“I’m going to assume that’s a rhetorical question.”

“How long?” they asked in unison.

“Obviously, I think about sex, since I have a pulse. But a date? No. Not since I found out Billy was doing more than the downward dog with a fertility goddess. So, three years at least.”

They shared a suitably pitying look, further irritating Tessa. “Guys, we’ve been a little busy building a resort and I’ve started a functioning farmette from nothing.”

“None of us has been too busy to fall in love,” Jocelyn replied. “And, trust me, some of us did not have it on the to-do list.”

Lacey leaned forward, tightening her grip on Tessa’s hands. “She’s right. Look at the three of us. We’re living proof that love can happen when you least expect it.”

Tessa looked to the ceiling and breathed a sigh, mining for patience. She didn’t begrudge them their happiness, not one single bit. Since they’d met in college and especially since life and love had brought them all together in Barefoot Bay, these women had been sisters to Tessa. Their joy was her joy.

But staring all this love in the face every single day wasn’t easy. And think if they did succeed in making Casa Blanca a premier destination-wedding resort. All the guests would be lovestruck, too. Oh, kill me now.

“We want you to be happy,” Jocelyn said.

“And pregnant,” Lacey added.

The din of Mimosa Key locals blowing off steam competed with an old Fleetwood Mac song on the jukebox, but none of it was loud enough to drown out Tessa’s well-meaning friends. Or the truth.

“I don’t believe the guy exists who could make me happy or pregnant,” she finally admitted.

Lacey shook her head. “You don’t know that. Someone amazing could be right around the corner.”

“Someone amazing is right around the corner,” Zoe whispered, pointing to the bar. “And I’ve been studying him for the last twenty minutes. Let me tell you, if that man right there can’t make you happy or pregnant, then he can certainly make you scream for mercy. Probably a couple times a night.”

Jocelyn swung out of the booth to peer into the crowd. “Whoa. Is that a scorpion tattooed on his neck?”

“Lovely.” Tessa took a deep drink, refusing to look.

Lacey popped up to look over the back of their booth. “You mean that guy with the long hair and…damn. Those are some serious biceps. And triceps. And”—she squinted—“all ceps.” She slowly dropped back into her seat. “Speaking of smokin’-hot bad-ass sex gods.”

Tessa rolled her eyes again. “Excellent, since ‘smokin’-hot bad-ass sex god’ was at the top of my donor checklist.”

Jocelyn took another look, and then turned back to face the booth, her eyes wide like she’d seen something unspeakable. “He certainly looks like he’d make a potent…protein smoothie.”

Zoe’s smile wavered. “And, oh wow, I think he’s—”

“Enough,” Tessa ordered. “I don’t care if he looks like Channing Tatum’s twin brother.”

“He kinda does,” Zoe said. “Only hotter. Is that even possible?”

They couldn’t help it; they didn’t know what it was like to be in her position. “Guys, I was kidding, okay? I’m not going to walk up to some guy and say—”

“You don’t have to,” Zoe said softly.

Tessa closed her eyes and raised her beer bottle in the air. “Hey, smokin’-hot bad-ass sex god with the long hair and deadly tattoos, can you fill ’er up with some of your potent liquid gold?”

Silence. Dead silence.

Tessa opened her eyes. She felt the presence more than saw it in her peripheral vision. Something smokin’ hot, bad ass, and—

“Liquid Gold? Is that a local brew?”

Oh, man. Sex god was really kind of an understatement.


In Ian’s experience, they didn’t usually keep the best-looking one hidden like this. Normally, females used the real beauties as bait. But this girl hadn’t even gone out of her way to check him out. And that made the sweet-faced beer drinker begging for action even more appealing.

The blonde who’d been staring at him for the last ten minutes wasn’t his type. The one with the wild red curls sported a shiny gold wedding band, and the other one was a little too conservative for his tastes.

But the hottie tucked into the corner was just right, looking at him with wide eyes a shade darker than the amber beer bottle she slowly lowered to the table. She wore barely a hint of makeup, so Ian could see her creamy complexion deepen with a flush as they held eye contact for one heartbeat past casual.

“Beer’s a good choice in a place like this,” he said, rattling the ice in his rocks glass. “The scotch is watered-down piss.”

Surprise flickered in her eyes. Because of the curse word, or had the pisswater been enough to bring out his accent? After all these years, he should know better than to slip and give away his British birth.

“What was that beer called again?” he asked.

“It was…a joke,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear her over the bar ruckus.

“Can I get you something else, then?”

“No, thanks. I’m…fine.”

“You sure are.”

The other three reacted instantly.

“We need to hit the ladies’ room,” one of the women said, sliding out to make room for him. “Coming, Zoe?”

The blonde scooted out, too. “We’ll refresh the drinks.” She turned to the redhead and gave a look with all the subtlety of a baseball bat. “Coming, Lacey?”

“Oh yeah.” She nodded and gave an equally transparent raised eyebrow to the woman in the corner. “Hold the booth for us, Tessa. I’m sure we’ll be a good long while.”

Ian nodded his gratitude. “We’ll guard it with our lives.” He slid right into the vacated seat next to his doe-eyed target, trapping her in the corner and getting a whiff of something flowery and clean. “Tessa. Pretty. Short for something?”

Finally, she slid him a sideways look, long lashes tapering into the kind of distrustful gaze he’d been eliciting for a few years. If the tattoos, gym time, or total disregard for a haircut didn’t scare them, the bike parked out front usually did.

“Just Tessa,” she said as her friends disappeared into the bar, leaving laughter and chatter in their wake.

“Just Tessa,” he repeated. Not to be funny, but because he’d want to remember the name tomorrow morning when he was rooting around the floor of her flat looking for his jeans. Apartment, dickhead, not flat.

“I’m John, by the way.”

She hinted at a smile. “Hello, John Bytheway.”

Cute. “John Brown.”

“That sounds fake.”

Because it is. “So tell me something about yourself, Tessa, other than the fact that you like”—he turned the beer bottle and read the label—“Belgian White Wheat Ale.” Bloody Americans would buy anything they thought was from Europe.

“Blue Moon’s my favorite…” She inched back. “Blue Moon,” she said softly, her whole face lighting up in a way that took her from good-looking to gorgeous in the space of a second. “Maybe that’s what Aunt Pasha meant.”

“Who’s Aunt Pasha?”

Her eyes twinkled with a secret. “A late, great fortune-teller.”

He inched closer, letting his thigh press against hers and earning another sweet blush. “Did she see trouble in her crystal ball?”

“She saw…something.”

“Whatever she saw, I hope it happens tonight.” He gave her a slow once-over, enjoying a spark of electricity crackling between them as he admired her toned arms, freckle-dusted skin, and the alluring slope of small but appealing breasts under a simple white T-shirt. This one wasn’t trying too hard to get attention, and he liked that. It reminded him of—

Don’t go there.

“Are you staying in Mimosa Key?” she asked.

“At the moment.” For the past month, since he had to tear-ass out of Singapore, he’d ridden around the state of Florida, finally finding his way over a bridge to this suitably out-of-the-way island. He’d checked in to the first motel he’d found and headed straight out the door for his numbing agents of choice: cheap scotch and a willing woman. He’d found one, and, with a little luck, was looking at the other. “You?”

“I live at the resort up the road in Barefoot Bay.”

“You live on a resort?”

“I run the gardens.”

That explained the sun-kissed skin and shapely shoulders.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I don’t run anything,” he admitted. “I just run.”

“From what?” She gave him a curious look and he cursed himself again. What was wrong with him tonight? The scotch mustn’t be watered down enough.

Instead of answering, he stretched his hand around the back of the booth, letting his fingers graze her shoulder, getting a quick rise of chill bumps on her arm in response.

“You’re pretty,” he said, happy to note that this time his standard but woefully uncreative line was actually accurate. She was very pretty, in a simple, sweet, genuine way. Another thing that reminded him of—

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Because I’m still fucked up. “Because you’re so pretty I forgot what you asked.”

She looked skyward and fought a smile.

“What do you want to know, pretty Tessa?” Not that he’d tell her anything, ever.

“Why do you have a lethal insect tattooed on your neck?”

He angled his head to let her get a real good look, remembering the unspeakably dark night when he’d gotten the ink in some hellhole off Balestier Road.

“Do you have a death wish or something?” she prompted.

“Something.” He slugged the rest of his scotch. “What about you?”