Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1) (28 page)

“It would be super awkward now,” she agreed. “And after Saturday, you’ll never see any of them again. Or…”
Shut up, Emma.

She finished the unfinished thought by taking a drink of champagne.

“Or what?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Em.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “We had a deal.”

“I was going to say ‘or me’.” But it sounded needy and clingy and dumb.

“What makes you think I’m never going to see you again?” he asked. “We both live in New York.”

“For the moment,” she reminded him. “I may be relocating to paradise.”

“Then I’ll be back,” he said simply.

She didn’t respond while he dipped another strawberry. Holding it over her mouth, he eased her back a little. “Open up,” he whispered, the sexy demand sending a sharp stab of longing into her belly.

“Will you really be back?”

“Open up,” he repeated.

In other words, get sexy, get playful, don’t get serious.
He had his soul mate, remember, Emma?

She closed her eyes and opened her mouth, waiting for the taste of chocolate and strawberry to remove the metallic flavor of fear she knew a little too well.

She was scared of losing him, and that was one fear she’d have to face alone.

Mark gave her a bite, then covered her mouth with his, licking the chocolate from her lips.

Their tongues shared the taste, and each other, then he lifted her chin and kissed his way down her throat and, somehow, she swallowed the bite of food.

Easing aside the loose T-shirt she wore to bed but usually discarded in the first two minutes there, he pressed his lips on her skin, burning her. Of course, her body reacted instantly, arching into him, offering herself, letting him lift the top off to reveal her bare breasts.

“This is all the dessert I need,” he murmured, lowering her to her back so he could take the top and begin his exploration with tongue and touch. “I can’t get enough of you, Emma. Every day and every night. This is all I want.”

He suckled her breast and stroked the other one, pressing down on her so she could feel him grow harder with each second.

But it wasn’t all she wanted, a voice in her head echoed.

She tried to silence it by wrapping her legs around him and rocking into his erection.

But her thoughts couldn’t be quieted. Even when he slid down her panties and stroked her until she couldn’t breathe anymore. Not as he dropped to his knees and spread her legs to taste her. And when he used his tongue and fingers to bring her to the brink of an orgasm, she still couldn’t block out the truth that pounded in her brain.

She loved him.

No, Emma, no,
that voice screamed, louder than ever.
You can’t love him. He’s had his soul mate.

She threaded her fingers into his hair, tugging gently as he kissed her thighs and stomach, working his way back to her tender breasts. “I can’t,” she said, inching his head away.

He looked up and smiled. “Since when do you stop at one? Come on.” He stood, pulling her up with him so her nightshirt fell back into place. “Let’s do this right.”

Right
. The way she always wanted it to be. Not a pretend engagement. Not a fake honeymoon. Not a game.

Should she tell him that? Talk about facing down a fear. “I can’t,” she whispered again, her voice cracking.

He frowned, turning to her and searching her face. “Something’s wrong,” he said simply, sending one of those waves of affection that always drowned her. Not a question, because he knew. Not a complaint, because he’d wait. But a statement of fact, because this man
got
her.

“Yes.” She swallowed and touched his face. “Something’s wrong.”

“What is it?”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen, Mark.”

He just looked at her, and she knew he knew exactly what
this
was.

“This was supposed to be fun and fake and playful and…fake.”

He still didn’t say a word, but very slowly, he brought his arms around her and drew her into his chest, so close she had to turn her head and rest against his shoulder. They stood silent, breathing, holding each other under the stars.

Finally, he dragged his hands up to her cheeks and inched back so she could see his expression. And it was…raw and real.

He held her face in his two strong, capable hands and stared at her. “I’m not very good with words. Not like you are. But I have something to say to you, and if you’ll come with me to the bedroom, I will show you how I feel. I will make love to you…and mean it. Nothing fun, fake, or playful. Just real love.”

Forget drowning in a wash of emotions. This was a tidal wave, swamping her, knocking her over, and making her forget that every time she bought into the fairy tale, it wrecked her.

The perfect family…then Dad left.

The fairy-tale wedding…then Kyle left.

And now, Mark. Magical, wonderful, spectacular Mark, who made her believe she was capable of anything. Mark promising…love.

“I’m so scared,” she whispered.

He just tipped his head and smiled. “Not my Emma. She’s not afraid of anything.”

He slipped his arm around her and walked her slowly to the French doors and the big bed and the future that looked so bright, she had to close her eyes.

* * *

Mark knew the difference between making love and having sex. He had, in fact, known it from a pretty young age when he and Julia planned their mutual loss of virginity with tremendous thought to the details and an actual night in a real hotel, so there was no backseat of the car or quickie on the patio while her parents slept.

Those came later. But when he and Julia did it for the first time, it had been making love.

And this—

“What are you thinking about?” Emma touched his face, no doubt feeling the sheen of sweat that clung to him as he lay spent and satisfied on top of her.

And thinking about his first time, damn it. “Who can think after that?”

“Oh, you’re thinking. I can tell.” She added some pressure on his shoulder to push him up so they could see each other in the dim light. “When you start thinking, you breathe differently.”

“I do?”

“When you start to really consider something, your breath gets shallow.”

Wow. “You really…know me.”

“And that bothers you.”

He inched higher. “Why would you think that? Didn’t I just show you what I couldn’t say?”

“You did,” she conceded. “Three times, and that last one was just unfair. Like a bowl of M&M’s after cake and ice cream. Is that what you’re thinking about?”

“M&M’s?”

“Whatever it is you can’t say but want to show me.”

On a sigh, he lowered himself and slowly pulled out of the nest that had become like home to him. She released him and let him roll to the side, where he immediately lined them up and didn’t leave a space between them.

“Do you really want to know what I was thinking about?”

He saw her swallow. “I don’t know. Do I?”

“I was thinking about the difference between having sex and making love. And I was thinking about…” He stroked the curve of her waist, the touch light and, he hoped, tender enough to take the sting out of what he was about to say. “My first time.”

He felt her shudder a little against him. “With Julia.”

He closed his eyes. “Yeah. And, for the record, we were already in love. We did it with all kinds of romance, and it was a great first time.” He didn’t open his eyes, bracing for something like…
Well, that’s nice, how fun to talk about sex with your late wife in bed together. Can we go back to not talking about her in too much detail like we’ve managed to do for a week?

“I would expect nothing less from you.”

Emma’s words hit his heart because they were so not what he expected. “It was her idea,” he said. “She wanted it to be meaningful.”

She didn’t say anything but nodded, as if she understood and couldn’t question that desire.

“That’s why I was thinking about it now,” he said, surprised at how thick his voice was. “Because sometime in the last few days, or hours or minutes, we stopped having sex and started making love. And it’s…meaningful.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I felt it with every kiss and touch.” She pressed her hand on his cheeks. “And I can taste your fear over that.”

He gave a soft laugh. “You can? Hey, two more times and we’ve conquered that fear.”

“Nothing is going to conquer that,” she said. “You are terrified of letting go of her.”

He huffed a breath and let his head turn on the pillow. “Emma, this isn’t fair. I don’t want to lie here in bed with you and talk about my feelings for my dead wife.”

She took his chin and forced his face back to her. “I do.”

“You do?”

“I want to talk about feelings. Whatever they’re for. I don’t want to joke anymore or play alliteration word games or talk about my new job or your last sky-diving adventure. I mean, I do,” she said quickly. “Tomorrow. Later. On the way to the baseball game or over breakfast. But right now, we have to talk about feelings. That’s what makes this meaningful.”

He searched her face, lost in the determination he saw in her eyes. She wanted him whole. She wanted him healed. She wanted him, period. And until he became whole and healed, she couldn’t have him.

They both knew that.

“You want to talk about feeling even if those feelings are for someone who died sixteen years ago?” he asked.

“Especially if they are.”

He stared at her, that thickness in his throat getting worse with each second.

“Have you ever told anyone your feelings for Julia?” she asked. “Like, why she was your soul mate? What you loved about her from the beginning? Why it worked for you two? What you miss most about her?”

Each question stabbed his heart. “Of course not.”

She sat up higher. “Why not?”

He pulled her back down. “Because it doesn’t matter to anyone but me. I’ve never been close enough to tell someone that stuff, and if I was, like I am now, it would just hurt.”

“Hurt who? Me or you?”

“You, of course. I just showed you the closest thing I know on earth to telling you what you mean to me, and you want me to close out the night with a diatribe about how awesome Julia was? What kind of a brute do you think I am?”

She studied him for a minute, thinking, wetting her lips, readying her thoughts. “You know what I think you are?”

“A jerk for bringing this up?”

“I brought it up,” she corrected. “And I think you are one great big, incredibly handsome, ridiculously kind, impossibly wonderful biscuit can.”

He blinked at her. “Excuse me?”

“And you, Mr. Biscuit”—she poked his chest—“are ready to pop from the pressure, and until you do, you’re just a container of deliciousness that no one can enjoy until they get all that stuff out of you. Even if that’s a little scary.”

He just stared at her, on the hairy edge of laughing and crying. “I’m a…biscuit can.”

She snuggled back into him, satisfied. “And guess what I’m about to do?”

“Bang me against the counter?” He couldn’t help smiling.

She settled her head against him and tapped his chest, lightly at first, then a little harder, right over his heart. Then with enough force that her fingers made a thud on his breastbone. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tap
.

And Mark closed his eyes against a sting of tears, took a deep breath, and started.

“I met her in algebra in tenth grade,” he said softly. “She sat next to me on the first day, and she had knee-high socks on with a skirt, and I’d never seen anything so damn cute in my whole life.”

Against his chest, he felt her smile. “It
was
the eighties.”

“It sure was. She was not that great at math, so I started tutoring her on Monday nights…” He stroked Emma’s long, dark hair with one hand, a steady, slow rhythm that helped pull the memories out of the recesses of his brain. With each revelation, he discovered long-forgotten moments in time that were like lost coins and paper receipts found in pockets.

He brought each one out for Emma, turned it over, and let light shine on it. She listened, appreciating each, asking some questions but mostly just letting him…pour out a lifetime of
feelings
.

She held him, and cried with him, and finally, an hour or more later, slept soundly next to him. And as he heard her steady breathing, he realized what an incredible gift she’d just given him.

Of all the rocks he’d climbed and caves he’d dived into and planes he’d jumped out of to be free of the grief…none had liberated him. Until now. Until tonight. Until…Emma.

He pulled her sleeping body closer and felt the urge to say one more thing. For the first time in more than thirty years, he needed to say the words that he’d only ever spoken to Julia.

He pressed his lips against her sweet-smelling hair, closed his eyes, and whispered, “I love you.”