Barefoot in the Sand Read Free

neither very close by, had bailed after settling their claims and promising to sell her their lots for a song.
    The next step in her ambitious scheme didn’t require age-appropriate attire, anyway. Her sweaty finger streaked the smooth glass of her phone, but before she dialed, she set the phone on the picnic table, one of the few items she’d salvaged from the storm.
    What was stopping her from calling the architect?
    Fear of rejection? Of course, an architect with Clayton Walker’s outstanding credentials, reputation, and portfolio of glorious hotels and resorts might not want to design her beachfront bed-and-breakfast.
    But he
had
responded to her e-mail personally. And he
had
said, “Call when you have the insurance money and I’ll take a look at the property.”
    She swiped beads of sweat from her upper lip and scooted the bench closer to the table, trying to slide into the one slice of shade formed by the trunk of a royal poinciana that had survived the storm. Peering through humidity-drenched curls, she studied her daughter at the water’s edge a few hundred feet of burning sand away. Madly texting, something she’d been doing more and more of lately, Ashley seemed oblivious to the squawking seagulls fluttering around her.
    Ashley had rebounded remarkably after the storm, moving into Lacey’s parents’ house with a fairly positive attitude, probably since living down on the south end of the island put her closer to more kids she’d be going to Mimosa High with in a few weeks.
    Most of the twelve-mile-long barrier island hadn’t faredquite as poorly as the northern end, where Barefoot Bay was located. South of Center Street they’d lost only screens and roof tiles, and a few windows. Businesses were all open in town and life was nearly back to normal down there. Even still, Lacey’s parents had decided to stay longer up north with her brother, giving Lacey and Ashley a place to live.
    Good thing, because if Marie Armstrong were breathing down Lacey’s neck right now, harping on the complete impossibility of these plans, Lacey would never have the nerve to make this call.
    She angled the phone and eyed the architect’s name, imagining the conversation with a man she considered a legend. She’d seen his picture on the company Web site and on the Internet. The guy looked like Colonel Sanders with all that white hair and a Southern-gentleman bow tie. How scary could he be?
    Okay. It was time. She turned so the sight of Ashley wouldn’t distract her, and put her finger on the phone.
    Wait
.
    Should she call him Mr. Walker? His e-mail seemed so casual, at least for an architectural genius. So maybe he wouldn’t want—
    A voice floated up from the beach. A male voice.
    Lacey glanced over her shoulder, inhaling a quick breath at the sight of a man five feet away from Ashley. A half-naked man, wearing nothing but low-hanging board shorts and sockless sneakers. Shaggy hair, big muscles, and, dear God, was that a tattoo on his arm?
    Was he a tourist? A surfer? More likely one of the many debris scavengers who’d popped up all over the island since they’d reopened the causeway, ready to make a buck off the misfortune of others.
    Ashley laughed at something he said, and he turned just enough for Lacey to get an eyeful of sweat-glistening chest and abs and—wow.
    Ashley flipped her hair and the man took a step closer.
    Okay, stop right there, buddy. Lacey launched forward, driven by primal instinct, forgetting the call and ignoring the fiery sand singeing her bare feet.
    “Excuse me.”
    They both turned at her words, Ashley’s body language screaming disgust as she rolled her eyes. But Lacey barely saw her. Her gaze was locked on the predator, preparing her counterattack in full mother-lioness mode, quickly assessing his danger level.
    His danger level was… hot.
    Ridiculously so.
    He stunned her with a blinding smile. He disarmed her with a shake of his honey-colored locks, revealing a handsome, tanned face