Dare Me Once Read online

  Now Trace understood Megan’s sudden interest in spending more time with their son. Ben would be a set prop.

  Searing anger pounded through his veins, and his grip tightened around the phone. A swoosh sounded, and he looked down. Openmouthed, he stared at his cell.

  No. No, no, no!

  The word Delivered appeared in light gray under his racy text, and he wanted to reach through cyberspace and snatch it back.

  His head fell back on the sofa. So much for throwing caution to the wind. Apparently, he sucked at it.

  Chapter Six

  LILY’S LIFE LESSON #6

  Life’s short—make it hot and spicy.

  Lily spent two days with Lawrence while he brought her up to speed on resort business and they set up her office space. She spent those two nights tossing and turning over the Voice’s last text. On her third full day, she wasn’t exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as she put her makeup on in the bathroom of her cozy cottage. Her eyes were bleary, and her tail was dragging.

  It didn’t help that the ducks chirped a chorus starting at sunrise. They frolicked in the tub, and one of them squeaked. Lily turned to find they’d already eaten all the bread crumbs and dry oatmeal she’d tossed in for their breakfast, and one of them made its unhappiness apparent.

  “I know how you feel.” Lily dug through her makeup bag. “I promise I’ll look for a better habitat today.” Not only did they need more room, but she’d really like her tub back.

  She found a tube of mascara and leaned into the mirror to brush it over her lashes. So far, mostly what she’d done at the resort was listen to Lawrence. Today, she planned to start developing a plan of action.

  She finished one eye and stepped back to look at herself. The drowned-rat appearance she’d sported when she arrived hadn’t been a good look for her. Unfortunately, the I’ve-been-up-for-two-nights-fantasizing look wasn’t much better.

  And those fantasies had her insides wound so tight, she might unravel with the least little nudge. His words had been as sensual as the velvety tone of his masculine voice, and Lily wasn’t sure she could resist it if they ever did meet face-to-face again.

  Which they wouldn’t because now, on top of the new no-men-allowed policy she’d adopted, she could never look the Voice in the eye. Not after his last text, which had spun her mind into the gutter. It had been dreamy and daring and dangerous. And so far out of Lily’s depth that she’d gasped when it popped onto her screen.

  He’d left the last part—the part about where he would put his mouth after he moved her thong out of the way—open-ended. She’d wanted to text back and ask him where? WHERE? Even though it’d been pretty obvious, she’d still wanted him to explain. In vivid detail. Instead, she’d stayed quiet and didn’t respond at all.

  And he hadn’t texted since.

  She stabbed the mascara wand into the tube and gave it three rapid-fire pumps, then went to work on the other eye. When she finished getting dressed, she grabbed her iPad and a map Lawrence had given her. She opened it as she headed for the door to find a colorful diagram of the island on one side and the resort on the other. One hand on the doorknob, she stopped and drew in a weighty breath. Then she went back for her phone, checked to make sure the ringer was on, and shoved it into her pocket. She’d have to work up the courage to call her mother today.

  Lily stepped outside to a gloomy gray sky. She drew the thick moist air into her lungs. The worst of the storm had finally passed, but a heavy dampness still hung in the air.

  Using the map, she started with the campfire area on the west end of the resort. Aging Adirondack chairs surrounded a stone fire pit. A fresh coat of paint on the chairs and a few log benches and stools made of tree stumps for kids would transform it into a perfect family gathering place for roasting marshmallows, singing songs, or telling stories. From there, she followed a paved walkway to the front of the resort where a tattered net hung across a sand volleyball court . . . which was missing a fair amount of the sand.

  The basketball court that stood adjacent wasn’t any better. Useable, but deteriorating.

  She pecked at the screen of her iPad, making a bullet list.

  She crossed the property along the front entrance to an open-air but covered structure with a concrete floor. Perfect for group activities.

  A lush green lawn swept around the east end of the resort, where hiking trails meandered off into the hilly landscape. Lily studied the map. When she was interviewing with Lawrence over the phone, she hadn’t realized how big the grounds were. At the time, she’d scoured their outdated website, but it hadn’t offered many details.

  She tapped another bullet onto her list—update website.

  Seeing the resort in person while looking at the map, it was clear the Remington encompassed acres upon acres of the island. The hiking trails butted up against the rocky cliffs and looped back around the rear of the resort. She’d explore those later. Today, she wanted the abbreviated tour.

  Picnic tables, outdoor grills, and lawn swings dotted the expansive back lawn. She could see a large playground on the opposite end, so Lily headed that way. As far as she could tell, the playground equipment was new, and it was the only part of the property that had been kept well manicured.

  For such a beautiful family-owned place, it hadn’t been shown much TLC. She walked along the back of the resort toward the playground. According to the map, if she followed the path that skirted the playground and disappeared around a dense hedgerow of trees, vines, and flowery bushes, there should be a fishing pier beyond and an inlet.

  Sounded lovely, and Lily couldn’t wait to see it. She veered to the right and headed down the trail. Only to stop just as she cleared the hedgerow.

  All three Remington brothers were down by the dock, which led to a pier. From a distance, their interaction seemed smooth and natural as they repaired a section that looked to have been damaged by the storm.

  Lily’s gaze landed on Trace. Even though the temperatures were moderate, the air was muggy, and he’d already worked up a sweat. One of his brothers tore out the damaged planks. The other Remington brother retrieved a new piece of lumber from what looked like a boathouse to the left, then made sure it was level. Trace hammered in nails to secure it in place.

  Lily couldn’t help it. She ducked behind the hedgerow and stared. Just stared. Even from her hiding spot, she could see the glistening sweat that coated his tanned arms. Ropey muscles where his neck met his shoulders flexed and released with each swing of the hammer. The hammer he wielded with his left hand.

  She swallowed hard. She hadn’t noticed he was left-handed when he picked her up on the road.

  When he was done, he straightened and used the bottom of his shirt to swipe the perspiration from his face.

  And holy hotness. She could do laundry on his abs. A gasp whispered through Lily’s parted lips, moistness gathering in intimate places she’d rather ignore.

  The twinlike Remingtons stopped to drink long and hard from water bottles, and Trace pulled out his phone, tapping on the screen as all three disappeared into the boathouse.

  Lily’s phone dinged, and she chuckled at the timing.

  My last text was out of line. I apologize for being an ass.

  Did it make her a texting slut because she’d enjoyed it?

  “You there,” a scratchy voice said from behind her.

  She whirled to find an elderly man shaking a bony finger in her direction.

  “Yes, you, hiding in the bushes!” The man shuffled toward her, his sparse comb-over falling to the wrong side.

  She stepped back onto the path, turning her phone screen-down so she could focus on the guest and not on the Voice. “Sir, I’m not hiding.” She so was. “I’m . . .” She glanced over her shoulder and was relieved to find Trace still inside the boathouse. “I’m working. What can I help you with?”

  “That racket has to stop.” His pointing finger shifted over Lily’s shoulder to the dock. “We paid good money to come here for
peace and quiet, and my wife is a light sleeper. That hammering has had her up complaining since the crack of dawn.” He shuffled right up to Lily and moved his baby-blue cardigan aside so he could plant both hands on his hips. “Good thing my hearing aids have an off switch.”

  And that would seem to be the problem. The resort didn’t have any life. Even during the off-season, the grounds should be humming with energy. Bustling with fun activities to accommodate all stamina levels, each designed to help the vacationers relax so they could return home refreshed. This old fella was one of the few guests Lily had seen, and he was busy trying to stop the only sign of life at the resort.

  “I’m so sorry you were disturbed.” Lily’s smooth professionalism kicked in to do what she did best—defuse volatile situations before they blew up and appeared on a popular vacation review site with a one-star rating. “The storm caused damage that needs to be repaired, so I’m afraid some noise is unavoidable, but I’d be happy to move you to a room as far from the dock as possible.”

  He harrumphed—half-satisfied, half-irritated. “Well, the storm didn’t cause that awful breakfast this morning. The eggs were cold, and the bacon was rubber,” he grumbled. “If it wasn’t for the doughnuts and coffee, we’d have to go eat somewhere else.”

  Lily offered him a genuine smile while making a mental note to tour the kitchen and sample the food herself. So far, she’d eaten at her cottage. “Again, I’m so sorry, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Walters.” He pursed his lips. “Name’s Walter Walters.”

  Wow. His parents really liked the name to give it to the poor guy twice.

  “Mr. Walters.” Lily placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “I’ll personally guarantee you get a warm, tasty meal for lunch.” Even if she had to cook it herself. Like most Cajuns, she knew her way around a kitchen and could make a gourmet meal out of nothing more than rice and a bottle of Tabasco. The motto in the French Quarter wasn’t Life’s short, so make it hot and spicy for no reason.

  Involuntarily, she glanced toward the boathouse. Still no sign of the hot and spicy Trace Remington going back to his hammering. Or his sweating.

  “I want to speak to the owner.”

  She refocused on Walter Walters. “I understand, Mr. Walters.” Using someone’s name tended to create a personal connection and settle feelings of anger.

  Like naming baby ducks.

  Guilt flooded through her at the trouble she’d caused Ben and the irritation she’d caused Ben’s dad. But one problem at a time.

  Walter Walters’s bushy eyebrows stopped bunching between his eyes so much, and his lips unpinched.

  She hooked her arm in his and led him toward a bench on the playground. “How about you wait here while I ask for the keys to one of the resort Jeeps so I can take you and your wife on a private island drive? Maybe the views will relax your wife and make up for the sleep she lost.” And Lily could get acquainted with the island at the same time. Two birds, one stone.

  No offense to her new feathered friends.

  Mr. Walters mumbled under his breath but clasped his free hand over Lily’s, and she knew she’d scored her first victory as the Remington’s hospitality manager. Unhappy guests mostly wanted someone to care. She did care, and that was the reason she was good at her job.

  After depositing Mr. Walters on a bench, she headed toward the boathouse. She passed the hedgerow and rounded a copse of giant pampas grass so the dock and inlet were fully visible.

  Then she skidded to a halt.

  A Cessna floatplane sat at the far end, tethered to the dock.

  A prickle of worry rushed up her spine. Lawrence never mentioned the resort had a plane. There had been no mention of it on the resort’s website either. Then again, the website seemed to have been created before airplanes could actually fly. Or at least on the very day the internet went live, and the site didn’t look to have been updated since.

  Lily shook off a shiver of worry. Premature assumptions were never a good idea. No reason to assume the plane belonged to the resort—other than the fact that growing up on the Gulf Coast had taught her a few things about boats and planes and docks. And the far end of the dock was definitely outfitted to moor a plane.

  And where there was a plane, there was usually a pilot nearby.

  “So about calling the lady I met at the airport,” Trace said to his brothers after Sexy Airport Girl didn’t respond. His voice was back to normal, and he could finally eat something besides soup. He set the cell aside and picked up a dusty nail gun from the workbench that ran along one wall inside the boathouse. “I’m calling uncle on this one.” He’d already crossed enough lines with a woman he didn’t know. It was time to let it go and admit defeat.

  “She shot you down?” Elliott teased as he and Spence sorted through the extra lumber they kept stacked in one corner for repairs.

  All four boat slips had been empty for years. Since that fateful day when his mother took a rowboat out and never came back. His dad had built a makeshift floor across the length of the boathouse and converted it into a tool and supply shed.

  Trace didn’t answer because of the nine kinds of hell his brothers would rain down on him. When the nail gun didn’t work, Trace jiggled the cord to make sure the connection wasn’t loose. He finally gave up and tossed it in the trash can. “We need new tools.”

  Spence threw two pieces of lumber onto the stack. “This place needs new everything. Try the drill and get screws from the toolbox.” He pointed to the red metal cabinet against the wall. As a master builder, he slid easily into the role of foreman.

  Trace went to the toolbox and found a drill, drill bits, and several different screws. He held them out for Spence to examine.

  “You didn’t answer the question.” Spence pointed to a particular bit and screw, indicating the right size and strength for the dock repairs.

  Trace went back to the toolbox to dig out more. “Long story.”

  Elliott settled a plank across two sawhorses. “Time is something we’ve got lots of now that we’re back on the island.”

  No sense hiding it. He’d screwed up royally and probably needed to get it off his chest just to clear his conscience. Maybe it would help him feel less like an ass. He recited every detail, starting with the airport massage station all the way through accidentally sending the last inappropriate message because he’d been shocked by Megan’s appearance on television.

  His brothers went from scowling over Megan’s absurd maneuvering to doubling over with laughter at his accidental erotic text to Sexy Airport Girl.

  “Knew you had no game with women,” Spence snorted out between wheezes of laughter. “Who the hell tries to compliment a woman by comparing her to a character in Game of Thrones?”

  “What?” Trace held his hand palm up. “Daenerys is smokin’ hot.”

  “She has fire-breathing dragons burn her enemies alive, dumbass,” Spence said.

  Confiding in his brothers didn’t make Trace feel less like an ass. It made him feel like a complete moron. So he was a little rusty when it came to dating. He was a good dad, and that counted a lot more than his ability to smooth-talk women.

  “What was the most memorable thing about her?” Elliott asked.

  Trace rubbed his chin. “Besides the way she moaned?”

  Elliott stilled. “Maybe I should visit the airport to find a date.”

  “Her ringtone,” Trace said. “She had this funky ringtone about strange Cajun food.”

  Spence rolled his eyes. “You focused on her ringtone?”

  “It was loud.” Trace let a thread of defensiveness seep into his voice. “She was facedown in a massage chair, so I didn’t get a good look at her face. Her hair was nice, though.”

  Elliott shook his head. “So you couldn’t compliment her hair?”

  The fact that he’d had a very similar conversation with Ben about complimenting his teacher instead of unintentionally insulting her wasn’t lost on Trace. “Whatever.” He waved them off. “It’s over.
You win.”

  Elliott feigned shock. “You’re giving in? To us?”

  Thing One and Thing Two gave each other high fives.

  “If you’re going to rub it in, maybe I should go ahead and call her.” Trace grabbed his phone. Worst-case scenario—she’d hang up on him or not answer at all. Wait. No, that wasn’t the worst that could happen. The FBI swarming his cottage and hauling him off in cuffs with Ben watching would be the worst.

  Spence gave him a cocky grin. “I was kind of rooting for you.” Spence pulled safety goggles into place. “If you’re gonna call her, make it quick before I fire up the electric saw.”

  “You realize this makes me the winner?” Trace pulled up her number. “The dare was for me to call her with you two in the room. You never said she had to accept, which means you’ll both owe me. Big.” He hit “Call.”

  Just as Lily Barns appeared in the doorway. “Good morning.” Elliott and Spence got a friendly nod from the new hospitality manager, but Trace got nothing more than a fleeting glance. “I was wondering if I could borrow a Jeep to take Mr. and Mrs. Walters for a drive?”

  And then her phone sprang to life.

  With a familiar ringtone.

  About having fun on the bayou and all kinds of Cajun food.

  Which was all kinds of fucked up because . . .

  Everyone stilled. And then one by one, all heads turned toward Lily, including Trace’s.

  His gut twisted into a thousand knots as she flipped her phone over and stared at it. The obnoxious tune wailed on about crawfish pie and filé gumbo and a son-of-a-gun, who was obviously Trace because, damn.

  His eyes slid shut for a beat. He’d had sext with Lily Barns.

  Spence hid an Oh shit behind a cough.

  Elliott busied himself with shuffling more planks of wood for no apparent reason.

  Trace raked a hand down his face, then gave his phone a gentle waggle. “I’m sorry.” So very, very sorry.