Four
Twelve-thirteen Saunders Way. Sophie had survived the motorcycle ride. Dune Cates had given her a real opportunity to experience his customized Harley Sportster, taking the long way home. They’d ridden for three hours and covered Barefoot William and the surrounding county. She’d wrapped her arms about his waist and leaned into him. He liked the womanly press of her body. Her breasts were round and firm and her thighs had hugged his hips. She’d held on for dear life.
She hadn’t screamed or jerked. She’d trusted him.
He set the kickstand on the driveway of crushed pale pink seashells. He removed his helmet and hung it on the handlebar risers, then dismounted and said, “You can get off now.”
She twisted slightly toward him and winced. “No . . . I can’t.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Dune understood. Her muscles ached from the big bike’s vibration along with the jarring speed bumps and potholes. She’d been afraid to shift even the slightest bit, concerned that she would throw him off balance. She was probably too stiff to move.
He watched as she blinked the dryness from her eyes, then shook out her hands and rotated each ankle. He figured her fingers and feet had fallen asleep and now tingled as they wakened. Her helmet slanted over one eye. Her reading glasses were askew. The top two buttons on her blouse were undone. The curve of her breast and the lace on her bra were visible. He stared a little too long.
“Your Harley is fast,” Sophie said in awe.
“I drove forty-five.”
Her eyes went wide. “It seemed like seventy or eighty. The scenery just swept by. Cars looked like they were in slow motion and people were a total blur.”
“Motorcycles have that effect,” he said. Riders felt like they were flying when riding a Harley. It was a rush.
“I’m stuck,” she finally admitted.
“Just swing your leg over the seat.”
“I have no swing.”
He helped her sit sideways. “Can you stand?” he asked.
“No feeling in my body,” she said. “Even my bottom’s numb.”
Dune kicked himself. He hated the fact he’d caused her pain. He was used to cruising hours at a stretch. This was Sophie’s first ride. He should’ve driven her straight home. “Wiggle your feet and get the blood circulating again,” he suggested.
She did so and winced. “Prickles.”
He dropped to one knee and began to massage her right calf, then moved to her left. She was small-boned. Delicate. He found he liked touching her, which left him wary. Sophie made him want to protect her. He prided himself on no strings attached. Ever.
He went on to rub both her knees and worked halfway up her thigh. He had long fingers and stopped himself before he touched her any higher. He was close to the danger zone. “Try standing,” he said.
She stood, but was still shaky. He gripped her elbow and steadied her, then went on to unsnap her helmet and remove it. After brushing back her bangs and straightening her glasses, he tipped up her chin. “First time on a bike can leave you sore,” he said. “You’re clenching muscles you’ve never clenched before. Same with”—he was about to say sex, but changed his mind—“horseback riding.”
She nodded. “Horseback riding left me tender.”
“You’ve ridden?” That surprised him.
“I took lessons when I was seven, but I quickly gave up. I bounced and bruised a lot.”
He felt her pain.
She next flexed her fingers and attempted to button her blouse. She was all thumbs. Another button popped open in the process. Her bra flashed. All gray, lacy and sheer. Her chest was flushed and her nipples puckered.
He stood over her and asked, “Need help?” He didn’t want her flashing the gardener planting flowers near the front door.
She nodded. “Assistance would be nice.”
He was on her in a heartbeat and focused fully on the task. She held her breath as he worked the buttons. The callused tips of his fingers skimmed the lace on her bra and brushed her breasts. He took his time with the button over her cleavage. His own breathing deepened.
“There’s no need to fasten the top button,” she choked a moment later. “I don’t need the collar under my chin.”
He let his hands drop. Still, his gaze held on her breasts for a considerable time. “Nice blouse,” he said.
“Even with the stain?” she asked.
“It adds color.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, smiling.
She was being gracious, Dune thought. The busboy had lucked out. Most women would’ve flinched or berated the kid for his clumsiness. Not Sophie. She’d been quick to forgive Chuck, then taken Dune’s suggestion and offered him a job.
Dune was impressed by her kindness.
A breeze picked up and the towering Florida pines cast shadows across the driveway. The scent of gardenias lay heavy on the air. “I appreciate the ride home,” she said in a polite manner.
He glanced toward her three-car garage. “You don’t drive. How do you get around?”
“I call our driver Roger.”
“You chose my Harley over the family limo?”
“Roger is rather stoic,” she said.
“So was the guard at the gate.” The uniformed man had looked down his nose at Dune, his expression disapproving as hell.
“The family compound doesn’t get much traffic,” she said. “Gerald doesn’t see many motorcycles.”
“I’ve had my Harley since high school,” he told her. She didn’t look surprised. “It’s the only way to travel.”
She glanced at her watch. “I’ve taken up your entire afternoon,” she said, alarmed. “What about the repairs to your grandfather’s porch?”
“Schedules can be broken,” he said easily.
She was visibly relieved.
Silence stood between them. Dune shifted his stance. Now what? he mused. He wasn’t ready to leave. He liked Sophie’s company, but there wasn’t much more for them to do or say at that moment. He’d never struggled with inviting himself into a woman’s home. Yet Sophie was different. He didn’t want to intrude.
His words sounded stilted and unnatural when he asked, “Can I get a glass of water before I go?”
“How about red raspberry sun tea?” she offered.
“Sounds good.”
Dune liked sun tea. He made it often at his home in California. All he had to do was fill a large glass jar with cold water, then add four to six tea bags of his choice. After adding a lid, he’d set the jar on the railing of his back deck. The tea brewed in the warmth of the sun. It was worth the hour wait.
He retrieved her purse from his saddlebag and handed it to her. The broken seashells crunched beneath their feet as they walked toward her house. Sophie’s steps were tentative. Her legs barely carried her to the front door. He settled one arm about her shoulders to keep her close. Their sides brushed and she stepped on his toes twice.
They made it to the columned entry. Her home was contemporary in an old-Florida setting; the stucco was painted antique white with a terra-cotta barrel roof. Trees and shrubs grew naturally around the grounds. The gardener worked on his hands and knees beneath the big bay window.
“What are you planting, Luis?” Sophie called to him.
“Mrs. Saunders wanted white roses across the front,” said the older man with the weathered face and blue bandana wrapped about his forehead. “I went with your choices, Miss Sophie. Kaleidoscope and Firecrackers.”
Sophie smiled. “Reds and yellows. The colors will come alive.”
“I trimmed the Calusa Grape on the bamboo arbor and breezeway,” Luis told her. “The vines were running wild.”
“You have a lot to do,” she said. “Would you mind if I hired a young boy to work with you? His name is Chuck Cates. He’s twelve. He has lots of energy, but he won’t cause you any trouble.”
Luis was thoughtful. “I fertilize tomorrow. Should he make it through the day, we’ll keep him.”
“I appreciate all you do,” Sophie told him.
“You like me because I listen to you and not your mother.” The man was wise.
“You know me well,” Sophie said as she fished her door key out of her purse. “I’m turning twenty-five soon. I don’t need my family doing all my thinking for me.”
So her birthday was coming up. Dune stored the information. He’d get the exact date from Shaye. If he wasn’t in town, he’d send her a card, maybe even flowers.
The lock clicked and Sophie walked inside. Dune followed, only to stop in the entry to take it all in. Elegance met history in a fascinating amalgamation of past and present. The foyer was wide, long, and guarded by two medieval knights encased in glass. The sets of armor stood tall and polished, from the helmets and chain mail down to their boots.
A wicked-looking flail—a blackened steel ball with spikes—hung from one knight’s gauntlet. The other held a battle-ax with a curved steel head pinned to a hardwood shaft. The knights looked ready for battle.
Sophie stood back and allowed him to look around. The overhead skylight splashed sunlight across aqua marble. The flooring appeared so pale and fluid, Dune felt he was walking on water.
Expansive arches opened to spacious rooms showcasing Italian leather furniture, oil paintings, and crystal vases with freshly cut flowers. He was quick to learn that her fascination ran to weaponry throughout the ages.
Sweet, innocent Sophie had bloodlust.
He entered the living room and slowly turned in a full circle. Her home was an exhibit. He read the plaques beneath the weapons. A medieval sword gallery fought for wall space with a Viking ax and a Hundred Years’ War dagger. A samurai sword was mounted next to a seventeenth-century musket. A two-handed Danish sword looked sharp and dangerous.
He admired a 1713 Casque Normand or Norman helmet forged with a nasal guard displayed on the coffee table alongside a preserved medieval fiddle.
“You live in a museum,” he finally said.
Her smile was small. “I’m a collector. Sometimes I feel I was born in the wrong era.”
He surprised himself by saying, “I like the Wild West.” He’d never shared his affinity for cowboys with anyone prior to Sophie. He figured she’d understand.
She did. “Outlaw or U.S. Marshal?” she asked.
“I’m law abiding,” he said.
“I have a pearl-handled six-gun.”
That he wanted to see. He followed her through another arch and down two steps into her sunken private library. Dune was surrounded by books on all three sides. There were floor-to-ceiling shelves and individual glass-front bookcases, too. He’d never seen so many novels outside a public library.
A three-tiered glass curio cabinet showcased the six-gun along with a 1760 single-shot flintlock and a set of dueling pistols. A pair of silver Celtic knot-work earrings appeared delicate and out of place amid the firearms.
“Impressive, Sophie,” he said as he walked around the room. Two crescent-shaped couches faced each other to form a circle. An enormous ottoman sat in the middle. He could picture her sinking into the deep burgundy leather sofa, a book in hand, her orange reading glasses low on her nose.
An antique bookcase with a curved front caught his eye. Original clothbound first editions were kept under glass. On the top shelf sat her volleyball trophy from the previous summer. It was small, yet visible from all angles of the room.
Dune smiled to himself. She hadn’t thrown the trophy away. She’d given it a place of honor instead. His own tiny prize could be viewed among his two hundred tournament trophies. He’d placed it front and center. Meeting Sophie was a good memory for him.
“The kitchen’s at the back of the house,” she said, stepping out into the hallway. “The tea’s brewed.”
He trailed behind her. Their height difference amused him. He liked watching her walk. Her hair swept her shoulders. Her posture was perfectly straight. Every few steps and the rubber sole on her Keds scuffed the marble floor. She pitched forward, but caught herself. Dune would’ve grabbed her from behind before he’d let her fall.
Her house went on forever. He glanced in several more archways and came across her office, a space decorated with a heavy oak refectory table darkened with age. A medieval laird’s chair stood nearby, the wood smoothed by centuries of use and carved with a square-sailed galley. It was magnificent.
Historical banners and medieval clothing adorned the walls. He admired a Crusader’s cape and Templar’s tunic along with a long, but color-faded Celtic Dragon and Great Griffin banner.
He paused in the doorway of her TV and entertainment center. Jigsaw puzzles were one of her leisure activities, he noted as he stepped into the room. Several large, complicated puzzles were in progress simultaneously on different tables. He read one box top: twelve thousand pieces went into Michelangelo’s Creation of Man. The puzzle was nearly completed. The Dalmatian jigsaw made his eyes cross. There were so many black spots on the dogs. They all looked alike. The Earth from Space had so many blue pieces, he’d never have the patience to match them.
He returned to the hallway and asked her, “Do you live here alone?”
She nodded. “I inherited the house from my grandparents on my mother’s side of the family. They felt Florida was too hot and moved back up north. I remodeled and moved in.”
A second wide hallway curved right toward the kitchen. Dune figured the bedrooms were off to the left. He wondered about her bedroom. Would there be more books and weaponry? Would it be simple and elegant, or a lot of frills? Did Sophie sleep in a nightgown, cami and bottoms, or nude?
The thought of her nude had him nearly walking into a wall. He stopped just short and shook himself. He had no business thinking about her sleeping arrangements. His visualizing left him hard. Damn, he was uncomfortable.
He paused near the sliding glass doors that opened off the kitchen and into the backyard. Dune’s jaw dropped when he saw a small Civil War cannon anchored beneath an arbor. Three iron cannonballs were placed by a wheel. The barrel was pointed right at him. It was so realistic he expected it to fire.
Beyond the cannon was a large swimming pool, oval in shape with a short diving board and a separate Jacuzzi at the shallow end. A cabana provided shade. Dark blue patio furniture surrounded the deck. A red air mattress floated on the crystal clear water.
“Has the pool ever been used?” he asked.
“Not by me,” she said, “but my grandparents were strong swimmers.”
“You need to learn to swim,” he stated.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe someday.”
“Someday soon,” he surprised himself by saying. “I’ll teach you.”
“I wouldn’t make a good student,” she said. “You know I’m afraid of water.”
“I’ll help you overcome your fear.”
“We’ll see.”
Dune let her slide for the moment. The topic wasn’t dead. He just didn’t want to push her and have her panic.
The thought of her in a swimsuit, slick and sleek and clinging to him, stiffened him further. He stuck his hands in his pockets and did some shifting.
With her back to him, she motioned toward the kitchen table. The legs were thick stainless steel and the top was pale gray glass. “Have a seat,” she offered.
Dune slid onto a café chair, glad to be seated. He soon realized anyone looking through the glass top could see he’d pitched a tent beneath his zipper. He didn’t want Sophie knowing she’d turned him on. He needed to calm himself.
Big word to shorter words. He looked around and found a plaque above a wooden shield that hung on the wall beside him. Richard the Lionhearted. He concentrated on Richard: rich, char, rid, chair, rad, chirr . . . hard. The game emphasized his erection. He sucked air. His dick was alive and stirring.
He watched as Sophie moved around the high-tech kitchen. The stove was touch-screen with a glass top. One side of the Sub-Zero PRO refrigerator was stainless steel; the other had a glass door. He could see the raspberry tea inside.
“Summer captured in a jar,” she said as she removed the gallon container along with a tray of sliced fruit.
A brief knock on the sliding doors announced a woman in kitchen whites. “Miss Sophie, are you home?”
“I’ve just arrived,” Sophie said from the counter. “I’m fixing tea.”
The older lady quickly crossed to her. “Let me help you,” she said.
Dune saw Sophie’s shoulders stiffen slightly. She shook her head. “I can handle the tea.” She made the introductions. “Marisole, this is Dune. Mari is our household chef. Dune is my friend.”
Marisole looked him over. A woman in her late forties, he guessed, dark-eyed and slender. Her hair was braided. Her expression was mother-hen. “A much older friend,” she said, making it sound like he was robbing the cradle.
“Not that many years separate us,” Sophie said. She set the jar of tea down on the gray slate countertop, then reached in a low cupboard for two tall cranberry glasses.
Marisole took the glasses from Sophie and crossed to the refrigerator. “Crushed, cubed, or ducks?” she asked Dune.
Ducks? Very expensive refrigerators froze designer ice. Sophie’s fridge was one of them. “Ducks,” he said.
Marisole gave Sophie ducks, too. The chef stood close by as Sophie poured the tea, as if she anticipated a spill. Dune frowned slightly. Marisole was overly protective. Sophie was twenty-four not four, and even if she made a mess, she was capable of cleaning it up. Both a sponge and paper towels were in arm’s reach.
Sophie next squeezed slices of orange, pineapple, and lime into their tea. The final touch came when she added fresh blueberries. She found an iced-tea spoon in a drawer and stirred briskly, then passed him a glass.
The ducks seemed to paddle in his tea. He took a long sip. It was fruity and refreshing and the best red raspberry tea he’d ever tasted.
“You make good tea,” he praised Sophie.
Her cheeks pinkened. “The sun did all the work.” She brought her glass and sat down beside him.
Beside him, Dune noticed. Not across from him. Their shoulders bumped and she didn’t seem to mind their closeness. He rather liked it, too. Her scent warmed from an afternoon in the sun, innocence beneath the heat of the woman.
The chef kept an eye on them as she puttered around the kitchen. She ran her hand over the buccaneer pirate musket preserved on a shelf between the stove and refrigerator. He was glad the antique could no longer be fired.
He looked at Sophie. “Do you have something you should be doing?” he asked.
“She requested an early dinner,” Marisole answered for her. “She has volleyball tonight.”
“Practice or a game?” Dune asked.
“Practice only,” said Sophie. “Our team gets together two nights a week. The official games are Sunday afternoons.”
“You said you were improving.”
She gave him a self-deprecating smile. “Practice has not made me perfect.”
“You have heart.” He knew that to be true.
“But no height,” she said. “I see more under the net than over.”
“I’m glad you’re sticking with it.”
“Shaye’s urged me to be more social.”
“My sister knows everybody and their brother,” he said ruefully. “She’s never met a stranger.”
“She’s fortunate to have so many friends.” Sophie sounded wistful.
“Who do you hang with?” he asked.
“Mostly with myself.”
Sophie needed to get out more.
“She has Luis and me, too,” said Marisole as she returned to the refrigerator and selected an assortment of vegetables. She laid them out on the butcher-block island. She selected a knife from the slotted cutlery block. She went on to chop lettuce. Rather aggressively, he noticed.
Dune was mildly amused. Apparently, the chef didn’t like him much. He had no idea why. She remained as their chaperone.
Sophie was his primary concern. He focused on her. “What’s going on in your life besides your adventures?” he asked.
“Shaye recruited me to help decorate the pier for the Sneaker Ball,” she said. “There are only two days before the event and lots to do.”
Marisole glanced at them over her shoulder. “No need to string lights,” she said. “There’ll be a full moon on Saturday. The sky will sparkle.”
Dune hadn’t taken the chef for a romantic, yet her face softened when she looked at Sophie. He realized Marisole was quite fond of her. “Your brother Trace asked me to oversee the buffet,” she said. “I think it will be delicious. I created the menu. The dishes will be catered by the Sandcastle Hotel.”
“Lobster in sweet butter? Salmon steaks?” asked Sophie. Dune swore she moaned.
Marisole nodded. “I’ll be sure to bring a plate home for you,” she said. “Unless you have a date?”
Sophie shook her head. “I bought a ticket, but I have no plans to go.”
Dune felt Marisole’s stare and met her gaze. The chef leaned against the island counter, one hand on her hip. She raised one eyebrow, as if to challenge him.
What the hell? He clutched his glass and let the condensation cool his warm palms. Mari’s initial welcome hadn’t been friendly. Yet somewhere between adding duck ice cubes to his glass and chopping lettuce, her opinion of him had improved. She wasn’t very subtle.
The chef was a matchmaker.
Dune’s chest tightened. He was aware of the dance; it was an annual event. The Sneaker Ball kicked off summer. Shaye always twisted his arm and sold him a ticket whether he planned to attend or not.
“Black tie, fancy dresses, and sneakers,” Marisole said as she diced a green pepper and a stalk of celery. “A night to remember.”
She reached for a carrot peeler and shredded a fat carrot. “Miss Sophie has three pairs of Keds and so many pretty dresses. Some still have the sales tags.”
Dune ran one hand down his face. He’d received Marisole’s message, loud and clear. Could the chef be any more obvious?
Sophie wasn’t quite so quick. It took her several seconds to realize what Mari was suggesting. She looked horrified when it soaked in. She put her hands over her face and spoke through her fingers. “I apologize for Mari. She didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”
The chef’s look said otherwise. She shrugged, selected a small, sharp knife and turned three turnips into tulips.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I haven’t finalized my plans.”
Marisole might have done him a favor. He’d received dozens of text messages from women seeking him out. Many dated him for his popularity, while others wanted him only for sex. All claimed they had sexy sneakers for the ball.
Then there was Sophie and her Keds. She was an entirely different story. She was cute, kind, considerate, and into weaponry. But friendship was one thing, dating her was quite another.
She reminded him of someone who decorated for the prom and volunteered to serve punch. She was the wallflower no one asked to dance. She’d be a bridesmaid twenty times over before taking her own walk down the aisle.
Perhaps it was her turn to be the center of someone’s attention. His attention. He’d leave her memories to last a lifetime. He would make sure of it.
He gently circled one of her wrists with his fingers and lightly squeezed it. She lowered her hands. Still, she couldn’t look at him. “The dance might be fun,” he admitted.
“I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”
“I wasn’t planning on going alone.”
Dune would have his choice of any woman in Barefoot William, Sophie Saunders thought. Shaye had offered to set her up, but Sophie had declined. A special night deserved a special man. There was no one in her life who qualified for the gala.
Marisole tossed the salad ingredients in a wooden bowl. She placed Sophie’s first course in the refrigerator, then quickly cleaned up. “Your parents wanted Feta Chicken for dinner. It’s in the oven at the main house. I’ll return shortly.” She eyed Dune. “One plate or two?”
Dune finished off his iced tea, stood. “I need to get going. My grandfather’s grilling steaks tonight. He’s expecting Mac and me.”
“I’ll return in a moment,” said Marisole. She disappeared through the sliding glass doors.
Sophie rose, too. “I’ll walk you out.”
“And I’ll take you to the dance.”
She was startled. He couldn’t be serious. “I can’t be your first choice.”
“I’m asking you, Sophie.”
“There has to be someone else.”
He scratched his jaw. “Are you trying to talk me out of taking you?”
It sounded that way, even to her. She hadn’t meant to be ungrateful. She gave him a small smile. “I’d like to go with you.”
“Let’s kick it then.”
They parted ways in the foyer. He chucked her lightly under the chin, then ruffled her hair. “We’ll have fun, buddy.” And he was gone.
Buddy? She ran her fingers through the mussed strands. Some of her excitement left her. A man who patted a woman on the head saw her as a child. The Sneaker Ball was her big chance to make a major impression on him. She wanted Dune to see her as someone special.
She returned to the kitchen. Marisole was again present, arranging a single place setting at the table. The kitchen was informal, yet the chef insisted on a linen tablecloth, sterling silverware, a crystal goblet, and fine china.
Sophie sat down and started on her salad. Mari allowed her two bites before asking, “So, do you have a date for the Sneaker Ball?”
She couldn’t help but grin. “Dune took your hint.”
The chef sighed. “I’m so glad, little one.” Marisole crossed to her and gave her a big hug. Her affection was genuine, warm, and crushing.
“He’s nice and tall,” Marisole said. “I like height on a man.”
“So do I,” Sophie admitted.
“He’s good-looking, too.”
“Fans call him Beach Heat.”
“He’s a little old for you.”
Sophie silently disagreed.
“Talk to Mrs. Shaye,” Marisole suggested. “She will help you select the right dress and sneakers.”
Consulting her sister-in-law was a good idea. Sophie was clothes-conscious, but too short to pull off designer fashion. Shaye had once helped her pick out a swimsuit. Sophie would seek her advice after volleyball practice.
The chef replaced her salad plate with a warm dinner plate from the oven. Feta chicken breast and brown rice was one of Sophie’s favorite meals. She ate half, then requested the rest be wrapped up and saved for a midnight snack. She loved to read late into the night and often found herself hungry.
She asked Mari to call for her driver, then took off for her bedroom. Her steps were light, but her thoughts were heavy. She had a lot of planning ahead of her.
She slipped out of her clothes and into gray sweatpants and her Serve-ivors T-shirt. She kept on her Keds. A Scrunchie secured her hair. She left her reading glasses on the dresser. She often got hit in the face. She didn’t want her glasses to break. A navy blue leather athletic bag sat on her bed, packed with a towel and her elbow and knee pads. Shaye insisted she wear the protective gear.
The family driver was waiting for her out front. Roger assisted her into the limo. Shaye Cates would bring her home. It had become a ritual and gave the two women bonding time. They often stopped for ice cream.
“Barefoot William High School Gym,” she told Roger.
They were off.
“Awesome overhand serve! Way to go, Knee pads.” Shaye cheered as Sophie stretched every muscle in her body to achieve her goal. She’d always served underhand, yet tonight she attempted the more difficult overhand serve and nailed it. The ball cleared the net by a full inch.
She had no idea where the power came from, only that she felt remarkably strong tonight. Dune’s invitation to the Sneaker Ball exhilarated her. She felt she could handle anything, which included practicing hard with her teammates.
A short time later, Jenna from the T-shirt shop praised Sophie further. “Damn, girl, nice spike. You’re on fire.”
Sophie had jumped and thumped the ball hard. Another first for her. She bent at the waist and breathed deeply. She was improving. She was glad the women had the gym to themselves. She felt daring with no one watching.
The six players were split into three per side. They encouraged and pushed each other to hone their skills. Sophie didn’t want to be the weakest link. She was out to prove herself tonight.
Ninety minutes later, the women kicked back on the high school bleachers. Sophie was hot, sweaty, and in need of a shower. Still, she felt marvelous.
Shaye opened a cooler and passed out lemon-lime Gatorade. They all drank deeply without speaking for a few moments before Nicole, owner of The Jewelry Box, caught her breath and said, “I’m worn out.”
Sophie admired the jewelry designer in her T-shirt and white shorts. Nicole promoted her designs even at volleyball practice. Jade double-hoop earrings set off her green eyes. A silver chain necklace with a turquoise dolphin pendant dipped just below her cleavage. A wide gold ankle bracelet glittered above her blue-and-white Nikes.
Eden from the photography shop fanned herself with her hand. Sophie noticed the younger girl’s nails were painted half orange, half red, with a streak of gold down the middle. They looked like a sunset. “Who needs Zumba or Pilates?” Eden wheezed. “Volleyball is a full-body workout.”
Sophie agreed. Her muscles felt raw and stretched to the max. Her thighs had yet to fully recover from her motorcycle ride earlier. Now volleyball left her arms and shoulders sore. She’d take a bubble bath the moment she got home.
Shaye rubbed the back of her neck with a white towel. “Sophie, Jen, Violet, are you all still available to help decorate the pier tomorrow?”
Two of the three nodded. Violet shook her head. “Sorry, but I got called in to work. The diner’s been so busy that Molly asked me to pull a double shift.”
Shaye understood. “I’m glad business is good. I’ll get Trace to help if we get behind and need another set of hands.” She turned to Jen. “How about Stan, would he give a couple of hours?”
“He wouldn’t give a second,” Jen was slow to say. “We broke up this morning.”
The women sympathized. “So sorry,” said Nicole.
“Son of a bitch,” Violet ground out. “His timing sucks.”
“Anything I can do?” asked Sophie.
“Not a thing, but thanks,” said Jen. “I’ll be at the event solo.” She nudged Sophie. “Any chance I can talk you into a girls’ night out?”
“Sounds perfect,” Shaye said, encouraging Sophie. “You could dress up, then stand with Jenna, Trace, and me at the entrance to the pier as we greet the guests. Does that work for you?”
Sophie clutched her hands in her lap. Her date with Dune had yet to fully sink in. Sharing the fact with her friends made her a bit uneasy. She shifted nervously on the bleachers, bumping the bottle of Gatorade with her hip. She made a fast grab and only a few drops spilled. She dabbed the spot with her towel.
“Sophie?” Shaye prodded her. Her sister-in-law knew her better than most. “What’s up?” she asked. “You look like you’ve got a secret.”
“I have a date,” Sophie confessed.
The five women stared at her, wide-eyed and surprised. Violet’s jaw dropped and Eden nearly slid off the bleachers.
“With who?” Shaye was the first to ask.
“With Dune.”
“My brother Dune?” came from Shaye.
Sophie nodded.
“Details,” said Jen.
Sophie wasn’t sure what to say. Girl talk was new to her. She skimmed over running into Dune and Mac at Crabby Abby’s, then their lunch together and her unicycle lesson. She ended with the motorcycle ride home and her inviting Dune inside for iced tea.
“I’m not sure he would’ve invited me on his own,” she said, recalling Marisole nudging him. “Our chef hinted that he should take me. She put him on the spot.”
Shaye pursed her lips. “My brother would never feel obligated to take anyone anywhere,” she said. “You became friends last year at the volleyball tournament. There have been several women pressuring him to go to the dance. He feels comfortable with you.”
Comfortable made her heart sink. She was excited and anxious. She wanted Dune to feel the same way.
He was experienced, that Sophie knew. Women approached him, wanted him, and boldly told him so. He might not be as sexually active as Mac James, but he never lacked female attention. He was desired.
Shaye sensed her concern. “Do you have a dress?” she asked.
“Several, but I’d like something new.”
“New and special.” Shaye understood. “Zsuzsy in Saunders Square is sophisticated and classy. We’ll go shopping early tomorrow morning.”
“How about jewelry?” Nicole asked. “I have the perfect necklace. Two long strands of crystals that sparkle like stars.”
Sophie nodded. “Sounds lovely.”
Violet grinned. “Sexy undies? Or nothing at all?”
Shaye narrowed her gaze on her cousin. “It’s a first date, Vi,” she said. “No one’s jumping bones.”
“Sneakers?” asked Eden. “You’re short and Dune’s tall.”
Sophie shrugged. “I’d planned on wearing Keds.”
Shaye snapped her fingers. “I have the perfect tennies. Puma makes a black satin, high-heel sneaker. Very hot. You can order them online tonight and request next-day delivery.”
Sophie sighed. “I can barely walk in flats.”
Shaye patted her on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Hold on to Dune’s arm. He’ll support you.”
Sophie’s heart warmed as she looked at her teammates. These women were her friends, a first for her. She could pull it all together and make it work.
Or so she hoped.
They called it a night shortly thereafter. Shaye drove her home. They stopped at The Dairy Godmother and enjoyed butterscotch sundaes. Afterward they agreed on a time to meet the next day. Ten o’clock worked for them both.
The ideal dress was out there somewhere.
A dress that would leave Dune speechless.