No Tan Lines (7 page)

“Board shorts or Speedo?”

Shaye nearly choked. “Board shorts.” There wasn’t a Speedo made to fit a man his size.

Trace now moved around the shop as if he owned it. He looked polished, even after getting caught in the downpour. His dark good looks and strong presence had him standing head and shoulders above everyone in the store.

Men stepped aside, and women eased closer. The fact that he was wet didn’t seem to matter. His scent was clean rain and damp cotton. And very male.

A redhead tugged on the towel he’d slung around his neck, offering to dry him off further. Trace smiled but passed on her offer. The woman flirted a little longer, only to frown when he focused on the shirts hanging from numerous clotheslines strung across the rafters of the ceiling.

Shaye felt an odd sense of relief. A relief she refused to evaluate too closely. She’d seen better-looking men, yet she was hard pressed to come up with their names. She hated making comparisons.

Jenna bumped against her. “You’re staring a hole through the man.”

“I’m making sure he doesn’t shoplift.”

“I plan to charge him double.”

“Why not triple? He’s a Saunders. He can afford it.”

Jenna bit down on her bottom lip. “I hate that you have to partner with him for two hundred feet of sand.”

“It was a business decision,” Shaye said. “It’s only for three weeks.”

“You’re the boss.”

Being in charge wasn’t always easy. Today had certainly proved difficult, Shaye thought. Nicole Archer came to mind. The jewelry designer was waiting for them at Crabby Abby’s. Nicole was about to rent a Cates store.

Shaye would soon have to explain Nicole’s presence. No one but family had shops on the Barefoot William boardwalk. She had to find a way for the new rental to work in her favor. She didn’t want the family to question her judgment. Neither did she want to field their concerned questions.

Her acceptance of the volleyball tournament prior to Trace’s approval had started this fiasco. She was the instigator. There was no way around it. She was paying heavily now.

She needed to bring things full circle without further mishap. Trace was the wild card. She had no control over him. The one thing she did know was that he’d take advantage of her as often as he could.

Sunshine soon beckoned through the front display window. The customers were quick to grab their purchases and return to the beach.

Jenna pointed to the dressing rooms at the back of the store. “One just opened up. Grab a couple tees. I’ll get your shorts.”

Shaye crossed to a circular rack of shirts. From the corner of her eye, she caught Trace in profile as he removed two T-shirts from one of the clotheslines. The man could stretch. Jenna used a step stool or the chrome pole garment hook to lower a shirt for a customer. Trace used neither. The man had reach.

His own cotton button-down pulled from the waistband of his slacks. Shaye couldn’t help staring. His abdomen was lean and buff. His hip bone was sharply arched. A shadowed gap drew her gaze even lower. Down his happy trail. There was no visible sign of a tan line.

She should’ve looked away. Needed to look away, but she could not. Curiosity got the better of her.

He rolled to the balls of his feet a second time. Twisted right. His shirt bunched over muscle, and his pants tightened over his ass. She blinked. No jockey or boxer line. Interesting. His boys had freedom.

A shift of his weight, and his pants again flattened against his stomach. The untucked tail of his dress shirt now lay against his thigh.

Shaye blinked, breathed again.

Trace held up two shirts for her inspection. “Which one?” he asked. “I want to advertise volleyball.”

His chest would make a great billboard, she thought. Thick, wide, toned. Either shirt would work for him. She was certain whichever one she chose, he’d pick the opposite.

She went with the tan T-shirt with
Volleyball
printed over a tattoo tribal design. It was very masculine. The white polo with
Got Sand?
would be a constant reminder that she was forced to rent two hundred feet of his beach.

Trace was surprisingly agreeable to her choice. He reset
Got Sand?
on the clothesline, then leaned his forearms on the rim of a circular rack, a relaxed stance.

“We should get T-shirts made up for the tournament,” he said. “They’d make great souvenirs.”

Oh, crap.
“They’re, ah, already on order,” she was forced to admit.

“I missed the memo.”

“I didn’t consult you.” She experienced a hint of guilt but not enough to make her feel bad. “I’ve worked with the same silk-screening company for years. To get the T-shirts in time, they had to be ordered yesterday.”

She’d placed the order last week but wasn’t about to tell him so. A day or two shouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of the event.

The irritated tic along his jaw told her she’d jumped the gun. Once again. He pushed off the clothes rack and came to stand beside her. “How many did you order?”

“Five thousand.”

“On credit?”

She nodded. Every store in Barefoot William extended their credit line over the summer months, when tourism in Florida slowed to a snail’s pace. Money was tight. They didn’t have the cash flow to pay outright.

He pinned her with a look. “That’s a hell of a lot of shirts to store in your garage had I not gone along with the tournament.”

She shrugged. “You did agree. We’re working together now.”

She’d been confident when she purchased the shirts that the event would move forward, with or without Trace’s beach. Just on a smaller scale. They were going big now, and she wished she’d ordered ten thousand.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re a difficult woman.”

“You’re not easy to like either.” He was a Saunders.

“I did agree to your event,” he reminded her.

“The pro/am benefits you, too.”

“There will be perks,” he said with annoying assurance.

She thought of Nicole Archer. “
One
perk only.” There would be no more. Ever.

“Ground rules,” he went on to say. “I want full disclosure from now on. No more moves behind my back. We discuss before you initiate. Understood?”

He wasn’t the boss of her. She’d never worked with a partner. But she would agree for the time being. She shrugged and said, “Sure. No problem.”

She adjusted her hair band, then scuffed her bare toes across the floor tile. She had more to confess, but it would only piss him off further. She needed his signature on the recreational permit. She would downplay whatever decisions she’d already made as they arose.

She smiled to herself. She wasn’t his keeper. She had no idea where he would be each second of every day. If a snap judgment was needed, she’d pretend she couldn’t locate him. She was perfectly capable of moving forward on her own.

Trace Saunders studied Shaye. She hadn’t come clean. He was certain she had more to share but wasn’t giving it up. He hated surprises, especially in business. The volleyball tournament was a huge undertaking. They had only three weeks to pull it all together.

Instead of talking to him, she ran her fingers through her rain-tangled curls. Each movement drew her sagging top farther off her shoulders. The swell of her small breasts became evident. Her nipples pointed at him through the stretched-out lace. No bra for Shaye Cates.

He watched her now as she’d watched him earlier. He’d felt her earthy brown gaze as he’d taken the T-shirts off the clothesline. She’d eyeballed his groin as his wet pants slipped nearly to his short hairs. He was damn lucky his cock hadn’t waved back at her.

He’d gone for distraction and recited the alphabet backward,
Z, Y, X, W, V, U.
A habit he’d formed in high school when he was hot and horny and sitting in English class.

She hissed her annoyance when she caught him looking down her top. She immediately tugged it higher. The lace was resistant. It stuck to her teacup breasts, outlining her curves and hint of cleavage.

She blushed, right before she blindly snatched six shirts from a circular rack without paying attention to size or logo. Men’s large. The top shirt in the cluster read
Orgasm Donor
.

“A dressing room just cleared,” she said. “I’m changing first.”

She stomped on his foot as she passed him, a purposeful crunch to his toes. Slender and athletic, she had the muscle to come down hard. He curled his toes inside his wet loafers. Fortunately nothing was broken.

Trace waited patiently, quietly, for his chance at the dressing room. During that time, he reflected on their day. Shaye was an unpredictable pain in his ass. She’d shown up at the diner all sexy, enticing, and seeking the upper hand.

He had seen through her scheme. He took her as advertised and gave her the once-over. She went from turned on to ticked in two minutes flat. She didn’t give ground gracefully.

She’d tricked him into the tournament.

He’d swindled rental space for Nicole Archer.

She’d placed an order for five thousand T-shirts.

What was next? He needed to keep a sharp eye on her at all times. A supreme undertaking. Never had he imagined spending three weeks in her company. Shaye came with an extended family. He’d be knee-deep in Cateses. And not overjoyed by the prospect.

“Another dressing room has opened.” Jenna walked up the center aisle to him, a pair of Hawaiian board shorts in hand. Her expression was challenging. There was laughter in her eyes.

Trace blinked against the neon colors. Lime and orange surfboards flashed on the hot-pink shorts.

Clown shorts. No wonder they were on the sale rack. No one in his right mind would wear such loud colors. The shorts would scare off sharks.

“Not my style,” he said slowly. This had to be a joke. He took pride in his appearance. Boardroom
GQ
fit him better than glow-in-the-dark trunks.

“This is my only extra large.” Jenna tossed him the shorts. “Unless you go Speedo.”

No Speedo
. The tight-fitting swim briefs reminded him of women’s panties. A Speedo left little to the imagination. His package would be peeking out. His only other option was to remain in his wet pants. The damp fabric was already rubbing his boys the wrong way. There would be chafing.

He took the neon board shorts from Jenna. He’d never worn pink in his life or dressed so brightly. People would see him coming from a mile away.

He tucked the clothes under his arm and continued down the side aisle to the dressing room. It took him ten minutes to fully towel off and change. His leather loafers leaked water. He hoped they weren’t ruined. They were his favorite pair.

Barefoot, he stepped from the dressing room. He immediately spotted Shaye moving toward the women’s T-shirt rack. The lady was in a hurry. The men’s large she presently wore hung almost to her knees. Her shorts beneath were well-hidden. The brown color washed out her tan. Her shoulders looked lumpy. She was on a mission for a smaller size.

He stopped her in her tracks. “No way in hell. If I have to wear neon shorts, you’re keeping the shirt.”

She turned to him then, and he read the motto:
Save a Tree, Eat a Beaver.
He fought a smile. Lost. “Works for me.”

Shaye pulled a face. “It’s meant for a man.”

“Too bad.” He felt no sympathy for her. “I’m not going to be the only one on the boardwalk collecting stares.”

She glared, ready to square off.

He raised his hand and silenced her. “Your cousin brought me these shorts. A joke on me. You grabbed the Beaver shirt. A joke on you. We’re even. We wear what we’ve got on.”

Shaye tossed him a store bag for his wet clothes. She looked at his feet. “Flip-flops or barefoot?” she asked.

He shoved his shirt, slacks, and loafers into the bag. “Flip-flops,” he decided.

Jenna had anticipated his request. Humor curved her lips as she passed him a pair of black flip-flops with
I Love Barefoot William
highlighted in white on the two bands that separated the big toe and the second. He saw Shaye cover her own smile with the back of her hand. These women were playing him. He was the butt of their joke.

He scanned the wall where an assortment of flip-flops hung on wire hooks. Some had rhinestones, others plastic flowers. A few came with colorful, interchangeable bands. Every single pair bore the same logo.

No way in hell would he promote Barefoot William. He felt no love for the town. Nor did he care for Shaye Cates. Going barefoot was preferable to the flip-flops.

He returned them to Jenna. “I’ll pass.”

“The boardwalk cement gets hot this time of day,” Shaye warned.

His stubbornness set in. He’d suffer second-degree burns before he’d advertise anything Cates. If worse came to worst, he’d hop off the boardwalk and walk in the sand.

“Nicole is waiting for us,” he said. He crossed to the cash register. “How much do I owe you?” he asked Jenna.

Jenna snagged scissors off the counter and cut the price tags off his clothes. She rubbed the tags between her thumb and forefinger. “Sixty dollars,” she said, straight-faced.

Jenna was all Cates and out to take advantage of him. By his calculations, she was charging him triple. He could argue, but he knew he wouldn’t win. He was being screwed and not enjoying it. Shaye stood off to the side. Her lips twitched as she took in the transaction.

Two could play this game. He’d pay now, and Shaye would pay later. He’d collect more than sixty dollars from her.

He slipped his hand into the plastic bag and withdrew his money clip from the back pocket of his slacks. The bills were soggy and wrinkled. He laid three twenties on the counter to dry.

He moved to the front door, then swung it wide. Jenna quickly snipped the tags off Shaye’s shirt and shorts, then gave her cousin a hug. Shaye left the store ahead of him. The sun was so bright, it made him pause. He wished he had his mirrored Oakley’s, but he refused to buy a pair from a Cates. Damn, the pavement was hot.

Shaye walked briskly. She shot ten feet in front of him, quickly extending her lead to another couple yards. Her body shifted beneath the baggy brown T-shirt. Her slender curves were nicely defined.