Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides) by Roxanne St. Claire Page A

easily. The thought kicked him a little, but he pushed it away, trying to read her expression and hide his own lusty thoughts.
    “You want to read more?” he asked hopefully.
    “I have to—”
    “Good.” When she laughed, he winked. “I’ll make some coffee. And bagels. Or…fruit. There’s tons of fruit. Would you like that?”
    “Fruit’s perfect.”
    He held out both hands. “Sit down and read. Enjoy. Will you?”
    She laughed again. “I get the impression this is really important to you.”
    “It is.” Why lie?
    “Okay. Fruit and coffee. And quit staring at me.”
    “A and B I can do. C? Not so sure.” He grinned. “You got a nice back view, Willie.”
    Her jaw tightened. “Don’t call me that. Ever.”
    He didn’t want to push his luck or lose her, so he backed up, nodding, letting her go. “You can scroll up to the top of the document and start from the beginning.”
    “I already did.”
    His heart slammed with affection. Smiling, he made coffee and cut up fruit from the basket she’d hand delivered, and only checked on her progress three times. The last time, when he asked how she took her coffee, her answer was curt enough that his hope soared. She didn’t want to be interrupted.
    He took her raspberries and bananas with a cup of black coffee, then backed away to give her some space to read the pages he’d written so far—eighty-five by computer count—unfold in front of her. He drank his own coffee on the patio, but the minute he was done, he stepped back into the bedroom.
    She looked up, narrowing her eyes at him. “Are you going to watch me read?”
    Yeah. “No. I’m going to…run. The beach. What page are you on?”
    “Thirty-two.”
    “What scene?”
    “He’s arguing with that moron Mitchell guy about the farmhouse.”
    Just the fact that she got Mitchell was a moron did something insane to his insides. “Did you like when—”
    She pointed to the door. “Out.”
    “Out?”
    “To the beach. The garden. The moon. Let me read.”
    He felt the smile overtake his face. “You like it?”
    “O-U-T.”
    “That’s a yes.”
    She laughed softly and shook her head. “I would never have taken you for so insecure.”
    “I’m not,” he denied hotly, straightening up. “I want you to like the book.”
    “Then let me read it.”
    “Okay, fair enough.” He scooped up a pair of sneakers from the floor, opting for the dirty socks stuffed inside rather than taking a minute of her reading time to find clean ones. “I’m out.”
    “Thank you.” She returned her attention to the screen, and he froze mid-step, drinking her in.
    “No, thank you .”
    She nodded, riveted on the words on the screen. His words. On an impulse, he slammed his hands on the armrests of her chair, earning a gasp from her as she jerked back.
    “What?”
    “I said thank you,” he murmured.
    “You’re welcome.” Plenty of sarcasm in that, but he smiled and leaned over the laptop, right into her mouth, for a quick kiss. Too quick. The second it was over, he wanted more.
    But he resisted, standing straight, kind of enjoying the look on her face, then heading out without another word, hitting the sand with the same fury and speed he had in training, eating up the beach at Barefoot Bay like it was a second breakfast and he was starving.
    He was starving. For feedback. And encouragement. And someone he respected to tell him he wasn’t wasting his time and life. That he could tell a story.
    Then he could change history, erase his mistakes, and turn them into something good, at least on paper.
    He ran up and down the beach, past the exit to the property, along the road that led into town, then all the way back, coming back to the Arte-whatever villa drenched in sweat. When he opened the front door, he half-expected her to be standing there with champagne and a smile, ready to toast his story. He’d been gone well over an hour, long enough to read what he’d written so far.
    But the living room was empty,