Page 11 of Restored Dreams

I hold up the bucket in response. “Thank you. This was very sweet.” My eyes meet his but quickly divert to his feet. The moment is more than awkward, and a restless quiver ripples up my skin. Only too bad, the trembling stops between my thighs, recalling the sensation of last night. My eyes shift up to the center of his jogging shorts and away. I’m caught in the moment of look-don’t-look and eventually close my eyes to recover before I state the obvious.

“Morning wood?” What the?! “Morning jog, I mean. Morning jog!”

Brut’s lips crook with humor, and I’m silently praying for the sea to swallow me. Good Lawd, Lily. He watches me as he scrubs at the back of his neck.

“Couldn’t sleep. Had a few things on my mind.” His smile grows, and it’s a hint he’s been thinking about the same thing as me—about last night. “Mind if I join you?”

His asking startles me, and before I can think, I’m shaking my head at his offering. “I’d like that.”

Brut kicks off his shoes, and with a strong throw, he tosses them toward the deck steps. We fall in step next to one another without speaking. Beach sounds surround us—the breeze, the squawk of seagulls, the ocean lapping at the shore—and it’s strangely peaceful and not awkward to stroll with him. I stop occasionally when I find a perfect shell. Eventually, Brut peers into my bucket after I do this a few times, and asks, “Why are you only picking up those?”

I peer into the bucket to see each shell is complete: no cracks, no chips. Also, most of them are white or speckled with lighter colors.

“I want them to be perfect,” I say, proud of my discoveries and envisioning them in a jar in my bakery. I’m testing out some summer flavors, and it would fun if I could replicate a seashell candy as a garnish. I’ve been working with salty caramel and chocolate lately; my latest concoction titled Salty Summer Nights.

Brut bends at the waist and lifts a shell between two fingers. “But the imperfect ones tell a better story.” He holds a broken piece in his hand, gray and tattered. I’m stumped by his comment, contemplating what he means—does he think I’m imperfect or is he referring to himself—and then I notice something about the shell. I take the piece from his fingers and force his hand to open, palm upward. Then I lay the chip on his skin.

“You’ve found a heart-shaped one. It’s a hidden heart.” My head snaps up to his eyes, but he’s looking at what he holds in his hand. His brow pinches in question. “A hidden heart is when you find something in nature shaped like a heart. A rock, a formation in the sidewalk, the curve of bark on a tree.”

Brut looks up at me. His lip curls.

“A heart-shaped shell is a rare find.” I speak as if he’s just made the greatest discovery known to mankind.

“Does this mean I hold your heart in the palm of my hand?” He’s humoring me, his eyes twinkling.

“Not my heart. A hidden heart,” I mock.

“Rare find? Same thing,” he mutters, closing his fingers around the shell and slipping it in his pocket. “I think I’ll keep this one. Don’t want to mess up your perfect collection.”

“Suit yourself,” I tease, but something in my stomach flutters. We continue walking, and two men pass who mutter, “Good morning.”

We greet them as well.

“You can stop drooling,” Brut snarks, a teasing lilt to his voice but also a hint of something deeper. He swipes at the corner of his mouth in mockery.

“I wasn’t drooling,” I defend, but it was hard to miss the toned bodies of either male specimen—lean and smooth, tanned and grooved in all the right places.

“They’re gay anyway,” Brut adds, and I twist to look over my shoulder. It’s more a double take at their physique than a perusal of their sexuality. However, when I glance back, one walks backward, smiling at me. He winks with a chin tip.

“They are not,” I refute. Feeling the man’s eyes on my backside, I fight a grin, knowing I’m being watched. “At least one of them likes women. He’s checking me out.”

Brut stumbles in the sand and spins to look back at the two men.

“Don’t look,” I admonish, and he twists back in my direction.

“How do you know he wasn’t checking me out?” Brut nods, his head bobbing as though he’s proud to one-up me. I stop and slip the bucket handle over my wrist.

“How would that work with three men?” I’m making a circle with the fingers of my right hand and aiming my left index for the hole while my middle finger sticks out…

“Stop.” Brut laughs, reaching for my hands and dragging one away from the other. He’s bent over chuckling at the serious expression on my face as I try to decipher the mechanics. “Just no. No threesome.”

“Not your thing?” I tease, and Brut straightens, his hands still holding mine.

“Never into sharing.” The declaration spirals around us, and my mind immediately races to Lauren. We shared Brut although I didn’t do it willingly.

“Lily pad.” As if reading my mind, Brut draws me back. He strokes firm thumbs over my knuckles, pulling me back to the present. Dropping one hand, he begins walking, and I follow his lead as he entwines his fingers with mine. His fingers are warm, and I like the comfort they give me after thoughts of Lauren. After only a minute or two of connection, Brut looks down at our joined hands and releases me as though my touch burns. It’s another reminder of how I felt all those years ago. I wasn’t the one he wanted most.

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