Because he hadn’t known about it, of course. But a man like Paul had ways of making the truth look false.
Shuddering at the thought of Paul’s side business and at being locked up for something he hadn’t done, or even worse—being beaten for it—he wondered if he was crazy for setting up a business in the hospitality industry when he was the most inhospitable person around.
Trouble was, he knew this was a burgeoning market. Knew that, if done properly, this could earn him a pretty penny, and all without having to leave the island that much. Because of that, he decided he’d have to learn to be more lenient with people, more hospitable, until he could afford to pay someone else to do it for him.
Then, he could live on his damn boat and be left alone.
Some days, that’s all he wanted.
To be left alone.
Other times, sure, the need for humanity encroached on his self-imposed hermitage. Usually though, being around other people for a short amount of time had him sinking back into his hole with a smile.
April finally caught up, then grimaced as she saw the sand awaiting her. Before he could remark, she surprised him by lifting her leg and catching her heel with her hand. The artless move had him blinking as she took off her shoes one by one, and stood there, five or six inches shorter than she had been.
Short stuff.
His lips twitched at the thought. Of course, other parts of him twitched when he thought about how perfectly her height would align them in bed.
Jesus.
“The sand is hot,” he cautioned, clearing his throat with the vague hope it would clear his head of the thought of her, and him, entangled in the sheets on the extra wide mattress in the main bedroom.
She grinned at him, surprising him yet again. “I can run.”
“Or I can carry you.”
Now, where the hell had that suggestion come from?
She froze—he couldn’t blame her. Jesus, there was trying to be hospitable and then coming across as goddamn creepy!—then, she shook her head. “That won’t be necessary,” she said stiffly, hopping down the two steps that led to the beach.
The minute her foot connected with the sand, however, she screeched. He couldn’t withhold his grin as she shot up the shore, arms pinwheeling again as she raced toward the craggy path that would lead to the house.
The white gravel gleamed in the sun, so startlingly bright it hurt his unshaded eyes.
She studied it, staring down at the sharp p
ebbles in consternation, then looked back at him, biting her lip again.
God, that was a sexy gesture.
Other women did it all the time, but she made it look so…
Hell, he didn’t know what.
It made him think about her mouth, and all the things he could be doing to that tongue if he had his way.
Shrugging off the thought as he headed toward her, he asked, “Now do you want me to carry you?”
She flushed, then darted off toward the house, shrieking as the gravel bit into her feet.
His lips curved into a smirk at the sight of her.
She looked like something from a comedy sitcom, but by the time she made it to the house, hopping up the three stairs that led to the veranda, she raised her arms in the air and did a victory dance.
He couldn’t stop the laugh escaping him at the sight of her. She wasn’t how he’d expected. He’d imagined stuck up and prissy. But that wasn’t how she seemed at all. Not if that victory dance was anything to go by.
She’d been taken with the views in a way that spoke of a soul deep longing to the sea. He understood. He shared that affinity. The ocean was his lifeblood.