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CHAPTER 1

Barefoot William Beach, Fall 1999

"Oswald! That bikini top better have come from the lost and found at at the lifeguard station."

Zane Cates's words reached Tori Rollins across a wide expanse of sugar sand. His tone was stern, concerned, and directed toward a dalmatian pup. She cringed. Scrunched her nose. She followed astrology. Mercury was in retrograde. She blamed life's screw-ups, impacts, and aftershocks on the planet. Mercury could be a prankster. She'd been puppy-pranked.

A playful Oswald had tugged and stolen her polka-dot swimsuit top. She presently lay facedown on a beach towel on the smooth expanse of white sand. It was October, and the snowbirds had yet to flock south. She'd located a secluded spot and untied her top, not wanting tan lines. She hadn't planned on falling asleep, but she had. Attending high school, then working the night shift at Zinotti's Pizza, ate up her time, exhausting her. Saturday afternoon, and the warmth of the sun soothed. Had lulled her. One unexpected pull on her top from Ozzie, and it slid beneath her breasts before she could grab it. Gone.

Escaping puppy paws kicked sand on her Hawaiian Tropic — oiled arm. The roly-poly dalmatian scampered off with her top in tow. Tripping over the white on black polka-dot cups. Tumbling forward, nose in the sand, quickly recovering, then picking up speed.

Oswald. Zane's sneaky pup. Spotted chaos. Notorious for his antics. Cute and conniving, Oz stole whatever he could wrap his little mouth around. Zane had yet to break him of the habit. Beachgoers' lost Frisbees, flip-flops, paperback books, water bottles, whistles, and sunglasses to the scamp. Items Zane then apologetically returned to the owners. The dalmatian had now gotten the best of Tori. Great, just great.

She desperately needed to cover herself. She hadn't worn a T-shirt over her bikini top. So she grabbed a pair of cutoff shorts, white-seamed and fringed. She pressed them to her chest. Rolling onto her hip, she sat up. Wishing she'd come to the beach better prepared, she called after the pup, "Not funny, Ozzie. Stop!"

There was no stopping Oswald. The dalmatian's tail wagged as he scooted around the corner of the boardwalk. Disappearing. She sucked air. Set her jaw. Waited for Zane to appear. He did within seconds.

Zane Cates was a presence unto himself.

His reputation preceded him. A good-looking guy, clean-cut, smart, athletic, friendly, and outgoing. Whereas she was aloof. Always kept to herself. It was a protective measure, taken to hide the fact that she was an outsider. Always had been. Her parents had difficulty holding jobs, which forced the family to relocate each year. She'd abandoned friendships with every move. There'd be no future attachments in the resort town. She did alone just fine.

He walked toward her now. He was careful where he stepped. Rambunctious Oz ran circles around his feet, nipping at his ankles. She took him in. A solid six-foot, broad-shouldered, bared-chest, wearing black board shorts. He was mature for eighteen. Confident. He recognized his place in life. The Cates name was well known. His ancestry, deep rooted. His great-great-great grandfather had founded Barefoot William. Zane had three brothers and one sister. All equally popular.

He soon reached her. His toes touched the frayed, faded edges of her beach towel. He had big feet. He towered over her. Casting shade. He twirled one strap of her bikini top around his finger. "This belong to you?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"See anyone else topless?" Her tone was dry.

He glanced over her shoulder. "Only you. Dogs aren't allowed on the boardwalk and beach. We were coming from the dog park when Ollie got rowdy and slipped his collar. He ran to you, scored your top." His sincerity was soon lost to his smile, which was broad and teasing. "Sorry, Tori."

He knew her name. Surprising. They hadn't been introduced. She eyed her bikini top. Held out her hand. "Mine. Give."

"Yours in a sec." He gazed at her, his dark eyes probing. "You're new in town."

Small talk? He had to be kidding. She responded, if only to get her top back. "I've been here six weeks." Since the start of the school year.

He nodded. "Yeah, I've seen you around. You're in my Honors English and World History classes."

He'd noticed her. Unexpected. She'd given him the discreet side-eye. Not something she'd admit. Girls in the senior class were hot for him. He got a lot of attention. Her appreciation would mean little.

She wiggled her fingers. "My top."

He held back still. For whatever reason, he was prolonging her unease, taking advantage of her situation. "So who's Tori Rollins?"

She was far from special. She heaved a sigh. "What you see is what you get."

He lowered his gaze to her chest. Gave her a hot look. "You're more than a nip slip," he teased.

A nip slip. She startled. Pale, hard-tipped, her right nipple peeked at him through the denim fringe. She didn't embarrass easily. She hated the heat in her cheeks now. She quickly adjusted her cutoffs. Then eyed his board shorts. Stared at his groin. A substantial bulge. She was a virgin, but big was big. Her nipple turned him on.

"I like what I saw." No shame whatsoever from Zane. Full smile and single dimple. He shook out his legs. Shifted his stance. Actually laughed at himself, deep and masculine. "Some things are harder to hide than others."

Her throat had gone dry. Her palms were now sweaty. "My top," she said insistently. More a demand than a request.

He released it.

She caught it.

"Need help putting it on?" he asked, straight-faced.

She rolled her eyes. Other girls might accept his offer, but not her. "Turn around. Take off," she muttered.

He pivoted on his heel. Shuffled his feet in the sand. Yet didn't walk away. She eyed his backside. Some guys developed early. He'd already grown into his skin, more man than boy.

Tori scanned for passersby. Not a soul. The nearest person was a speck on the southern shoreline. She awkwardly worked the polka-dot top beneath the cutoffs clutched to her chest. She went on to adjust the shoulder straps and secure her breasts in the cups. Then set the shorts aside. She tied the back strings. Tightly. Breathed easier. Despite the fit. Her swimsuit was three years old. She'd filled out last year, going from an A to a C cup. The sides pinched. Pushed up her boobs, revealing curves and cleavage.

Oswald dropped down beside her on the beach towel. He rolled over, wanting his tummy rubbed. He whined for her attention. She gave in, scratched his belly. Then circled and connected the black dots on his white fur with her finger. He was cute. Despite being a thief.

"Decent?" Zane glanced back before she could respond. His gaze lingered on her breasts. Fortunately there was no visible nipple. He hunkered down. "Mind if I sit?"

"It's your beach."

"True, but I share."

Oz refused to move from the center of the towel, so Zane settled on the end nearest her. The terry cloth was six years old. Sand sifted through the threadbare fabric. Their bodies bumped. Shoulders brushed. Thighs grazing. He sat too close. Too still. All warm skin and muscle. His scent was lime and sunshine.

Silence held between them. Lengthened. Awareness touched her. An unexplained skip in her heartbeat. An unimaginable flutter in her stomach. She had no idea why he sat beside her. Unless he was killing time. She let the clock tick. Waited him out. The late afternoon shadows from the boardwalk crept across the sand. Reached for her feet. She wished she'd painted her toenails. But polish was a luxury. Her life was nickel and dimed.

The dalmatian soon crawled onto her lap. His head drooped on her knee. He closed his eyes, and his body went soft. He slept. She stretched out her legs, stuck her toes in the sand. Gritty.

Zane cupped his hand, scooped a palm full of sand, let the fine particles filter through his fingers as he initiated, "Where're you from?"

Portland, Reno, Chicago, Boston, Fargo, Little Rock. Name a city or town, and her family had likely driven through or lived there. But her personal life was private. "Around." Broad and untraceable. Evasive.

He raised an eyebrow. "Care to narrow it down?"

Not really. But she'd appear rude if she didn't. She wasn't out to offend him. Still she took her sweet time. "Georgia."

He pinpointed, "Atlanta?"

Good guess. She slowly nodded.

"I was there recently," he told her. "My dad, younger brother Rylan, and I caught a Braves — Richmond Rogues game."

"You like baseball?" seemed appropriate to ask.

"Not as much as Ry. Baseball is his life. Major League is his future." He sounded proud, positive, as if it were a foregone conclusion.

"You seem so sure."

"My father taught us to go after what we want, until we got it."

A supportive dad. "What's in your future?" slipped out.

"The Air Force Academy."

"Ambitious."

His expression was serious, thoughtful. "I began the admissions cycle in March of my junior year. I've gone over the process at least a hundred times. I'm eighteen, a United States citizen, and unmarried, no dependents. I've completed the pre-candidate questionnaire. Once it's reviewed, I hope to be granted candidate status. It's a lengthy procedure."

"How so?" she asked, showing interest.

He drew a breath, explained, "Prerequisites: a congressional nomination, strong academic performance, extracurricular activities, character evaluation, personal interview, fitness assessment." He ran his hand down his face. "Sorry, I sounded like a recruiter. More than you needed to know. I got carried away. Didn't mean to bore you."

"Impressive." She was far from bored. His enthusiasm touched her. A tangible connection. "When would you get the entrance notification?" she asked him.

"Next year. Between February first and mid-July."

"I hope you're accepted." She meant it.

"Yeah, me too." He visibly hesitated. His voice deepened, became confidential. "I want to enter the Total Force Integration. TFI allows active duty pilots to fly in Reserve and Air National Guard units. The Air Force requires a ten-year service commitment after an officer graduates from pilot training. I'm fascinated by storms and" — he seemed unsure she'd understand — "someday want to be a hurricane hunter."

"Oh ..." was all she had. Slowly, she added, "From fighter pilot to hurricane hunter. Daring."

"I've been called mental by my sister. Insane Zane by my brothers. Reckless, daredevil, crazy-ass by my friends."

She disagreed. "I think you're very brave."

"You do?" Surprise tinged his voice.

She half-smiled. "Scary brave, flying into the eye of a hurricane."

He justified, "The information obtained goes out to emergency managers to issue timely evacuations."

"Evacuations ..." Her thoughts retracted sharply. Memories, seen through an eight-year-old's eyes, seized the moment. Still vivid. Fear constricted her throat. Her mouth was dry as she softly said, "My family lived outside Charleston, South Carolina, when Hurricane Hugo hit in 1989. We were late leaving the area and barely escaped the brunt of the storm."

The past painted a bleak picture. Schools and stores closed. Her parents' rust-bucket truck. A cooler of sodas and sandwiches. Three sleeping bags. Traffic stalled on the highway. A dark sky. A darker panic. A powerful wind shook the truck. Rain slapped the windows. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. Tornados circled. Tori's stomach churned all the way to Tennessee. She felt queasy even now.

Zane sensed her distraction. Her introspection. Her sudden vulnerability. He leaned toward her. Their shoulders pressed as he gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. Wild auburn hair that frizzed in the humidity. He touched his finger to her chin, turned her to face him. "You're pale."

"Hurricane Hugo struck a decade ago, but it feels like yesterday." She'd never shared the experience with anyone. She had kept it deep inside her. Yet now she lowered her guard with Zane. He planned to be a hurricane hunter. He could identify with her.

He lightly brushed his thumb along her jawline. "Your family survived."

"We outran Hugo." Barely. Only to drag into Nashville, gas tank on empty, front passenger tire losing air. Once again, her parents had difficulty finding work. They finally exchanged her dad's handyman skills and her mother's maid service for a room at a motel. It was rundown and musty smelling but provided a roof over their heads. Food came from vending machines. Her folks slept on the bed. She'd zipped into a sleeping bag. After a month of paychecks, the family moved on. North to Bloomfield, a small town in Kentucky where a bed-and-breakfast provided her parents employment. A small apartment over the garage became their home. For a year. Before they were on the road again.

Tori tossed her hair, cleared her head. She wondered how much longer Zane would occupy her towel. A bit longer, it seemed, as he continued with, "How 'bout you? College?" He'd taken more interest in her in ten minutes than anyone had in ten years.

Her dream was tucked in her heart. Never shared. Not even with her parents. Could she trust him with her most intimate wish? Silence stretched on as she struggled with her decision. Releasing her dream would give it substance. Zane sat beside her, as real as any moment she'd known.

He nudged her with his elbow. "I'll keep your secret. Promise."

"Interior design," she said softly.

His brow furrowed attentively. "I have friends going into engineering, medicine, education, law enforcement, and business administration. Interior design?" He shrugged. "Not a clue. You must have a good eye for decorating."

He would be right. "Textures, patterns, display, my mind's a kaleidoscope of color." Not bragging. A fact.

"Kaleidoscope, huh?" Thoughtful seconds passed. "I'm a basic color kind of guy. Black, white, gray."

"Achromatic shades are good."

He frowned. "Pretty boring compared to you."

"Color gives me life." The words were quietly spoken.

"How so?"

It was too difficult to explain. She couldn't put her emotions into words. Life had been hard. Color and design distracted her. Imaginative decorating had helped her survive. Made her strong. She didn't want to throw herself a pity party. Not in front of Zane.

Her recall was sharp. At age six, she'd spun her mental color wheel, making it an intangible, yet creative game. She brought brightness into her bleak world. A cardboard dollhouse became a palace, complete with throne, canopy bed, and magic mirror. She decorated with her own color palette. Princess pink and silver dreams. A fairy-tale brilliance.

At age nine, bedtime hovered darkly. Sleep evaded her in her tiny bedroom. The walls closed in, and she pushed them back, picturing her narrow air mattress as an actual twin bed. A bed made with raindrop aqua sheets and a butterfly-yellow-patterned comforter. A fluffy-marshmallow- white pillow. There'd be a glitter star night light to break the darkness. She covered the barefoot-cold cement with a round, heart-patterned rug. Each night she'd close her eyes and redecorate the room. The youthful images stayed with her. Grew with her into her teenage years.

By sixteen, she appraised each room she entered, taking inventory, inventively picking flooring and wall colors, and imagining furniture to complement it all. Texture made her fingers itch. Leather, chenille, brocade, cotton, linen, microfoam. Interior design was in her soul. Her future goal. She was starved for the success her parents had yet to achieve.

Zane waved his hand before her eyes. "You still with me, girl? So color's your life?"

She blinked, nodded. Retreating into herself was safe. Being with Zane made her feel unprotected. Exposed. She made light of her feelings. "Design, color, is in every breath I take. I inhale blue and exhale purple."

He grinned. "I like your outlook on life."

His words were a first. Kindly spoken. She relaxed, went on to say, "Design is a highly competitive field. It's difficult getting noticed. You need credibility ..." Sigh. "College and a portfolio."

"The best colleges for interior design?" His question showed genuine interest.

She'd done her research. Had spoken extensively with her guidance counselor. "The best schools are in Europe. Florence Design Academy and the Interior Design School of London. Not affordable. For my undergraduate program, I'm looking at the Pratt Institute, Brooklyn campus. A living lab of craft and creativity. They offer scholarships and financial aid."

"How're your grades?" It was a frank question. "ACT, SAT?" he asked, mentioning standardized exams.

"Solid." Despite her transitory lifestyle and attending three high school districts in as many years. She used all her free time to study. Read. She would graduate from Barefoot William High School at the top of her class.

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Excerpted from "No Kissing Under the Boardwalk"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Kate Angell.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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