Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(11)

He squashed the guilt. “It’s another hotel, son, and what we need to do is buy a place.” If he ever had time, or even the inclination. For the months he’d lived in Naples, the upscale hotel had been easier. Of course, he’d planned to buy something and be moved in when Evan came for his two weeks of summer that the custody agreement allowed. Then Adele announced her plans, and Evan came down six weeks sooner than expected.

Evan was still mooning over the brochure. “That place doesn’t seem so fancy.”

“It’s fancy all right, but it’s not gaudy.” Although, to be fair, he hadn’t seen much of Casa Blanca the night before. After delivering the baby—after seeing Zoe—he’d wanted to get the hell out of there. Much to Adele’s displeasure, he’d insisted on leaving, his efforts to make their split amicable no longer important.

“Well, I don’t like gaudy,” Evan said. “And that beach looks really cool.”

If he hadn’t gone there last night he wouldn’t have seen Zoe, and she probably wouldn’t have come in here today. But why had she left so suddenly?

He glanced up at Evan and suspected he knew exactly why. Damn it, he’d wanted to tell her himself—then and now. But both times she took off.

“Don’t you think, Dad?”

He looked up, zoned out on the question. “Don’t I think what?”

“That we could live in one of those houses instead of that stupid hotel?”

He pulled himself back to the moment and studied Evan’s face, the earnest eyes so much like the ones that stared at him in the mirror every day, and the turned-down mouth, always so serious.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“We could see her all the time then.”

There was that.

“And I could find out why she ran away like that,” Evan added. “Do you think it was because of me?”

The hurt in Evan’s voice hit home. Oliver had blamed himself, too, for a while. Then he’d realized that Zoe was…Zoe. “No, Evan, she didn’t leave because of…” But the truth was she had left because of Evan, at least indirectly. “Anything you said.”

“I didn’t tell her anything, except my IQ and how old I am.” He looked down and kicked at the ground. “I know I’m not supposed to ‘brag about my brains.’ ”

But his IQ wasn’t the number that had sent Zoe running. She’d done the math and figured it all out.

Sighing, Oliver knew he had to do what he hadn’t done last time: go after her. And this time he knew where to find her.





Zoe slept until almost noon the next day and woke to an eerily empty bungalow.

Where was Pasha? She didn’t normally leave the little house without a note, but maybe she’d gone out to the greenhouse to talk to Tessa. Grabbing a mug of coffee on the way, Zoe stepped out to the tiny back patio of the bungalow, one of a half-dozen units that had been built for resort staff who would move in once Casa Blanca was fully up and, they hoped, booked, in the next few months. The little cul-de-sac of cottages was tucked behind all the villas, overlooking the gardens that Tessa Galloway had planted and nurtured since she’d taken over the job as Casa Blanca’s gardener.

Zoe didn’t see Pasha in the rows of veggies and leafy greens. Or on any of the paths, which meandered through the gardens and were lined with palm trees that stood stark against the midday sky. Beyond the gardens color splashed everywhere, from purple and red hibiscus flowers to the poinciana trees bursting with persimmon buds, but no sign of Pasha.

Despite the hurricane that had ripped through Mimosa Key’s northern inlet nearly two years before, Barefoot Bay now thrummed with life again—plant and people life. Now that it was June, Casa Blanca had a few “beta” guests—travel agents and friendly bloggers—and Lacey had started to hire in anticipation of a trickle of summer guests. In a few months, it would be the first real “season” for the Northern snowbirds they hoped to attract to the small, upscale resort.

Zoe leaned against the railing, enjoying the salty Gulf breeze from an inlet she couldn’t quite see this far away from the beach.

God, she loved Barefoot Bay. Of course she hadn’t admitted that to anyone, even though her three best friends from college, Lacey, Tessa, and Jocelyn, were all living on this island now. Tessa had taken the staff bungalow right next door, and Jocelyn had moved in with Will on the southern end of Mimosa Key, living next door to her aging father.

If the girls even got a whiff of Zoe’s desire to stay, they’d start a full-court press to permanently reunite the Fearsome Foursome of Tolbert Hall.

The sweet idea had been teasing her for weeks, and she’d been ready to whisper the possibility to Pasha, planning to start with a reminder that they’d been in Arizona three years, which was the longest they’d ever stayed anywhere except for the years Zoe had gone to college in Gainesville. She’d been hoping Pasha would get better and finally let go of her determination to run fast and far and often.

But that hope was dashed now, and not by Aunt Pasha. By Oliver.

Truth was, she couldn’t live in a place that was one causeway drive away from Oliver. And his son.

The son conceived before they’d even met.

Blowing out a breath, she let all the disappointment that had been brewing since yesterday morning settle low in her belly. Pasha needed a doctor, and she’d let pride and jealousy steal the best possible solution.

Somehow, she had to go back to Oliver and try again.

Or did she?

The debate had raged for twenty-four hours now. Would he treat Pasha in secret? The man who obviously felt compelled to marry the woman he got pregnant, whether or not he loved her? Because Zoe might question a lot of things in her life, but not that. Oliver had loved her; she believed that. But he would always do the right thing in any situation—that was what made him tick.

So what was the right thing in this situation?

And, really, did he have to be hot, even these nine years later? Did he have to still emit some kind of crazy, sinful, senseless pheromones that attacked Zoe’s sex-deprived brain like little hormone ninjas? Would Oliver fire up her girly bits if she hadn’t sworn off sex after a string of excruciating few-night-stands almost four years ago? Probably.

Come on, Zoe. You practically inhaled the guy the night you met.

But we’d waited, she countered her mental adversary, also known as the voice. They’d waited—almost twenty-four whole hours. And in that time, Oliver said, he’d gone straight to his girlfriend, the daughter of Mount Mercy Hospital’s CEO, and broken up with her.

But obviously not for good.

You left him!

What else could she do after he insisted they turn Pasha in? Pasha had had that panic bag packed and in the car in a flash. She’d given Zoe the choice to stay, but, really, there was no choice. She loved Pasha. And Oliver? Well, how would she know romantic love if it bit her in the nose? She’d never lived with a happily married couple. She didn’t know the rules and regs, or where the lines were drawn with people who were in love—don’t you tell your true love everything?

Zoe had, and look how that turned out. Oliver had practically jumped out of the balloon that day. So she ran. Honestly, both she and Oliver had to be accountable for the demise of that romance.

A trickle of sweat meandered down her back, the midday sun brutal already. She went inside to dress in the only suitable clothes for a day this hot: a bikini and thin cotton cover-up, which was good enough for finding Pasha, wherever she was.

A tendril of worry wrapped around her throat. Where was Pasha?

She hadn’t even mentioned the visit to Oliver’s office to her aunt because, well, she wasn’t ready to leave Barefoot Bay and she knew what Pasha’s response to Zoe’s idea would be. Exit stage right.

And Zoe would go because she and Pasha were a team, partners, together forever.

She rinsed her cup and looked out into the gardens again.

There was no such thing as forever. Pasha was sick and this team would inevitably end. And the funny thing was, when that happened, Zoe would finally be free. There’d be no need to live “off the grid” once Pasha was gone.

So why was she fighting so hard to keep her alive? Because the only “love” Zoe had ever known, other than her three closest girlfriends, was given and taken by Pasha. Zoe might not have had normal parents to be role models of how good couples acted, but she had had Pasha to shower her with attention and affection for almost all of her life, ever since Bridget Lessington disappeared and Zoe Tamarin was born.

We’ll call you Zoe. …Zoe means “new life.”

And twenty-four years later, she was still Zoe and they were still running. God, she was so, so tired of running. Of keeping everyone in the dark and at a distance. Of building walls made of sarcasm and apathy. Of skimming the surface with men because anything more would mean repeating what had happened with Oliver.