Barefoot in Pearls (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 3) by Roxanne St. Claire
Authors: Roxanne St. Claire
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made a little shriek. “Exactly!”
“And your hands kind of hurt because you want to—”
“Touch him so bad.” She laughed again. “Yes.”
“Numbness, tingling, and slight dizziness?” Ari asked.
“Like vertigo for days.” Gussie sighed and came a little closer. “Is that what your grandmother said?”
“More or less.”
“Did you feel like that when you met my brother?”
Yes . “I definitely felt something,” she admitted.
“Enough to”—Gussie tipped her head toward the shells on the counter—“let him do what he has to do to stay?”
Ari felt her whole body sink a little. “What should I do?”
Gussie passed her, rinsing her cup in the sink for a long time before she answered. “I think your Grandma Good Bear would tell you to follow your heart.”
That was the problem. Her heart was torn in two.
Chapter Eight
Duane Dissick was late. After all his years in the military, Luke had very little patience for delays of any kind, but the fact that the mason slept in or stopped for coffee gave Luke even more time to walk through the old house in the broad daylight, reliving the events of the night before.
He’d come out here with Arielle hoping to get to know her better, maybe make out with a pretty girl in the moonlight, and have some fun. Instead, he ended up with hardly a kiss, a mess he didn’t need or want, and a problem that spelled nothing but trouble and delays.
Unless he ignored her insistence that this was some kind of hallowed ground, accepted the reports that had been done, and embraced the obvious: Her box of rocks was not full of valuable treasures.
Couldn’t she see that?
No, not a woman who seemed to see things that weren’t there.
In the kitchen, he examined the hole they’d left in the pantry again, stepping back to see that his original assessment had been correct: This closet had been added on to the house. He wandered through the other rooms, looking closely at what was clearly a dump that had to be demolished down to the foundation, noting there were no other additions made to the original bungalow.
So, surely there were no more “secrets” in the walls.
And what about the hill out there?
What would he be legally and morally bound to do? Tell Cutter, obviously. Then, according to the research he’d done last night, contact the Division of Historical Resources. Which would wrap them all in miles and months of red tape, and implode Luke’s plans to get a permanent license and start contracting in Florida. If the project ended, or was mercilessly delayed, he’d have to pay back the advance Cutter gave him, and that advance was all he had.
Luke cared very little about living lean and would, in fact, not give a flying shit about money for the rest of his life, except…he’d promised some. He’d promised a lot. And there was no way he’d renege on that promise. Lives, one particularly precious, depended on him. So, if this project blew up, Luke would have to go back to France, where he had a guaranteed income.
It wasn’t only him, and he couldn’t forget that.
He kicked a crushed beer can across the living room floor, the tin sound clanging in the empty hovel. Then he heard the rumbling engine of a big work truck, and walking to the opening that once was a front window, he spied a mud-splattered Toyota Tundra slowly making its way around the property and stopping a few hundred feet from the house, next to Luke’s equally dirty truck.
After a few seconds, a middle-aged barrel-chested man climbed out of the cab, a thick file folder under one arm, and looked around, obviously searching for Luke.
“Mr. Dissick?” Luke called as he stepped out to the wood-framed front porch.
The other man turned, tugged on a faded Florida State baseball cap, and strode toward Luke, mud slushing under his boots.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr. McBain,” he said, extending his free hand as they met. “I stopped by the county zoning office soon as they opened to get the
“And your hands kind of hurt because you want to—”
“Touch him so bad.” She laughed again. “Yes.”
“Numbness, tingling, and slight dizziness?” Ari asked.
“Like vertigo for days.” Gussie sighed and came a little closer. “Is that what your grandmother said?”
“More or less.”
“Did you feel like that when you met my brother?”
Yes . “I definitely felt something,” she admitted.
“Enough to”—Gussie tipped her head toward the shells on the counter—“let him do what he has to do to stay?”
Ari felt her whole body sink a little. “What should I do?”
Gussie passed her, rinsing her cup in the sink for a long time before she answered. “I think your Grandma Good Bear would tell you to follow your heart.”
That was the problem. Her heart was torn in two.
Chapter Eight
Duane Dissick was late. After all his years in the military, Luke had very little patience for delays of any kind, but the fact that the mason slept in or stopped for coffee gave Luke even more time to walk through the old house in the broad daylight, reliving the events of the night before.
He’d come out here with Arielle hoping to get to know her better, maybe make out with a pretty girl in the moonlight, and have some fun. Instead, he ended up with hardly a kiss, a mess he didn’t need or want, and a problem that spelled nothing but trouble and delays.
Unless he ignored her insistence that this was some kind of hallowed ground, accepted the reports that had been done, and embraced the obvious: Her box of rocks was not full of valuable treasures.
Couldn’t she see that?
No, not a woman who seemed to see things that weren’t there.
In the kitchen, he examined the hole they’d left in the pantry again, stepping back to see that his original assessment had been correct: This closet had been added on to the house. He wandered through the other rooms, looking closely at what was clearly a dump that had to be demolished down to the foundation, noting there were no other additions made to the original bungalow.
So, surely there were no more “secrets” in the walls.
And what about the hill out there?
What would he be legally and morally bound to do? Tell Cutter, obviously. Then, according to the research he’d done last night, contact the Division of Historical Resources. Which would wrap them all in miles and months of red tape, and implode Luke’s plans to get a permanent license and start contracting in Florida. If the project ended, or was mercilessly delayed, he’d have to pay back the advance Cutter gave him, and that advance was all he had.
Luke cared very little about living lean and would, in fact, not give a flying shit about money for the rest of his life, except…he’d promised some. He’d promised a lot. And there was no way he’d renege on that promise. Lives, one particularly precious, depended on him. So, if this project blew up, Luke would have to go back to France, where he had a guaranteed income.
It wasn’t only him, and he couldn’t forget that.
He kicked a crushed beer can across the living room floor, the tin sound clanging in the empty hovel. Then he heard the rumbling engine of a big work truck, and walking to the opening that once was a front window, he spied a mud-splattered Toyota Tundra slowly making its way around the property and stopping a few hundred feet from the house, next to Luke’s equally dirty truck.
After a few seconds, a middle-aged barrel-chested man climbed out of the cab, a thick file folder under one arm, and looked around, obviously searching for Luke.
“Mr. Dissick?” Luke called as he stepped out to the wood-framed front porch.
The other man turned, tugged on a faded Florida State baseball cap, and strode toward Luke, mud slushing under his boots.
“Sorry I’m late, Mr. McBain,” he said, extending his free hand as they met. “I stopped by the county zoning office soon as they opened to get the
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