her first date at the age of fifteen, she’d never lost a guy she wanted. That wasn’t to say no one had ever broken up with her. Lots of them had. No, that was an exaggeration. A few of them had. But those breakups came at times when she was ready to call it quits.
Sol Beecher was the only one who ever walked away leaving her still wanting him.
Still she hadn’t completely admitted defeat, even after all these years.
Someday he would get through the self-absorbed funk he walked around in. He would see her...want her. And when that happened, she’d kick his bad leg out from under him and let him fall on his metaphorical ass.
The lime-green skirt had previously failed to catch his attention, and the gold bikini was out.
Wonder Woman costume? Nah, too obvious.
The chime alerted her that a vehicle had pulled into her driveway. She sprinted to the bedroom window and let out a groan at the sight of Sol’s black truck. “Early? Noooo!” She snatched her watch from the vanity and examined it. Sure enough, the stem was pulled out. She’d thought it was ten-ten, when in reality it was ten fifty-five.
Sol Beecher was only five minutes early.
Bentley woke from his nap in the middle of her bed. He jumped down and headed to the door as she threw the towel from her hair and ran back into the closet, grabbing the first top and bottom her hands touched. No time to dry her hair...or even run a comb through it. No time for makeup. The shorts were old jeans she’d cut off—ragged and frayed at the edges—while the T-shirt was one a friend had brought her. Bright purple, it sported a picture of Chewbacca on the front with MILWOOKIE above him in green block letters.
The sound of the doorbell mixed with Bentley’s bark of greeting.
Emmy rammed her toes into some flip-flops and her fingers through her hair on her way to the door. Bentley loved being out in the yard, but he didn’t have on the collar that went with the underground fence. So she grabbed the collar he was wearing as she turned the doorknob. Excited by the company, Bentley jumped back, causing her to jerk the door open with a swoosh.
Sol’s brown eyes widened in surprise...and then squinted. “EmmyLou?”
Go ahead, buster. Rub it in.
“Yeah.” Embarrassment made her insides cringe, but she refused to let him see her discomfort. “Just got out of the shower.” Bentley danced with excitement, hopping up and down like a deranged kangaroo. “Come in, would you? He’s going to rip my arm out of its socket.”
“I’m a little early. I figured I’d just stop by on my way into town.” Sol stepped inside and closed the door. “But I see I should’ve called first. This is obviously a bad time.”
The way his eyes raked over her went through her like a tack into corkboard. “Not a problem,” she snapped, releasing her hold on Bentley.
The dog made straight for the man’s bad leg...and began humping it.
“Oh good Lord!” Emmy scrambled to disengage the two, but Sol lost his balance and stumbled back against the door, luckily catching himself. “Oh crap, I’m sorry. Really. I’m so sorry.” She was overdoing the apology. “Get down, Bentley. I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Would you just get me the damn key?” Sol forced the words out. “Please.”
She pulled Bentley along and closed him up in her bedroom, then hurried to the kitchen to grab the key and the list of rules for the use of the beach house. She paused there to catch her breath and give her brain time to come up with something humorous to alleviate the awkward moment.
She and Sol didn’t get along, but that didn’t make it okay to humiliate him.
Aggravate? Yeah. Humiliate? No.
She looked down the rules, stopping as number six caught her eye...and gave her an idea. A true EmmyLou-ism.
She sauntered back to the living room, handing him the key when she got within arm’s reach. “That’s the key.” She then held out the paper and he took it, his eyes scanning it. “Just a list of rules for the house,” she explained. “Common sense mostly. Don’t put cans down the garbage disposal. Don’t start a campfire in the living room. Don’t pick the lock on the family’s private suite.”
He met her gaze, his eyes hooded.
“That’s where we keep our private stuff.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t want you knowing my secrets...or going through my drawers.”
Most people would’ve laughed. Not Sol Beecher.
He shook his head as he opened the front door. “No worries, then. Been there. Done that.”
He must have sensed she was about to kick his ass, because he moved outside faster than she would’ve thought him capable of.
She slammed the door behind him.
Damn him! If humiliation was what he was about, she could be all over him like ugly on an ape.
This game was on.
* * *
NOW, THIS IS LIVING.
Sol dug his toes deeper into the sand and took another sip of his bourbon, reminding himself that he’d almost allowed his anger to get the best of him yesterday and let this opportunity pass him by.
He was glad he hadn’t, even if he’d had to endure EmmyLou’s obviously planned slight. Or perhaps, unplanned was the better way of thinking about it.
She would’ve been dressed to the nines with her makeup and hair done for any other adult male on the planet. But not him. She had to prove just how low he rated on her scale of men. If he was a gambler, he’d wager that, apart from family, he was one of the few men who’d ever seen her without makeup.
Of course, the joke was on her. With her dark brown hair and smooth olive complexion, she was more beautiful without all that makeup, but you’d never convince her of that. She was one of those women who wanted you to believe she got out of bed with everything in place.
As a matter of fact, the one night they spent together, she did sleep with her makeup on...and got up early the next morning to fix herself up before he woke.
Crazy-ass woman.
He shouldn’t let her get under his skin, and he shouldn’t have made that parting comment. But the woman had a way about her that made him want to... He took another sip of bourbon, letting its slow burn uncover the truth. Made him want to...
Don’t go there. Ms. EmmyLou Perfect may have prettied up for you years ago, but now she doesn’t even view you as a man.
It was difficult for anybody else to see him that way, he guessed, when he could hardly see it himself. The man he’d used to be, the cocksure man about town who’d played the field like an all-star...that guy got blown away, along with his lower leg, his hopes and his dreams, by a rocket-propelled grenade.
But he wouldn’t dwell on that this week.
The beach house was a perfect
