Husband Material (Left at the Altar Book 3), Page 2

  Once I finally arrived at my house, I sat for a minute, taking a breath. Mental rants like this—against Cassidy and women in general—were happening more often than I'd like. It wasn't good for me. Maybe I needed to go on a vacation somewhere…Costa Rica, Bermuda…somewhere hot and sleepy where I could drink away my problems for a good week or three on a beach with some waves.

  Going on vacation right now wasn't an option with work. No, the closest thing I had to an escape was surfing, and I took it every chance I got.

  I made a beeline for my house, tossed my shirt and shoes inside, tucked my beloved Hypto Krypto under my arm, and I was good to go.

  Sinking my toes in the warm sand, my eyes closed with gratification.

  Yes.

  No matter what had happened before, things were going to be okay now. The ocean sent a beckoning finger of sea air up my nostrils. My eyes snapped open.

  It's time.

  Since it was the middle of a Wednesday afternoon, the beach was empty—just how I liked it. Perfect for how I surfed.

  Being out there alone with no one to be seen for miles made me feel like a king, one who tempted fate. Like a fearless explorer or adventurer. I'd loved Indiana Jones as a kid, and riding waves, which were as untamed a beast as Mother Nature gave us, was the closest I could get to my own modern-day adventure.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I strode into the water.

  Unhalting. The very best way to bear the uncomfortable cold shock of the water.

  As it mercilessly encased my legs in its icy tendrils, I soldiered ahead. This was how you dealt with the cold, literally and figuratively. The same way I'd been dealing with the separation. One day after the next, hurling myself into work with a more determined, single-minded drive than I'd ever had.

  Once the waves reached my waist, I clambered onto my board and started paddling to the approaching swells.

  And then suddenly, I was there. As I was lifted, I arched my back, hyper-focused on popping up. This was it. If I wasn't focused, the unsympathetic wave’s strength would slam me back down, mocking my paltry attempt.

  My squint of focus relaxed only slightly with the realization that I'd done it. I was riding the sea.

  Not conquering it, but moving with it—in a synchronized dance between wave and man. Saltwater hung from my face and a far-off gull cry echoed in my ears, and yet none of it mattered in this, this single, perfect instant when I was immortal. When the mirage of life opened its shaded doors to me.

  And then the wave crashed, and I was freed, spewed out, to chase the next one. The next fleeting escape.

  The next hour was more of the same. The wash of water over my eyes and ears. The dives, the falls, the bravery. My head resting on my board. My feet held fast on my board, sailing on pure liquid rush. The closest I could get to walking on water.

  And then it was over.

  But my mind was the textbook definition of clear. Maybe even holy calm had been achieved. Like the waves and the daring of them had somehow sloshed the disturbing thoughts out of my head.

  No, there was only life, plain and simple and right. The cool lick of the water stroked my front, slipping down my body. The far-off wheeling seagulls, celebrating. The sweeping expanse of tan beach. Empty.

  Almost.

  Except her.

  A girl who was…beautiful and carefree…standing on the beach with the wind fluttering her sea-colored dress against her body and whipping her long dark-blonde hair across her face. She also looked straight at me as I came in from the water.

  Or did she?

  I craned my head over my shoulder, transported back to high school. One of the handful of times a hot girl—like Nina with her unsettling Spanish eyes, or Chelsey with her rainbow bracelets encircling each arm, or Jeanne with her tall boots on long lovely legs—waved at me, and I'd craned my head around my shoulder to confirm whether they were actually waving at me and not another uniformed boy with floppy hair in the mass of students.

  But this time, there was no one and nothing else in sight except for an orange buoy bobbing innocuously in the sea. Only…me.

  Catching my eye, a radiant smile emerged on the girl's face. She waved.

  I guess that was a yes?

  She was waving at me.

  2

  “How are you liking it?" Stupid thing to ask, but my mouth seemed to be in the mood for only doing stupid with her, so I just went with it.

  Her delicate fingers had formed a visor shading her from the sun as she peered up at me from where she was now sitting in the sand. "How am I liking what?"

  Blankly, I stared at her. Really, I'd meant the beach. But now that I saw she had an open notebook in her lap and a sharpened pencil in her hand, I wanted to know what the half-visible image on the paper was. And she clearly had an accent—French maybe—which for some reason made me want to get to know her even more.

  I gestured at her notebook. "How are you liking whatever you're doing?"

  She bit her lip into a grin, glancing down.

  When she aimed her dark eyes at me again, they carried the same radiance as her smile. "I love it."

  I stood there awkwardly for a minute, debating whether to press her when it was obvious she was sidestepping my question.

  With a half-smile and a toss of her head, she flicked her notebook to me, paper-side out. Striding forward and crouching down, I made out the drawing. A well-rendered sketch of Folly Beach showcasing some pumping waves and, what looked to be a small figure on a board.

  "Sorry." She turned the drawing back around. "I have been at this for ages, but still get self-conscious. Some people despise being drawn."

  Her pretty eyes flicked to me again, looking for some kind of a response.

  I shrugged. "I'm only the size of a paper clip in your sketch." As her cheeks colored, a tempting thought occurred to me. And again, my mouth took over speaking more stupid shit I couldn't take back. "Actually, I've never had my portrait done. It could be cool. I mean, I could sit here for you with my board…if you want." Your fucking mouth, dude.

  She paused, her gaze drifting away from me as she followed the undulating waves. Perhaps she sensed my innocent question was not all that innocent. I could see now that her blue dress was fishnet, with holes large enough for me to see the yellow bikini she wore underneath it. Plenty of her very lovely golden skin was visible too. I could sit and stare at her for a long time without getting bored. My view was certainly spectacular, and if she talked to me in that accent of hers while she drew, I'd like it even better.

  She surprised me though when she gave me a vigorous nod. "As long as you are fine with sitting for a long time. An hour at the very most least."

  The adorable double negative she added to the end of her sentence was the clincher for me…if I hadn't already been convinced. I slung my board down and sat beside it. "I've got time." And for some reason, for her, I do have time. It was as thought I’d slipped into an alternate reality. When had I ever answered, I’ve got time?

  Something I couldn't name drew me to this girl. I wasn't able to walk away. My feet would simply not fucking move even as my brain shouted for them to go. Because I needed to find out who she was. Why was she here? Where did she live? I needed to know so much more about this beautiful exotic girl with the Parisian lilt to her words and the sexy smile, who wanted to draw my portrait.

  Oh, yes.

  She stood abruptly. "In that case it would be better if we sit in the shade. I was only sitting here because it was the only place with a good view of the water."

  I swallowed back my grin at the purring quality of her "r"s, and got to my feet, gesturing with my hand. "There's a palm tree about a five-minute walk down that way. I'm Gage, by the way, and I live in that house over there." I pointed out my place for her, so she would feel—

  Feel what? Safer? Assured I wasn't a serial killer? I had no fucking idea what I was even doing with this girl. Offering myself as a sketch model for a stranger—because she waved at me on the beac
h? Sounded fucking dumb when I spelled it out in my head. But that's exactly what I'd done. Happily, too.

  Another brilliant smile lit up her face. "Gage, it is lovely to meet you. I am Giselle. Your plan is perfect."

  Perfect all right. And I fucking love your name.

  Five minutes later, my ass was planted in the sand with my surfboard across my knees and the mysterious Giselle studying me in silence.

  She ripped a piece of paper out of her sketchpad and placed it on top. Feeling oddly self-conscious, I scratched at the side of my neck and wondered if I was going to regret this. "Am I allowed to talk?"

  She fired back with a quick and firm, "No."

  The disappointment must have showed on my face, because she laughed. "Of course, it is permitted." She then added a playful pat to my hand.

  My dick twitched in my shorts and my hand tingled from her fingers, as I sat there and said…nothing. My brain needed to catch up—fucking quickly. This kind of shit did not happen to me. Pretty girls rendering me speechless with a simple touch to my hand and a few smiles? Not part of my universe. Could she be an alien female perhaps?

  Biting her lip and brushing a stray curl out of her face, she said, "In actual fact, it is probably quite a lot better if you do talk."

  "Great."

  It occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea what to say to her. Everything seemed hopelessly stupid and trite. So, I settled on the most hopelessly stupid and trite question of all. "You're not from here, are you?"

  Another laugh.

  She'd started on the actual sketching, and since it involved her coffee-colored eyes bowed to her work instead of inspecting every inch of me, my shoulders relaxed a little.

  "What gave me away?"

  I bit back "everything" and instead settled on, "Your dress."

  In a roundabout way, it was true. The style was way more bohemian and less buttoned-down than Charleston's usual beach-chic locals or its beach-casual tourists.

  She ran a hand over the fishnet material absently. "This dress I actually made myself." She smiled, drawing her arm down her body as if painting the picture of what she was saying. "Originally, when I saw this crazy too-large jumpsuit in the thrift shop, it looked so horrendous that I classed it as a lost cause. But something about the crochet fabric beckoned to me, so I bought it on a whim and decided to see what I could do with it."

  My eyes spanned the dress, but even more so what was underneath the dress, trying to imagine how the gorgeous result in front of me could've ever looked horrendous.

  "The material is very soft. Here, touch."

  She offered the hem of her dress. It felt kind of stiff and rough to me rather than soft, but I didn't want to sound rude. I hoped she was so entranced in her drawing, she couldn't see my reaction at exactly how un-soft her blue crochet dress felt.

  I caught her eyes sneaking my way before I clued in she was teasing me again. "Nice one," I said with a shake of my head.

  Pausing, she clapped her hands together as more laughter poured out. "Ah, sorry. I really ought to stop. It's just that everyone here is so polite, I can't help but to tease."

  Since I couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or intrigued, I settled on an easy laugh instead. "That's Charleston for you. Full of people who are polite to a fault."

  She focused on her notebook again, her pencil scrabbling away. "And you?"

  Her question caught me off guard, because I didn't want to talk about myself at all, but I couldn't deny her even the most basic of requests.

  "And me, what?" I asked, even though I knew what she wanted to know.

  Her eyes lifted momentarily from the sketch. "Are you like that too?"

  The hardened patch of sand where I was sitting started to dig into my ass.

  "It just helps," she explained. "For the portrait. I find knowing details about the sitter makes it easier to draw them. A more accurate portrayal, I guess."

  Her words reminded me of what I'd heard about how artists developed not just an eye for detail, but for people too. For seeing beneath the façade and finding the truth the faces might tell.

  "Doesn't your artist's eye tell you?" My question came out harsher than I intended.

  Another smile twitched at the corner of her mouth as she bit her bottom lip. "Yeah…so I think you are not."

  "Polite to a fault? Unfortunately, not. It's why I don't always get by so well here."

  "Then why do you stay?"

  I shrugged. "It's home. It's all I know. I've travelled, sure, but I've never really felt like I belonged anywhere else."

  "But you don't feel like you belong here either."

  A few beats of awkward silence. Then, seeming to believe she'd said something she shouldn't have, she bit her lip again and said, "Sorry."

  "Don't be sorry."

  Right now, Giselle's words were like addicting stabs. I wanted to see how deep they could cut me before I bled.

  "Tell me. Look and tell me. Tell me what you see."

  The startling intensity of her eyes made me almost want to avert my gaze. But looking iris-deep into them, I'd swear they weren't just the melted-chocolate color I'd noticed at first, but layers upon layers of browns, sparkling with passion that stirred me up and put fear into me at the same time.

  "Tell me," I urged, her silent stance suggesting she was considering it. "I can handle it, Giselle."

  Once again, our eyes met, and a shock of electric sensation zapped right through me.

  She shook her head. "I don't know. It's better when I don't only look, but also"—her head tipped down—"touch too."

  My cock heard her again, too, although I did my best to stifle it. The last thing I needed right now was to be flashing an erection while she had her attention fixed on me so diligently.

  "That's fine," I told her.

  She nodded, her eyes closing as her hands neared my face. Her fingertips gently slid up to my eyelids.

  "Eyes closed for you too, Gage. It is easier."

  I closed my eyes. Her hands started out on the rigid plane of my forehead, feeling out the strong brow bone my dad always used to boast about. Then they swept down, over my eyebrows. "You are a hard man. Closed off," she said softly, without a trace of judgment.

  Cassidy said the same thing.

  Even though I'd heard it many times before, coming from Giselle it didn't have the same sting.

  Her hands swept down to my cheekbones.

  "Proud."

  My faults were being revealed one by one underneath her busy fingers. Why couldn't she spot anything good? This subconscious bullshit was probably only revealing the many negatives she guessed about me. By now, Giselle probably had me pegged as a cocky, unfeeling, rich boy who wasn't interested in anything more than getting laid.

  It's true though.

  When her fingers swept down around my eyes, however, she paused. "Sad." The word came out, softly, a little unwillingly.

  My eyes snapped open as I ripped my face away from her hands.

  Giselle blinked at me, as if startled from a deep trance. Her cheeks were now beet red.

  "Sorry," she said again.

  I shook my head, stretched out my arms, and rubbed at my temples. "You don't have to keep apologizing. I asked you to tell me. I was just…getting uncomfortable being in one position for so long."

  Lame.

  She nodded wordlessly, clearly seeing right through my obvious lie. But was it enough to have her make an excuse and leave my pathetic ass on the beach?

  I didn't want her to leave, though.

  "I'm sorry." I'd said those two words to Cassidy countless times but they sounded foreign on my lips when saying them to her. "I'm just not used to—"

  "People just saying what they think?"

  Another soft smile from her had me studying the sand where her toes were buried, the soft grains partially obscuring her feet at the end of her long lovely legs. "Yeah. It's a bit disarming…but I don't want you to stop doing it."

  "Oh." Her lips formed
an O in surprise. "And…you also wish for me to keep on drawing you?" She blushed as she asked the question.

  "Yes. Please."

  The next few minutes, she worked in concentrated silence. Although I was itching to talk to her, I kept quiet, figuring I'd blabbed enough already. But when she lifted a hand to twirl a strand of hair absently, revealing a vibrant wrist tattoo, I couldn't resist.

  "What's that?"

  She glanced down. "Oh, this?" Smiling, she lifted her wrist, so it was inches away from my face.

  Many shades of color: azures, amethysts and every hue in between, expertly twined together into what looked to be a tiny sparrow. "I guess it is my spirit animal, you could say."

  Above the colorful bird was the sweeping script of an N, and then below an F.

  "Those letters, are they a French form of the compass?"

  Giselle withdrew her wrist to hold it close to her. "My French accent is that much of a giveaway, yes?" she asked after a minute, with a little smile.

  I nodded. She didn't say anything, though, and got back to her sketching. Apparently Giselle was the only one who got to dig deep.

  "Do the letters stand for 'never fear'?"

  As she glanced up, I caught the beginnings of a smile and then…sadness. I kept my gaze steady and determined, though. So far, Giselle had been the one leading and guiding our conversation. Now it was my turn.

  "You are close. It's for 'never forget,'" she said after a minute, her eyes growing more distant.