The Scandal (Billionaire's Beach Book 4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,50
loneliness. He’d look at her with cool eyes that made her hot, and he’d promise that forever was as real as their heartbeats.
It was foolish and romantic, and she felt tears sting and more clog her throat as the pretty bubble floated in front of her, though she didn’t quite dare grasp it.
“Sara,” Joaquin said, his voice almost a whisper. He stopped walking.
“Hmm?” She glanced up at him.
“You’re crying.”
“I am?” Her hand crept up to brush the moisture from her cheeks. More foolishness. How to explain herself. “It’s just…just so beautiful,” she said, gesturing to the deserted beach and the murmuring waves.
“Yes,” he answered, without looking away from her face. “Yes, it is.”
Chapter 9
Joaquin trailed Essie and Sara down the beach toward the Archer home, carrying a huge bowl of potato salad cradled in his arms. The girl and woman were burdened as well, one carrying a cake and the other a platter of vegetables and dip.
The back doors of their destination were folded open, glass accordioned so the outside and inside became one. Music flowed from the speakers on the deck, a classic summer song, and the notes floated in the air along with the fish-shaped kite that was flying from a line connected to the railing. Two women moved about while the boy, Wells, ran around with his arms splayed like airplane wings.
The domesticity of the scene gave him pause. He’d been looking forward to the evening, but now he realized he’d be completely out of his element.
I could make an excuse like Essie had the night before, he thought. Claim a call—a business call.
But Essie had been moping about all day, and he wanted to keep an eye on her. Then there was Sara.
Ah. Sara.
She’d looked like sherbet and acted like a skittish animal during last night’s dinner. A delectable combination, as it turned out. And then she’d told him about butler school. He’d been both amused and impressed by her description of her coursework that included menu planning, etiquette, and the best practices when packing a suitcase.
The last had made him want to plan a trip, just to watch her neat hands at work to tuck and roll and fold. He could imagine upon opening said suitcase that he would snap straight each item of clothing and think of her.
But packing would mean leaving, and he wasn’t keen on putting her out of his sight, either.
Not when he couldn’t forget her on the beach, moonlight in her eyes and that sweet and pensive expression on her face. Then tears. He’d said he knew her—and he did—but there were secrets, and secret places, yet to uncover.
He glanced around, wondering what alchemy of sand and sun and sea was at work on him. In the mirror he looked the same, but inside his head he was no longer the man mired in business concerns. His family obligations had felt like just that—obligations—and he’d rarely engaged with his mother, and with Essie virtually not at all.
But he’d turned a new page. Maybe because of that Felipe smile that Essie wore. Though being a brother was as out of his element as this dinner event, he wasn’t running from it any longer.
Still, tonight he could hole up back at the house in his usual hermit-style and save himself the trouble of making social niceties.
Essie turned to look at him now. “Coming?” she said, mounting the steps.
Disappointing her seemed like not an option now.
“Right behind you,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t regret the decision.
On the deck, he was told where to place his bowl and then introduced to butler Emmaline. A striking brunette, she didn’t have Sara’s intriguing reserve. But he liked her at once, especially upon seeing her pleasure at being reunited with her two friends.
The three women instantly included Essie in their circle, and his sister perked up, helping to arrange the table and putting flowers in a vase.
It left Joaquin to Wells.
“I’m the host,” the boy said. “Charlie told me. Because my dad’s on a trip and my mother, she’s—”
“Dead,” Joaquin finished for him, trying to keep it casual. “I’m sorry about that.”
With some of his thunder stolen, Wells blinked. Then he shoved his small fists into the pocket of his shorts and gave Joaquin an assessing stare. “You play horseshoes?”
It turned out to involve pounding stakes into the sand with a mallet first—something Wells wasn’t allowed to do on his own—but Joaquin managed the task with credible aplomb, ignoring the official pitch length recommended on the box.