Four
Landon Kane, third baseman for the Richmond Rogues, impatiently paced the southern end of the Barefoot William boardwalk. “Where the hell is Halo?” he asked two of his teammates who leaned negligently against the blue metal railing that separated the boardwalk from the beach.
Left fielder Joe “Zoo” Zooker and pitcher Will Ridgeway were slow to respond. They were more interested in the bikinied babes who strolled the shoreline, and those stretched out on beach loungers, lying facedown with their tops untied. Their slender backs and thonged butt cheeks glistened with suntan oil. Their supple sun-warmed skin seduced a man. It was a pretty sight.
The ladies on the boardwalk were hot, too. Their side glances and sexy smiles showed a willingness to party. And so much more. A female with cropped dark hair, enormous sunglasses, and wearing a one-piece cutout swimsuit accidentally bumped into Landon. The brush of her full breast and curvy hip was an open invitation. He drew a breath; her scent was tropical fruit. Nice. He winked at her. She winked back. But he didn’t pursue her. He had more important things on his mind. The woman sighed, walked on.
Zoo noticed their exchange. “Babe sent out her bat signal,” he said.
“You should’ve gotten her number,” agreed Will. “Saved her for later.”
Land exhaled slowly. His teammates thought him fast and easy when it came to the ladies. And that he got laid often. That wasn’t the case, even though he gave that impression. He’d lost interest in random sex. Quickies were no longer satisfying. Physical friction was fleeting.
He preferred romance. Flirting and foreplay. Long kisses. Lingering touches. Learning each other’s bodies. The slow burn. Anticipation was a turn-on. The steadiness and growth of a relationship appealed to him most. He was always on the lookout for that special someone. She was out there. Somewhere. He would find her. Someday. When the time was right. Somehow.
His teammates would laugh their asses off if they knew the number of dates he’d left at the front door with only a hug or good-night kiss. Women frowned, pouted, and begged him to stay. Still, he left. Not wanting to lead anyone on. Honesty was important to him.
Partying with his buddies remained a big part of his life. The ballplayers were like brothers from different mothers. They’d planned a blowout tonight before the start of spring training. Blue Coconut and Lusty Oyster called their names. As did Boner’s, a bar thirty miles north, outside the city limits, where shots were a buck and beer kegs ran free after two a.m. It was the last stop of the night for most, and many slept facedown on the bar, waking with a hangover. Good times.
The men had a few hours before their first drink. It was late afternoon, and tourists and townies enjoyed the moderate temperature and picturesque Gulf. The sky was a pale blue, almost white. The seagulls merged with low-hanging clouds. Fishermen collected on the pier. The water below glistened. Clear and turquoise. Waves rolled lazily onto the sugar sand.
The multicolored doors of the connected beachside shops were open, welcoming the stirring breeze and a breath of salt air. Food kiosks were numerous. Mobile metal carts served snacks and meals. He was tempted to order a basket of chili fries. But decided against it. He seldom ate between meals. He’d save room for supper.
Landon tugged his Rogues baseball cap low on his brow, protecting his eyes from the glare of the sun. He drew his Android Smartphone from the pocket of his khaki cargo shorts, then scrolled the texts from Halo. They made little sense. “It’s Saturday. He’s five fucking days late. No reason.”
“He’ll show,” Zoo finally said. “He probably hooked up.”
Land shook his head. “No hooks. Messages have him driving randomly. He’s on and off Interstate 95. Taking in the sights.”
Will scratched his chin. “Sounds like a road trip.”
“Halo doesn’t road trip.” Landon was concerned. “He had one planned stop in Atlanta to see his pilot, then straight here.”
Zoo snorted. “You’re such a mom.”
“You’re a dick,” Land growled. The Halo behind the texts wasn’t the Halo that Landon knew. The two of them were close. People seldom saw one man without the other. They had each other’s backs. No matter the circumstance or situation. If Halo got in trouble, Landon shouldered half the blame. They competed against each other during the season: hits, runs, errors. Then went on to celebrate their individual successes.
Zoo lowered his bronze lens Maui Jims, and side-eyed a blonde in a tight tank top and a tiny bikini bottom. She eyed him, too, checking out his T-shirt. She slowed, curled a finger in the cotton of his collar, and mouthed, “Top,” as she passed him.
Zoo grinned. His navy tee was scripted with Top or Bottom? More than one woman had relayed her preference. He shoved his shades back up his nose. Pushing off the railing, he crossed to Landon. Will followed. They looked over Land’s shoulder. “Run through Halo’s texts,” said Zoo.
Land skimmed back to the first post. He read, “ ‘On my way.’ That was sent early Tuesday morning as he left Richmond. I asked him to let me know when he got to Atlanta. Instead he responded with: ‘Stopping in Smithfield, North Carolina. Shadowhawk.’”
“What’s ‘Shadowhawk’?” asked Zoo.
Landon had downloaded the website. “A replica of Wild Bill’s Western town. Built by a retired actor, in his own backyard.”
“A movie set, huh?” That interested Zoo. “Halo as a gunslinger, downing shots of whiskey in the saloon? Yeah, I can see it.”
Will craned his neck, claimed the next text. “ ‘Reached South of the Border.’” He rubbed his forehead. “I’ve been there. Rest stop and roadside attraction south of the North Carolina border. Adobe architecture and neon signs. Small amusement park, a mascot named Pedro, and a shitload of Mexican trinkets.”
A further message confused them even more. “‘Locating a pet-friendly hotel.’”
Will frowned. “Halo doesn’t have a pet.”
“Not unless he adopted a dog during off-season,” said Zoo.
“He would’ve told me.” Of that Landon was certain.
The men took turns reviewing the posts. “ ‘Baseball water tower in Charlotte, South Carolina,’” Land continued. “Can’t believe that would hold his interest.”
Will rolled his eyes. “‘UFO Welcome Station, Bowman, SC.’”
“‘Bee City, Town of Beehives, Cottageville, SC. Stung in the parking lot.’” Zoo grunted. “Bet that pissed Halo off.”
“‘Submarine on Land, St. Mary’s Georgia,’” Land added. “‘USS George Bancroft.’”
“He attached a photo,” Will noted. “A full-sized Navy sub on display, as if it’s surfacing out of the grass. Pretty cool.”
The men scanned the next twelve texts in silence. “I don’t get it,” said Will. “Halo’s all over the map. Driving south, then east, then west.”
Zoo rolled his shoulders, straightened. He was about to say something, but got sidetracked by a pair of twins. Redheads in skimpy sundresses and stiletto sandals. They were all legs. Swaying hips. And would double Zoo’s pleasure, Landon thought.
Will cleared his throat, and Zoo returned his attention to the pitcher. “My sister-in-law used the Roadside America app when she traveled with her children from Texas to Maine to visit their grandparents. The stops broke up the monotony. I swear Halo is using the same app.”
“But why?” Landon questioned. “I’ve never known him to play tourist. Not ever. He’s fast-track. Getting to his destination as quickly as possible.”
Zoo tapped the edge of Landon’s smartphone with his finger. “Last night he slept in the Live Oak Villa Treehouse on St. Simon’s Island, Georgia. This morning he crossed into Florida, making stops at Sarasota’s Jungle Garden and Big Daddy Garlits Museum of Drag Racing in Ocala.”
Landon’s jaw worked. The museum might interest his friend, but he couldn’t picture Halo sitting through a bird show with a bike-riding parrot. He sent one final text to his buddy. “Get your ass here.”
He was about to pocket his phone when Halo answered. “My ass arrives in two hours. Barefoot Inn.”
“Barefoot Inn?” Land puzzled. “The bed-and-breakfast reserved for the winners of the spring training contest.”
“Still makes no sense,” said Will. “Unless the person joining Halo planned to check in early. Jillian sent out itineraries. We’re to meet our guests at the airport on Sunday. There’s a welcome bonfire at twilight near the pier.”
Zoo shrugged. “Whatever. He’s a big boy. He’ll get here.”
A nudge on Landon’s right, and a curvy brunette slipped between him and Will, and faced Zoo. An asymmetrical haircut flirted with her exotic features. She wore a belly shirt tucked beneath her boobs. Her wraparound skirt was slit over one thigh. Lady was bold in her attention. She traced a navy fingernail over Top or Bottom? on his T-shirt. Then licked her lips, and landed him with, “Both of us facing the TV.”
Zoo threw back his head and laughed. He took her hand in his, said, “I’m Zoo.”
“I know. I’m Nikki.”
“Where to, sweetheart?”
“Wherever you’re going.”
“I have no immediate plans.”
She hooked her arm through his. “I was headed to Goody Gumdrops, the penny candy store.” She dipped two fingers in her cleavage. Produced a dollar. “I need some sugar. Root beer barrels, snow caps, and blow pops.”
Blow pops made Zoo grin. Will, too. Their thoughts were on sex. Swirling tongues and sucking. Zoo jingled the change in his pants pocket. “I like pop rocks.”
Her eyes shone. “I bet you do.”
“We’re gone.” Zoo gave Landon and Will his back.
“That’s the last we’ll see of him tonight,” said Will.
“Maybe, maybe not.” Landon turned off his smartphone, pocketed it. “Guys’ night out before spring training is tradition. Zoo may tap her early, but he’ll catch up with us later.”
“Twenty bucks says he’s more into blow pops than his bros.”
“You’re on. But make it fifty. I’m sure he’ll show.”
“I’ll take that bet, and raise you another fifty,” Will said. “Bar where Zoo will walk through the door?”
“Lusty Oyster.”
“A final hundred on what time.”
Landon gave it some thought. “Around eleven. Give or take a few minutes.”
“I’ll give him until midnight, but it won’t matter. We won’t see Zoo again until the bonfire. He’d get fined if he doesn’t make an appearance with his contest winner. It’s a team event.”
“Who did Zoo choose?” Land wondered.
Will told him. “Coach Holloway, as the man prefers to be called. He’s a retired physical education teacher.”
“How about you, dude?”
Will was solemn. Respectful. “Private Andrew Davidson. Army. Iraq. He was on patrol, enemy fire, and was severely wounded. His right arm was amputated. His baseball throwing arm. His sister sent in the entry. Praising her brother’s love for his country and major league baseball. Andrew continues to play slow-pitch on a veteran team. The players have disabilities.”
Landon approved. “Davidson was a good choice.”
“Your winner?” Will asked.
“Eleanor Norris. She’s ninety.”
“In good health?”
“She uses a cane, but otherwise she still kicks ass, or so she says.”
“She said ‘kick ass’?”
“Lady is feisty,” said Land. “Florida and baseball are on her bucket list. She can scratch off both next week.”
Will rubbed the back of his neck. “Wonder who Halo chose?”
“Hopefully, someone appropriate.”
“I’m guessing a female fan sent him an X-rated letter along with a nude photo. Halo is drawn to the visual.”
Land gambled once again. “A fifty says he did right by the team and his winner is deserving.”
“I’ll match your fifty. I’m betting double-D’s.”
“We’ll see.”
Will turned back toward the beach. He shaded his eyes with his hand. “Oh, man. Woman in the white tank top and jogger pants at water’s edge.”
Landon tipped up the bill on his baseball cap, squinted against the sun. “Hard body. Smooth stride.”
Will rolled his tongue inside his cheek. “I haven’t jogged today.”
“You don’t jog any day.”
“Good time to start.”
“Go for it.”
Will gave him a thumbs-up. The six-foot-six pitcher took off running. He didn’t look like a jogger. He’d only recently arrived on the boardwalk, following a pitchers and catchers meeting at the stadium. There’d been early press coverage. Photo ops. He looked decent, in a cream-colored polo and tan chinos. Wingtips. He’d need to pace himself in order to catch the woman. She was sleek. Into performance. Perhaps a long-distance runner. Chances were good that she’d find Will passed out on the sand on her return.
Landon glanced at his watch. Hours to kill. What to do? His buddies were getting lucky. He was on his own, biding his time. He stood outside Molly Malone’s Diner, at the curb of the Center Street crosswalk. The crosswalk connected two adjoining sides of the boardwalk. Saunders Shores stretched south. Barefoot William north. They differed greatly.
Barefoot William was as honky-tonk as the Shores was high-end. Couture, gourmet dining, and a five-star hotel claimed the southern boundaries. Waterfront mansions welcomed the rich and retired. Yachts the size of cruise ships lined the waterways. Private airstrips replaced commercial travel. The affluent were a community unto themselves. Forbes listed Saunders Shores as the wealthiest resort community in the country.
In comparison, the opposite side of the street shouted fun in the sun. Team Captain Rylan Cates’s family owned Barefoot William, and his relatives operated the northern shops. Here, tourists never wore a watch. Beach attire was permitted in shops, diners, and bars. Casual was the name of the game. Free and easy worked best for Landon.
He debated his late afternoon options. Carnival rides and arcade amusements appealed greatly. He liked the carefree moments of feeling like a kid again. There were as many adults as children indulging in activities.
A century-old carousel whirled within a waterproof enclosure. Its walls of windows overlooked the Gulf. The merry-go-round cranked “Roll out the Barrel” as the hand-carved purple-and-white wooden horses went up and down and all around. The Ferris wheel turned slowly, while the swing ride whipped out and over the water. Late afternoon laughter rose from the bumper cars. An occasional shriek came from the rollercoaster.
He stretched his arms over his head, cracked his back. Then decided to take a walk. He’d taken only a few steps when a pedicab slowed beside him. The drivers of the three-wheeled rickshaws gave beachside tours, relaying historical and fun facts as they pedaled.
“Can I give you a ride?” a girl in her early twenties inquired. Her smile was flirty. She wore a khaki uniform: short-sleeve button-down and shorts, and high-top tennis shoes. Her legs were tanned and toned from miles of pedaling.
He passed. “Thanks, but I’m good.”
She sighed heavily. Visibly disappointed. “Some other time, then.”
“Definitely.” That brought her grin back.
She pedaled off, and Landon sauntered the mile-long stretch. He people-watched and window browsed. He’d made a point to stop in Three Shirts to the Wind on his arrival in town. He liked T-shirts, and the shop had the best selection on the boardwalk. From plain cotton tees to brightly colored polos. Some had caricatures, while others had decorative designs. A few naughty slogans raised eyebrows. Most sayings were funny or silly. Overhead clotheslines stretched the width of the ceiling. Oversized clothes pins clipped beach hats, flip-flops, and towels to the rope. Window mannequins were dressed in the popular Beach Heat sportswear. Retired professional volleyball player Dune Cates kept his finger on the pulse of his designer line. Landon had purchased two Florida print shirts.
The Denim Dolphin catered to kids, offering toys and clothes.
The Jewelry Box offered costume jewelry. Collectible signature pieces. Rhinestones and precious metals. Gulf Coast glitz.
Waves sold ladies swimwear. There were a lot of women in the shop. A man could stand outside the window and enjoy the view all day. He moved on.
Toward the end of the boardwalk, a hot pink door stood out among the other shops. Old Tyme Portraits. The amateur photographer in him took a look in the window. He liked what he saw.
An arrangement of photographs showcased men and women standing behind life-size cardboard cutouts, their faces pictured above vintage swimwear, a flapper dress and zoot suit, a knight’s armor and a medieval lady’s gown. Interesting. He decided to go inside and look around. Perhaps have his picture taken as a 1920’s gangster.
He pulled open the door, heard a commotion, and glanced over his shoulder. The Rogues were familiar faces on the boardwalk during spring training. He’d been recognized by a horde of fans and followed. He never minded shaking hands or signing autographs. It came with the territory. He took the crowd in stride. The guys craned their necks, curious, while the girls giggled nervously.
“Can I have my portrait taken with you?” a brunette in a Rogues jersey asked. She wore his number thirteen. “Care to be Adam to my Eve?”
Why not? He had the time. He held the door, and everyone filed in. He did a headcount. The shop was small; the crowd, fifty large. They pressed flesh. One woman leaned into his side. Another patted him on the ass.
The large cutouts were propped against the far wall, behind a raised platform. A woman stood off to the side, fooling with her camera. She had a nice backside, Land noticed. Slender in her white, oversized button-down shirt and black leggings. Her neon yellow flip-flops scuffed sand, tracked in off the beach.
She turned, scanned those gathered. Grinned. There was a small space between her two front teeth. Landon recognized her. Here was Eden Cates, his teammate Rylan’s cousin, and one of the town’s elite. She carried the ancestry, but there was little family resemblance. Her white-blond hair was short and frizzy. Crazy wild. Her eyes were a dark blue. Almost navy. Her cheekbones arced. Natural hollows beneath. Significant freckles. Her mouth tipped, full and pink. Her face had character.
They had been introduced the previous year at a boardwalk fundraiser, but had only spoken briefly. He’d felt extremely awkward around her. Nearly tongue-tied. Strange for him. Definitely a poor first impression.
She’d taken his silence as lack of interest, and had blown him off. They’d gone their separate ways. He hadn’t thought much about her. Until now. Perhaps she’d be more into him this time around. Or maybe not. Her nod in his direction was indifferent. She did a great job of pretending not to notice him further. He could be invisible, if she had a ghost cutout.
She raised her voice to be heard over the excitement. “I’m Eden, your photographer. Look around. I have thirty monochrome cutouts. I’m happy to assist, then shoot you.”
Shoot you drew light laughter. Even Land smiled. The lady had great energy and a sense of humor. She engaged the crowd. Won them over.
“How much?” a bearded young man with a ponytail called to Eden.
“Twenty-five for the singles, forty for the doubles.”
He gave her a thumbs-up. “Reasonable.”
The crush around Landon eased, as his fans moved to the back of the store. Each one selected his or her favorite cutout. Many called to him with requests that he take a photo with them in the double-faced frames. He was happy to do so.
The girl who’d asked him to be Adam to her Eve came toward him now. She carried the lightweight cutout with a foldout stand and base. She nodded toward the dais. “Ready?” she asked him.
“Sure,” he agreed. He took off his baseball cap, tossed it on a side table.
The cardboard cutouts were black, white, and shades of gray. Large-as-life and laminated. Landon went from Adam to a medieval highlander, paired with the lady of the manor. “Nice legs, Braveheart,” a woman called out. “What’s under your kilt?” The shop erupted in laughter.
For photo after photo, Landon stuck his face through the cutouts. The cardboard scraped his forehead, cheeks, and chin. Eden Cates was a pro at organization. She directed the customers onto the platform, took their pictures, edited the images on Photoshop software, then produced a glossy print. A red plastic frame preserved the high-quality souvenirs, Land noted. Eden had the process down to a science. The line moved quickly.
He smiled when she told him to smile. Until his lips got tired and his mouth went dry. He continued with a wink. He couldn’t help but stare at Eden. She was the eye behind the camera. She gestured with her hands. Gold nail polish tipped her fingers. Her hips gracefully rolled with each shift of her weight. She kicked off her flip-flops, went barefoot.
It was evident she enjoyed her work. She teased and talked with everyone but him. He may have been the center of attention, but he somehow felt ignored. That bothered him. A little.
An hour passed, and Land was patient. He stood as a cowboy to a dance hall girl. A caveman to a cavewoman. A pirate to his pretty captive. The Tin Man to Dorothy. The vintage swimwear was a favorite. He posed for eight photos. Once the crowd thinned, he planned to have his picture taken in the National Association old-fashioned baseball uniform with the bib shirt, button cuff full sleeve, and string tie knickers. Very nostalgic. The player held a bat at his shoulder, anticipating a pitch.
The session finally wound down. The customers paid for their portraits, then clustered around Land once again. He was asked to autograph each portrait, even the ones he hadn’t taken part in. Eden found him a thin-tipped permanent marker. People patted him on the back, shook his hand, and gave him a hug. He was appreciated. It was time well spent.
“Best keepsake ever,” was repeated over and over as the shop emptied. “See you at the ballpark, Landon. Have a good season, dude.”
He closed the door after the last straggler. Public relations were all important. Fans liked memorabilia. The portraits were collectors’ items. Better than key chains, bobble heads, and foam fingers.
He was proud of himself. He’d spread goodwill. Promoted himself and the team. The Rogues’ community liaison would be pleased. Jillian liked when players mixed and mingled with ticketholders.
He glanced at Eden, and found her eyeing him across the room. They were the only two left in the store. He had an idea, and ran with it. Requesting, “Can you send copies of some of the double-faced portraits to Jillian Mac-Cates at the stadium? She could insert them in the Rogues’ spring training newsletter.”
“Your preference?”
“Not Adam and Eve,” he was quick to say. “The pirate and cowboy would work.”
“Sure. Will do. I’ll get them to her before I close for the day.”
“Appreciated.”
“So . . .” She glanced toward the door, and let the word trail off. “Are we done here? Or did you have a further portrait in mind?”
He wasn’t ready to leave. “I have a personal favorite,” Landon told her. He retrieved the vintage ballplayer cutout, and approached the platform. He knew the history of the National Association of Professional Baseball Players. He thought to initiate Eden. “Eighteen-fifty-seven to eighteen-seventy, the NA governed early high-level but officially nonprofessional baseball in the United States. Teams were minor league.”
“Eighteen-seventy-one, and the National Association was replaced by the National League,” she added.
He blinked, unable to hide his surprise. The corners of her mouth twitched, but she didn’t fully smile. “The majority of cutouts are period dated. I know the background behind the cardboard.” She motioned to him. “On the platform, Jim O’Rourke.”
His brow creased. “Why O’Rourke?”
“I have names for all my cutouts,” she explained. “The man was renowned. He worked his parents’ farm before he began his baseball career.”
Land scratched his head. “He played for the Middletown Manfields, as I remember. An amateur ball club in Connecticut in 1872.”
She nodded. “The team was short-lived, as you may know. When it folded, O’Rourke signed with the Boston Red Stockings. He had the first base hit in National League history.”
“Orator Jim, as he was called, was quite a character,” Land said. “He got his nickname from his glibness on the field, his intellect, and law degree.”
She shared an additional fact. “One legend surrounding O’Rourke is that he would only sign with the Mansfields provided the team found someone to take over his chores on the farm.”
“He was quite a guy. His career lasted past the age of fifty.” Landon stepped onto the platform then, and awaited Eden’s direction.
She studied him for a long moment before saying, “Angle the slugger left. Give me rough and rugged, Landon Kane. Narrow your eyes and stare down the pitcher.”
He could do that. He stabilized the cardboard, stuck his head through the cutout, and glared.
“Darker, meaner, more intimidating.”
What the hell? This was a fun portrait. He shifted his stance. He wasn’t positioned to slam the ball down the pitcher’s throat.
“Turn it on.”
Turn what on? he wanted to ask. The power he felt at the plate? His vision of a home run? His frustration over a strike?
“Concentrate,” she pushed him. “The score is tied. Bases loaded. The game rests on your shoulders.”
He sucked air. He knew that feeling. The gut-need to save the day. To be the hero. It was as scary as it was satisfying if he succeeded in bringing a runner home.
He gave in, played along, locking his jaw until his teeth ached. He gave her his darkest squint. In that moment, he heard the roar of the crowd chanting his name. Pennants waved and foam fingers poked the air. His neck muscles tightened as he shouldered the bat. He imagined the perfect pitch. He swung on a cutter, connected with the sweet spot. Long and gone, the ball cleared the center field fence.
He returned to the moment, and his entire body relaxed. He backed away from the cutout, and allowed himself to smile. He realized then that Eden continued to snap his picture. Several, in fact. Consecutive click-clicks capturing more than his cardboard at-bat. He ran his hand through his hair. Hopped off the platform.
She lowered her camera on his approach, her expression unreadable. “You did Jim O’Rourke proud,” she complimented him. She crossed to the computer. Processed his photos.
* * *
Landon Kane was the handsomest man Eden had ever seen. She could barely breathe around him. He had dark brown hair and light brown eyes and a face so sculpted, so fine looking, women hated to blink around him. They never wanted to look away.
She’d photographed many men in her shop. But Landon’s wink alone sent female hearts to racing. Hers, too. Embarrassingly so. His slow smile was sexy, indecent, promising. Hinting at a possible date, giving a lady hope, even if he never asked her out. He kept women on edge. Waiting and wanting him. Badly. She was no exception. She’d taken a few extra shots of him as Landon the man. No reason. Just because.
He had everything going for him, she thought. Height, great body, charm. Athletic ability. His fans loved him. He treated them well, too. Genuine kindness went a long way.
Today he’d practiced patience, taking photographs and talking easily with all those gathered. He’d made each person feel special. A man that popular scared her. She’d dated jocks in college. They always sought attention. And bored easily. Landon played pro ball. He would always be in demand, and never satisfied with just one woman. That she believed.
“How’d my portrait turn out?” He came to stand behind her. “Did I look mean enough for you?” His breath blew warm at her ear.
His photo was spectacular, Eden realized, as she lifted it by her fingertips from the printer. The best portrait she’d ever taken. Contoured in black-and-white, and shadowed in gray, his features were all sharp angles and intense concentration. She held it up for his inspection. “Nice going, Landon. You made the cutout come alive.”
He studied the print. “Alive, huh?”
Heat crept into her cheeks. He was exceptional. She should have expected no less. She went on to admit, “Most customers photograph flat as cardboard. Yours has life. Depth and substance.”
“As compared to my usual fluff?”
“I never called you fluffy.”
“I saw it in your eyes when I entered your shop. I know when someone’s scrutinizing me.”
Had she been so obvious? “Do people analyze you often?” she had to ask.
“Women mostly. They want to know what makes me tick. What catches my attention.”
She huffed. “I’m not coming on to you.”
“I realize that, babe. You raised your shield the moment I walked into your store. It was avoidance at first sight.”
She grimaced. Her defenses had gone up. Her aversion to the man was based on their previous meeting. Which she doubted he remembered. Her cousin Shaye had introduced them at a boardwalk event at the end of spring training last year. Shaye presided over Barefoot William Enterprises and had her finger on the pulse of all activities.
A spring flower show offered fresh cut blooms and potted plants, and had drawn enormous interest. The boardwalk had been packed. Landon had had little to say. He’d fidgeted, and kept looking over her shoulder, as if seeking better company. A prettier woman. She’d saved herself embarrassment by walking away before he could ditch her. She hadn’t looked back. Not even a glance. She’d thought him an ass.
For whatever reason, he was staring at her now, looking deep into her eyes. She felt as if he’d touched her. He made her squirm. She crossed her arms over her chest protectively.
He rolled his tongue inside his cheek, asked her, “Do you ever pose for portraits?”
“I did when the shop first opened.” The memory made her smile. “I also photographed my entire extended family behind different cutouts. They were window dressing.”
“Great advertisement.” He seemed impressed. He then scratched his chin, momentarily thoughtful. “I’d like to see you as Marilyn Monroe.” His comment came out of the blue.
Marilyn Monroe? Was he crazy? Her throat went dry. The classic 1955 portrait featured the starlet in her iconic white halter dress. Her skirt billowed from the subway grating, exposing her shapely legs. The cutout was hot, sexy, and vibrant. So unlike her.
While Landon had a face that would never take a bad picture, she seldom took a good one. She’d blink at the last moment. Scrunch her nose. Pinch her lips. She preferred being behind the camera. Focusing on others.
She cleared her throat, said, “I’m the photographer, not the poser.”
“I’ll pay double the cost for your portrait,” he persisted.
Fifty dollars? For her to portray Marilyn Monroe. She breathed deeply. She’d had a decent tourist season. The snowbirds packed the beach and boardwalk, but summer months could be slow. Every dollar counted. She gave in.
Landon slipped his wallet from a side pocket of his cargo shorts. A wallet fat with cash. He paid for his photo, then waved Ulysses S. Grant before her eyes. “For the Monroe portrait.”
Fine. She rang up the sale and secured the money in the register. Procrastinated still. “No one’s used my camera but me.”
“First time for everything, sweetheart.”
“My Nikon is old and can be testy at times.”
“I can be testy, too.” He held out his hand, wiggled his fingers. “Hand it over. Let’s do this.”
This made her uneasy. Her stomach squeezed.
She picked up her camera, gave him directions. Afterward, he gently lifted the Monroe frame onto the platform. He gestured for Eden to get behind it. She did so. Albeit reluctantly. Her face fit easily into the cutout, but her frizzy hair escaped. One wild strand fell over her left eye; another tickled her upper lip. She tried to blow them aside.
“You’re good,” Land told her. “Looks natural.”
Silence stretched between them as he hunkered down on one knee and focused the camera. “Low is my best angle.”
“The portrait is cardboard—you can’t look up her dress.”
“She’s already flashing her panties. I like.” His voice was deep, sexy.
Eden blushed. There was no accounting for her red cheeks. Thank goodness the film was black-and-white.
“All set?” he asked.
She gave a short nod. She was as ready as she’d ever be.
“Channel Marilyn.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re joking, right?”
“No more than you were when you told me to imagine hitting a home run.”
Great. Just great.
“Give me hot in the city,” he appealed. “Warm air rises. Almost steamy. Spread your legs over the subway grille. Feel that unexpected blast of air. Your skirt undulates, climbs your thighs. You’re both innocence and seduction.”
Eden got into the mood faster than she’d ever thought possible. She licked her lips and linked her present with Marilyn’s past. She heard Landon snapping pictures as if from a great distance. The moment captured her. But then so did the man. She concentrated on the thickness of his hair, the width of his shoulders, the way his muscles flexed when he slowly pushed to his feet, shooting her from a different angle.
His movement distracted her. Time scattered. She was no longer flirty and effervescent, but rather quite ordinary. A woman with frizzy hair and freckles. “Enough,” she said, removing her face from the cutout and stepping back. Way back.
She returned Marilyn to her place against the wall between a Chicago gangster and a Colonial soldier. Landon crossed to the computer. Waited patiently for her. “Print the photos,” he requested.
Photoshop did its job. She soon spread six portraits on a small worktable for evaluation. Landon stood by her side. His arm brushed hers. His thigh bumped her hip. Goose bumps rose. She briskly rubbed her forearms. They still tingled.
He shuffled through the photographs; took his sweet time making a decision. He finally held one up to the light. “You really brought it, Eden. You look hot. The steam from the subway turned you on.”
It was true—she did look aroused. She died a slow death, yet couldn’t deny her expression. She’d gone beyond Monroe’s playfulness and sexy smile. Her own eyelids were heavy. Her gaze sultry. Her lips parted, the tip of her tongue visible. Moist.
She snatched the portrait from him, turned it facedown on the table. Anyone looking at the photo might not immediately recognize her. Those who knew her were aware she hated having her picture taken. Even in family photographs she stood in the back. Hiding. Showing only the top of her head or half her face. Posing for Land had been a whim. A stupid mistake. One she now regretted. “You’re reading more into the photo than is there.”
“Film doesn’t lie.” He flipped the picture back over. “I want this one. To go.”
“Why?” She saw no point in the exchange.
“Why not?” Wasn’t much of a reason.
Fine. Just fine. He was the customer. She’d been bought and paid for. She framed the portrait. Then clutched it to her chest. She’d revealed a side of herself she hadn’t known existed. Her inner sexy. She hated to make it public.
Landon gave her no choice. “Give it up, babe.” He moved on her then, reaching for the picture. She twitched, and he touched her without meaning to. His knuckles grazed the top of her left breast and two fingers tipped her nipple. She released the portrait so fast, it started to fall. Landon had amazing reflexes. He caught it at her waist. His thumb hooked on the bottom button on her white shirt. Right above her navel.
She jerked back, and jarred her hip on the corner of the worktable. She would bruise. A given with her fair skin. She tried to collect herself before he noticed his effect on her.
Too late.
His light brown eyes gleamed and his nostrils flared ever so sensually. One corner of his mouth hitched. No man should look so sexy. Or so amused at her expense.
She needed him to leave. Nodding toward the door, she moved him along. “Have a good day.” She slipped both his and her portraits into a large, padded manila envelope. Passed it to him.
He took her hint. He snagged his baseball cap off her table, put it on backwards, then tucked the mailer beneath his arm. He moved toward the exit. “See you, Marilyn.”
“’Bye, O’Rourke.”
He was gone. Eden stood alone in her shop. The room felt strange. Almost lonely. The company of her cardboard cutouts was no longer enough.
She caught sight of him through the front window as he returned to the boardwalk. He was once again surrounded by sunshine and his fans. Women shamelessly threw themselves at him.
He cast a final look at her shop, and their gazes locked through the glass. Her pulse gave an unexpected jump. She immediately turned away.
She valued peace, calm, and consistency in her life.
Landon was a man to be viewed from a distance.
Up close, he would devastate her, one heartbeat at a time.