Barefoot in Lace (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 2) Read online

  “There was, and it happened exactly as I told you. But the timing, the moment, the whole event wasn’t because of something Luke did. It was me.”

  He didn’t say a word or give a reaction, but waited for her to continue.

  “I liked one of his friends.” She shook her head, hating the simplicity and stupidity of it all over again. “I liked a lot of his friends, to be honest. I was a typical boy-crazy fifteen-year-old who craved attention from the opposite sex, but I was not the kind of fifteen-year-old who got it.”

  No, Gussie McBain had been at the height of her awkward, ugly stage. It may have evolved over the years, but somehow, time had frozen at that moment, and there she stayed, even now, fifteen years later.

  “I had zits, and a narrow face, and an oversized nose, and a body that hadn’t even begun to develop like my friends. I was not pretty. But I felt like if one guy—only one, any one—would notice me, then that would change, so I basically threw myself at one of his friends. Brian Grimsby. I can still see him right now.” Not very tall, thin, but he’d had beautiful black hair and dark, dark eyes.

  “What did Brian do with the honor of you throwing yourself at him?”

  Act like an asshole. “I don’t think he was honored. But he was an eighteen-year-old boy, so when we got far away from the crowd to make out, he took every advantage of me.”

  Tom’s eyes widened in surprise, and she realized what he thought.

  “No, not every advantage, but we rounded a few bases, and I freaked out when he whipped out his dipstick and started pushing me to my knees.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Said no and saw his interest fade in the blink of an eye. He zipped up and blew me off, so I downed the Solo cup of vodka he left behind.” She wiped her lip absently, still tasting the burn and shame. “I kind of stumbled away and almost instantly felt sick. I went to go behind some bleachers that had been set up for real fireworks, and I heard him telling some of his friends that he’d just gotten a blow job, which, I swear to God, wasn’t true.”

  “Gussie,” he said, a little pity and sympathy in his voice. “Guys say stupid shit and no one believes them.”

  Of course she knew that. “His friends asked who, of course, and he told them, and they…they all started laughing and barking like dogs and joking about how”—her voice betrayed her with a hitch—“how Luke had it all, and I had nothing. He had looks, brains, sports, friends, but mostly looks. They were cracking jokes for what seemed like an hour but was probably two minutes. But I was mad and a little drunk and hurt beyond description.”

  She covered her mouth with her hands, shaking her head, hating this memory.

  “Fact was, I despised my brother right then,” she admitted. “He did have everything—he was great-looking, beloved, brilliant, bigger than life. Everything I didn’t have, Luke had in spades. So I marched off to tell him, to rat on Brian, and take out my fury at how life had cheated me.”

  And that, right there, was the stupidest thing she’d ever done. “I saw him throwing the bottle rockets, and I recklessly ran right into the line of fire. The next thing I knew, my hair was on fire.”

  “Oh, God, Gussie.” He reached for her hands. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”

  No one could. The flash, the heat, the pain, the screaming, the ambulance, and the aftermath. Her mother losing her mind, her father bawling in the hospital, and Luke, stricken with guilt for something that hadn’t been his fault.

  “That stupid move cost us a family. Losing him was way worse than losing my hair.”

  “And you have no idea where he is?”

  “Not a clue,” she sighed. “After the accident, oh, it was horrible. I told you he was insane with guilt, certain it was entirely his fault for being drunk and dumb. My parents were…” She shook her head. “They refused to talk to him, which, I know now, they regret. When he turned eighteen, not long after I came home from the hospital, he left.”

  “He ran away?”

  She shrugged. “At eighteen, it’s not running away. It’s breaking up a perfectly happy, healthy, wonderful life.” She sighed on the last word. “I miss that family so much.”

  The lump in her throat grew so big it actually hurt to talk, so she didn’t, waiting for the pain to subside.

  “I know what it feels like to lose a family, Gussie.”

  The pain in his voice stabbed her, and when she looked at him, the agony in his eyes sliced right through her.

  Of course he knew that. He’d lost his parents at seventeen and his sister just last month. And, clearly, that pain had not yet healed, not if the dampness in his eyes and the sorrow in his tone were any indication.

  “I know you do,” she said, rubbing her hand on his back in sympathy. “I don’t mean to act like no one else ever had their family break apart. If it affected you like it did me, well, then, you know why family means so much to me.”

  He nodded, his jaw tight as if he didn’t trust his own response.

  “Have you tried to find him?” he asked after a moment.

  She frowned. “You mean like use an investigator? No. I think my parents might have, but we never talked about it. Everything got broken and weird and ruined after the accident. Which”—she took a shuddering breath—“wasn’t really an accident since I basically caused it by acting like an idiot. So, there you have it.” She dabbed a tear carefully, forgetting for a minute that she didn’t have a drop of makeup on. “My story of insecurity and heartache. Time kind of stood still for me that night.”

  He studied her, not answering right away. “It explains a lot.”

  “But doesn’t change anything,” she said quickly. “Telling the truth doesn’t make it hurt any less or take away any impossible-to-understand repercussions.”

  “I would think,” he said slowly, trailing a finger over her cheekbone, “that some dickhead who called you unattractive wouldn’t have any power after that.”

  “You would think that.” She closed her eyes and enjoyed the touch, but then moved away. “And, to some extent, you’d be right. Brian and his comments were forgotten for the most part in the trauma of what ensued. But I was the butt of jokes and then I let them…wreck everything. I don’t know how or why that’s affected me all these years, and maybe some high-priced therapist could tell me, but I haven’t bothered to find out. My insecurities don’t matter, though. What matters is that I lost my brother. And”—she touched her hair—“I got even less attractive in the process, which sometimes feels like…” She couldn’t get the words out.

  “Like retribution for what you did,” he supplied.

  Her heart slipped a little, with gratitude and relief to find someone who absolutely understood. “Yes. Payback for my mistake.”

  He shook his head. “You know it doesn’t work that way.”

  Did she? She shrugged, trying to find some bright side to her sad tale. “I did discover wigs.”

  “In every color.”

  “It was right around the time that some companies were making them in colors, and it was my little form of rebellion. Then I felt lost under the fake hair, my plain features seeming even…more so. My interest in fashion and makeup really took off then, and I started experimenting on myself. Next thing I knew, I always wore…a mask.”

  “Ever consider going without it?”

  She shrugged. “Too many people know me this way, and it would take all kinds of explanation and…no,” she finished. “I don’t.”

  “Not even for a little while, as an experiment to see how you feel? Not even, say, for a couple of weeks in another country where no one knows you?”

  It took a few seconds for the real meaning of the question to hit her. France. She smiled and jabbed him with an elbow. “You’re a tricky one, Tommy.”

  “Come with me, Gus. Take off your mask and”—he slid an arm around her, pulling her closer—“just be you, with me.”

  “You want help with Alex.”

  His expression dropped in disappointment. “Do you really think that? If that were true, I’d take you up on your offer to keep her while I go. No.” He gave his head a strong, vehement shake. “No. That’s not why I’m asking.”

  “Then why are you asking?”

  He puffed a surprised breath. “Are your insecurities that deep?”

  “Have we not spent half an hour discussing them?”

  He put both hands on her face and held her still, forcing their eyes to lock. “Augusta McBain, come with me and leave your mask behind. Consider it your therapy that you never got. You can walk the Promenade, eat the best food in the world, watch glorious sunrises, come to the set, and sleep”—he leaned closer and put his forehead against hers—“wherever you like, but preferably in my arms.”

  Seduction. This was what it felt like. Tempting and sweet and agonizingly good, no matter how bad it would be later. The very idea intoxicated her…weeks with him, in France, and Alex, who gave her a different kind of joy. No wigs, no makeup, no mask.

  How could she say no to that?

  Yes, when it was over, it would be, well, over. She knew that going in. He’d be “always alone,” and she’d still be exactly the same. But if she said no, she’d spend the rest of her days regretting the decision. Hadn’t she regretted enough in her life?

  “Yes,” she whispered into a light kiss. “I’ll go.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thomas Jefferson DeMille, you are on dangerous ground.

  Although, to be fair, he was currently about thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean in an elegantly appointed Gulfstream G280.

  Sipping a cold bottle of—what else?—LaVie, Tom glanced across the wide aisle to see Gussie leaning her head against her window, her eyes closed or focused on the cushion of clouds below. The soft hum of the jet engines lulled the cabin into a quiet cocoon, made even more private now that Alex had dropped off to sleep on the sofa in the back.

  From his vantage point, Tom could see Gussie’s chest rise and fall with each breath, making him think she might have fallen asleep, too. With her hair pulled back in a ponytail that peaked at the crown of her head, she’d easily covered most of the scar that troubled her so much, and he could truly appreciate the slopes and angles of her profile.

  She had a slight overbite, and her chin was a little too small. Without the bounty of fake hair around her face, he could really see the angles of her delicate bone structure, which might, before she’d developed into a woman, have been considered unexotic enough to be “plain.”

  Yet, she was beautiful to him. The way she made Alex laugh, or when she gave him her full attention and listened to what he was saying, or when she talked about a particularly crazy bride, he was enchanted. It attracted him on a level that had nothing to do with looks.

  And the last time that happened…he’d suffered.

  But here he was, barreling back toward a scary place at hundreds of miles an hour.

  Of course, this was different. He wasn’t attached. He wasn’t even close to committed beyond the promise of what would be some romance and, he hoped, satisfying sex.

  Surely he couldn’t deny himself that just because he found her attractive, right? Spending his life “alone” meant no family, no ties, no chance of losing everything again. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be with someone, did it?

  He shifted in his seat, making enough noise against the leather to get Gussie to open her eyes and look at him. For a moment, neither spoke or smiled or blinked or, hell, took a breath of air.

  He really should tell her everything about his past. But he never told anyone. And, obviously, his sister hadn’t even told Alex, or she’d surely have brought it up by now. Once he’d shared the pain, they’d be closer and then—

  Gussie unlatched her seat belt and slipped across the wide aisle to sit next to him.

  “I’m thirsty.”

  Why the hell was that so sexy? Was it the sultry tone of her voice? The almost sleepy look in her eyes? The subtle scent of something floral she always wore? It didn’t matter. He gave her the bottle and watched her drink. She tilted her head and shuttered her eyes and looked at him from under her lashes. And inspiration struck.

  “Don’t move.”

  She froze, though her eyes got wider.

  “Seriously, don’t put that bottle down.” He had his phone out in a second and tapped the camera.

  She dipped the bottle. “You’re—”

  “Gussie, please.” And took another shot. “Look at that,” he said, showing her the screen. “Look at that.”

  The LaVie logo was perfectly visible, with the tip of one finger—bare of any polish, in keeping with their deal—brushing the stylized V. Her expression was pure satisfaction, and the bottle was partially reflected in her eyes. Best of all, those eyes matched the bright green in the iconic turquoise and chartreuse LaVie label.

  “Perfection,” he murmured, looking at the shot. “That could go right in the LaVie storyboard today.”

  “Well, it better not.”

  “No one will see the board shots but the crew and me,” he promised. “Think of that picture as my taking a note so I don’t forget the concept. Not that I could.”

  “A model would be better.”

  “A model wouldn’t be real.” He leaned back into the buttery leather again. “I’d love to use real women on this campaign, but they are so dead set on it being ‘high fashion’ and including the faces and bodies of supermodels.”

  “Why do they think that’s going to get people to drink the water? Like, the more LaVie you drink, the more you’ll look like a supermodel?”

  “They want the bottle as an accessory.” He reached to the floor and got his tablet, opening it to a campaign storyboard.

  The shots were sketches, drawn to mirror a designer’s pencil, with the emphasis as much on the clothes and accessories as the model or the lightly drawn scenery in the background.

  “You think that’s going to sell water?”

  “They do. It’s not my job to think about it.”

  “But it kind of is,” she countered.

  He looked skyward. “This is why I hate commercial photography. I’m all about creating the story and capturing the essence, not selling a bottle of water.”

  “Then why did you take this job?”

  “My feet itch.” At her confused expression, he added, “I don’t just like to travel, Gussie. I hate staying in one place for too long. For me, it’s like not being able to function.”

  He may have added too much emphasis on that last point, but that was the way it came out.

  “I can’t even imagine not having a home anywhere. Where do you keep your stuff?”

  “My only stuff is photography related, and it comes with me or stays in storage.”

  “Your books?”

  “On my tablet.”

  “Clothes?”

  “In a suitcase.”

  “Favorite coffee cup?”

  “Whatever holds my coffee when I want it is fine.”

  “Pictures, memories, and gifts from friends?”

  He shrugged. “Pictures I have enough of, memories are in my brain, and my friends know better than to give me gifts.”

  “Do you even have friends?”

  The question threw him, since the rhythm of the verbal volley suddenly evaporated. “Of course I do. I have friends all over the world, in all kinds of professions.” He added a smile. “I stay at their homes when I’m traveling.”

  She shook her head. “I do not envy you that life. I like my stuff. What happens when you get old?” she asked.

  Again, a lob from left field he hadn’t been expecting. “I’m only thirty-six. I have plenty of time to worry about the future.”

  She looked up at him. “No, you don’t. The future is now.” She pointed her thumb to the back. “The future is sleeping twenty feet away with a bruised heart and a notebook full of what I suspect is teen-girl poetry, but I don’t want to intrude by asking.”

  Of course, Gussie knew exactly what not to ask with Alex. He’d prodded and gotten nowhere. “She can’t possibly want to live with me.”

  “She’s twelve. I don’t think she has a lot of say in the matter.”

  He let go of her hand, stabbing his fingers into his hair to drag it back with a low sigh. “I’m going to figure something out.” He had to. “As soon as we get back from France. Maybe she’ll like life on the road, and I can, I don’t know, get her homeschooled or something.”

  Her eyes tapered with a very clear message that he was dreaming.

  “Look, these past few days are the first time I’ve gotten her to say ten consecutive words,” he said. “And, let’s be honest, I haven’t gotten her to do that, you have.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Gussie, I just told you I don’t even have a favorite coffee cup, let alone a…a…normal home life. And I don’t want one,” he added, a little too harshly. Had it, lost it, never want that again.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  Was this the time to tell her? He took her hand again to pull her closer, but a footfall behind them stopped him.

  “Are we in France yet?” Alex wiped sleep from her eyes and curled into the seat that faced theirs. “And what time will it be when we get there?”

  Tom checked his watch, but Gussie leaned forward and put a hand on Alex’s leg. “It’ll be the middle of the night, and even on a private plane, we’ll have to get through Customs and to the apartment, so you should keep sleeping.”

  She shook her head, eyeing one, then the other, and then her attention remaining on Gussie. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course,” Gussie replied.

  “Why’d you stop wearing wigs?”

  “She’s not wearing wigs or hats or makeup on this trip,” Tom said quickly, hoping the question didn’t make Gussie uncomfortable, but once again not having any clue if he should reprimand Alex or use the situation as some kind of an object lesson.

  “Because we’re taking a freecation,” Gussie said.

  “A what?” Tom and Alex asked in unison.

  “A freecation. A vacation from the things that…weigh down our lives and keep us from being free.”