TWO WEEKS LATER
JESSICA
I marched past the tall royal palm trees that graced the entrance to Palmira Island's most gorgeous stretch of sugar-white sand.
Eighty degrees and a cloudless sky—perfect winter weather, at least for a Florida girl like myself. The sight of those green trees against that impossibly blue Florida sky in February was enough to make my heart sing.
Scratch that. It's what used to make my heart sing. Now I concentrated on surviving each day, each week, without losing my dignity, my temper or my sanity.
Grimacing, I walked past a speaker disguised as a faux rock piping bubbly pop music for beach-bound tourists. I passed under a banner hanging between two palm trees and lightly swung my oversized bucket filled with shovels, small rakes and other tools as I walked. I felt like a kid, but I didn't give a damn.
Winterfest Sand Sculpture Contest, the words read on the banner above.
This was my third time competing in the contest held for the island's business owners. Everyone had ten days to create a sculpture, and it could be as elaborate or as simple as the entrant wished.
The first few days were usually for practice, then the competition was on. I always created beautiful, detailed sculptures. Because of this, I'd won all three years and was determined to win again. Because of everything that had happened over the past several months.
In spite of everything that happened.
I strode across the boardwalk that connected the parking lot to the beach. When my feet landed on the fine, sugary grains, I kicked off my flip-flops and tossed them in the bucket.
The beach was warm and comforting on my bare soles as I trekked toward the huge mounds of sand a short ways off. The chamber of commerce had trucked in some two million pounds for the festival, and the piles were as tall as I was.
Perspiration accumulated at my temples and neck. It was way too hot for sculpting today.
I'd just check the sand mound, get a feel for what to sculpt, then return after sunset. My fingers itched to work the soft sand, but I'd do so in the cooler hours. I'd create something beautiful that tourists would ooh and ahh over.
More than anything, I loved beautiful things. Life was so ugly.
Last year I'd carved an elaborate replica of The Beacon, my family's art deco hotel. The year before, a sailboat. The year before that, a pod of dolphins. This year I felt like sculpting a big hand with a middle finger pointing skyward, my message to the world. Of course, I didn't dare do that. If anything, I was always polite. Too polite, and too much of a pushover, my friends claimed.
Well, this was the year that would change.
The entire sculpture zone was cordoned off from the public near the lifeguard shack, which meant it was monitored during the day. At night the beach patrol kept an eye on it so drunk partygoers didn't wreck the sculptures.
Waving at a lifeguard in the distance, I ducked under a rope. Scanning the piles of sand, I spotted little flags with numbers next to each mound. Mine was station number four, and I ticked off the numbers as my heels dug in the sand. There was station seven.... That sculptor hadn't started yet. Neither had the person assigned to pile six.
My thoughts skidded to a stop as I approached station five.
There was a guy kneeling in front of the mound, and the sight of his bare muscular back, broad at the shoulders and tapered at the waist, made me grin a little. I'd sworn off men, but that didn't prevent me from admiring a beautiful thing from afar.
And he was an extremely beautiful thing. His sculpture would be right next to mine.
Maybe he was sent by the universe as inspiration.
I moved lightly, never taking my eyes off the guy. His skin was a warm bronze hue and his knees sunk into the sand, showing off muscular thighs. He wore only blue surf shorts, and while I'd grown up on the beach, it was rare that such a stunning specimen of manhood graced the sleepy Palmira shores.
If only I could remain invisible while sculpting my creation, free to admire this guy's beauty without having to make small talk, then life would be perfect.
I stopped swinging my bucket, so the tools wouldn't make a sound.
A sketchbook sat in front of the guy on the sand, and he held a pencil in one large, masculine hand, drawing with broad strokes. I took a few more small steps toward my sand pile, which also conveniently allowed me to get a better look at the guy's profile. What I saw turned my grin into an open-mouthed gape.
No. It can't be.
Inhaling a long, thin breath, I narrowed my eyes.
Is it possible?