LEO
I ran my fingers through the warm sand, scooping the grains into one cupped palm and then letting them pour into the other. My shoulders, normally somewhere near my ears with tension, eased downward with each rhythmic scoop. This was the best I'd felt in months, though I still didn't feel all that great.
With both hands I piled the sand into a little mountain in front of my knees then picked up the pencil and began to sketch an idea for a sculpture. With each pass of the pencil my muscles loosened. Maybe Palmira's warmth had been exactly what I needed to help erase the pain of Afghanist—
Oh, screw that. I was running. From my past and possibly, probably, something so hideous that I didn't want to even contemplate the consequences.
My hand went instinctively to my beard, but my fingers found only the smooth skin of my chin. I'd shaved and cut my hair right after that night in the park, right before I packed my shit into the truck, strapped the Harley onto a trailer and hauled everything to Florida.
My father's plans to open a bakery on Palmira had been well-timed, at least. Leaving the luxury of my family's Garden District mansion was for the best, even if it meant being alone with tortured thoughts for weeks.
I preferred being nearly a thousand miles from everyone in Louisiana and their happy, well-adjusted, socialite families. I didn't need a reminder of how much shame I could potentially bring to my family name back in New Orleans. I'd wanted to annoy my old man, not ruin him.
Well, here I could zone out on the beach and no one would notice. Hell, I'd been doing it all afternoon as I moved sand around, stopping only to swim and float in the crystal-clear water.
At least that soothed my soul: the blue Gulf of Mexico.
Something about hearing the ocean instead of city traffic—or worse, bomb blasts—made me nostalgic for that previous trip to Palmira five years ago. If only I could return to the past, to before joining the Marines, to before Afghanistan.
I wanted to be the happy eighteen-year-old on a Florida beach on New Year's Eve again, kissing a beautiful girl without a care in the world. In the moments when I treated myself kindly, I almost allowed myself to believe I could reclaim that innocence.
The rest of the time, which was most days, I knew otherwise. I was too damaged and jaded to feel like that again. Too physically and mentally ruined.
Still, I had to try like hell not to think about that previous trip. Or Jessica. Memories of her had come roaring back when I first saw the island's tall palm trees and when I drove by her family's hotel. What had happened to her? Was she still here?
I smoothed the sand with my palms and patted it down, praying that an anxiety attack wasn't imminent. Those episodes always lurked in the shadows now that I'd gone off his medicine. Taking a deep breath, I filled my lungs with ocean air. Just breathe. That's what the therapist had told him. Breathe. I closed my eyes and sunshine touched my cheeks. Breathe and be in the moment.
The dual lilt of shorebirds and surf was interrupted by a sudden crunch of sand. My eyes flew open, and I saw a woman standing about six feet away. I froze, and a hum fluttered through my body.
Shock. Happiness. Sadness.
"Jess? Jessica Clarke?" It was as if my thoughts had summoned her to me. I immediately regretted my questioning tone. The last thing I wanted was for her to think I'd forgotten her. It was the very opposite.
She stared at me, her beautiful pink lips slightly parted. Did she not remember me? The idea cut through me. What we'd shared was incredible. Or so I'd thought. Deep down, I'd been hoping to run into her. And I'd wanted an amicable reunion at the very least. Was that possible?
With shaking legs, I rose and approached. I brushed sand off my thighs and noticed her mouth was set in a narrow, hard line.
"Hey. Wow. It's been a long time, Jess."
She took a step back. "Leo Villeneuve."
She was still so damned gorgeous. Her hair, which had been chin-length as a girl, now flowed over her shoulders in tawny-blonde curls. Somehow there was a lightness in my chest that hadn't been there moments before, and my mouth was suddenly dry.
She was so scorchingly hot that it made me tongue-tied.
My eyes lingered on the soft curves of her breasts barely hidden under a shapeless pink T-shirt. She wore tight jean shorts, and it was difficult for me not to stare at her tan legs and remember how they'd tangled perfectly with mine. She'd filled out beautifully, too. Before, she'd complained about her body, but I'd always felt her ample curves were far sexier than any runway model's skinny frame. I wasn't a dog and didn't like bones.
With her long, wild hair and flushed cheeks, Jess was my fantasy come to life. My mermaid girl.
I stopped myself from grunting with need like a caveman. Even though I'd been a Marine, deep down I was a southern gentleman. Or I wanted to be. Around her at least.
"Leo Villeneuve," she repeated. Her voice was flat. "I didn't think I'd actually lay eyes on you again in my lifetime."
I grinned, thinking I might as well be flirtatious to hide the anxiety lurking in my mind. No way would I let her see how nervous I really was—about everything.
"Lucky for me you were wrong."