She’d been in enough Weight Watchers meetings to know that most formerly overweight people loved to bask in the success of their diets, but if Willow could have wiped away the person she’d been from the face of the earth and his memory, she would have. “I am,” she said simply.

“Is the, uh, ‘new you’ the reason you dropped Zatarain?”

“There were many reasons,” she admitted. “Now I get the chance to be at the front of the alphabet for a change.” The quip sounded hollow, but he seemed to accept it. “So why the military?” she asked quickly, anxious to return the conversation to him. “I do remember that you were in ROTC, but hadn’t expected you’d make a lifelong career of it.”

“Not sure if it is a lifelong career now,” he said, reaching up to tap his ear. “I lost hearing in one ear, so the Navy put me on inactive.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “You lost hearing? In combat?”

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze moving over her shoulder toward the water beyond them as he nodded. “Yeah.”

“How long does that mean you’re on leave?”

“I’m waiting to hear. I had surgery done a few months ago, but the results aren’t quite at the level required for active SEAL duty. But I just had another test, and I’m waiting to hear the results, but these things can take forever in the military.” He glanced from side to side, as if someone might be listening. “In the meantime…” He lifted his shoulder, almost a little embarrassed.

“You’re a man of honor,” she supplied. “Don’t worry, it’s not that unusual anymore.”

“No, I…” He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “I’m writing a book.”

He made the admission so fast, she wasn’t quite sure she’d heard him. “A book? What’s it about?”

“War,” he said simply, humor leaving his eyes. “It’s my feeble attempt to rewrite history.”

She couldn’t resist a sympathetic touch to his arm. “Was it so bad you have to rewrite it?”

“Parts were ghastly, parts were…awesome.” He laughed softly. “A lot like my book.”

Wow…a book. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Nick.”

“It’s not exactly what I went through BUD/S to do,” he joked. “But then you’re the daughter of a songwriter, so maybe you’re more forgiving than most.”

“I think it’s awesome,” she said. “How far along are you?”

“I got stuck in what I guess you’d call act two. The murky middle. Actually, I was hoping to get some creative juices flowing here, and that’s why I jumped at the chance to come when Jason suggested it.”

She smiled. “A little sea and sunshine to help writer’s block?”

“And quiet,” he added.

“What has you stuck?” she asked, genuinely interested, and so very happy to have the conversation off her and on him.

“‘What doesn’t have me stuck?’ is a better question.” He pushed the chair back again, assuming his favorite precarious position. “I can write the battle scenes and the training stuff like I’m reciting the alphabet, but I know a good story has to have more than military action.”

“So, it’s fiction?” Somehow she imagined him writing about life in the Navy or recounting battles, not a story.

“Mostly, drawn from real life.” He leaned forward, scratching his neck as if unsure how to proceed. “I know it has to have some kind of male-female…thing.”

She fought a chuckle, more at the way he said it than what he’d said. “A romance?”

“A relationship. Part of the plot is about this SEAL who’s been stuck babysitting this embedded journalist, and some shit gets messed up and…” He paused, the emotion brewing in his eyes. “She died. I mean, she dies. In the story.”

Her heart dipped, getting the gut feeling that that wasn’t fiction. “Well, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure you’ll lose the happy-ending fans over that one.”

“I don’t care about a happy ending. I just want to…” He balled a fist and gave the table a gentle tap.

“Rewrite history,” she supplied.

“Exactly.”

“Why? What will it accomplish?”

“I’m not sure it accomplish anything, but I’d like to try anyway. Plus…” He laughed again. “When the words flow, it’s amazing. Almost as good as…” He winked. “It’s good.”

“I bet.” Safe bet that anything with him was good. “So…” She fought the urge to ask everything about this embedded journalist. Was she real? Did he have a relationship with her? None of her business, though, so she fished around for a less personal question. “Is that how you lost your hearing? When things messed up?”

He shook his head. “It was after, unrelated. Like I said, Trew Blue—that’s Misty’s brother—really came through, but I still fu…messed up my hearing pretty bad.”

She remembered how loud she’d had to yell to get his attention. “And do the doctors recommend you listen to rock music with headphones on?”

He laughed, pointing at her with a teasing grin. “No one was supposed to know about that little infraction. Anyway, I keep the sound off in the left ear. But come on.” He put his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “Don’t you have a weakness, Willow?”

I might be looking at it
. “Many,” she acknowledged.

“Then you understand that sometimes I can’t resist the music.” His eyes lit as he studied her. “But you must know that, being the daughter of a guy who wrote some of the best music ever recorded.”

“I don’t know if I’d go as far as the best ever recorded, but he’s my father, so I’ve never been quite as enamored with his success. I remember you were a fan.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry about that.”

“For liking my dad’s music or for butchering the world’s most annoying song while you were committing your ‘little infraction’?”

“Most annoying song?” His jaw dropped. “
Will Ya, Will Ya
is a work of art.”

“Not the way you sang it.”

He let out a hearty laugh. “Well, I’m half-deaf, remember?” His face changed after his laugh faded, dark eyes slicing through her, the smile faltering to an even more handsome, serious expression. “But that’s not what I’m sorry for.”