both jump back as raspberry tea spurted all over her sandaled feet and his faded jeans.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she groaned.
“It’s…okay.” He stepped back, shaking some liquid off his jeans.
She lifted one foot out of the mess, and the heavy issue of Marie Claire toppled, followed by Vogue, both of them splatting right onto the puddle of Snapple. “Oh, God. So much for being a Good Samaritan.”
“Just don’t drop the Fritos.” He gingerly plucked everything else from her hands. “’Cause then I will have to rob the convenience store.”
She laughed. “She’s probably already called the cops.”
“We could go all Bonnie and Clyde on her ass,” he joked, meeting her gaze with disarmingly blue eyes, about the color of the sky over Barefoot Bay on a balmy Florida afternoon. “Wanna go rogue with me?”
Right about then, she’d have gone anywhere with him. “Tempting, but it would put a damper on my daily Diet Coke stop.” She couldn’t help but smile up at him. “I’m Gussie McBain, by the way.”
“Gussie? You’ve even got an outlaw name and a cute disguise. I’m—”
“Oh, I know who you are,” she blurted.
“You do?”
Regretting the admission that made her sound like some kind of crazed fan, she pointed over her shoulder. “I mean, I heard you tell Charity. Thomas Jefferson—or TJ—DeMille.”
“Tom to my friends.” He threaded his fingers through his hair to push it off his face, studying her with enough amusement and interest to make her feel even warmer than usual in the summer sun. “And good-deed doers.”
For a long, crazy, heart-stopping few seconds, they stared at each other. Gussie felt her chest tighten and her stomach flip at the instant, palpable, electrifying connection.
“You’re blocking the entrance!” Charity’s grating voice broke the magic. “And look at that mess! You’ll give all my customers flat tires!”
Charity shook her fried and dyed hair, pointing at him. “I know who you are now, mister. I made a few phone calls. Get on your way and take care of that mess your sister left behind. And you.” Her finger slid to Gussie. “Find a pink scarf and lose the stupid wigs. You’d be pretty.”
Gussie felt her cheeks flush as Charity backed into the store.
“We could take her,” he whispered, his voice so low and sexy it practically pulled Gussie closer.
“And all the Fritos we can eat.”
He gave a wry laugh, studying her again. After Charity’s rude comment, he was, of course, looking at her wig. She should have been used to it—and the misperception that she was sick—but he was so skilled at finding and photographing real beauty that the scrutiny nearly flattened her.
“Here.” He handed her the only magazine that made it through the small disaster, Vanity Fair. “I owe you at least this much for your effort, Gussie McBain.”
“For a broken bottle of iced tea and ruined magazines?”
He gave the chips a noisy rattle. “You saved my Fritos and thus my backside. That’s good enough for a return favor in my book.” He stepped back to get in the car, but took one more moment, scrutinizing her again. “She’s wrong, you know.”
“You’re not a criminal?”
He shook his head. “You already are pretty. I have an eye for these things, you know.”
I know.
He slipped back into the driver’s seat and closed the door. Giving a casual wave, he drove off, leaving Gussie standing in the sun, speechless.
* * *
Gussie was still thinking about the encounter after running the rest of her errands and grabbing subs for herself and her two business partners. But thoughts of TJ DeMille—or Tom to his friends—disappeared the minute she got back to Casa Blanca Resort & Spa to find glum faces when she entered the Barefoot Brides offices.
Ari Chandler sat at the small conference table, braiding and unbraiding her long black ponytail, the way she always did when she was upset. At her desk, Willow Ambrose had her chin propped on her palms, a phone to her ear, an expression of defeat as she listened to someone on the other end.
“What’s up?” Gussie asked as she dropped the bag of sandwiches on the table, along with the issue of Vanity Fair. “Did we lose a bride or something?” she asked.
“Not yet, but we have trouble for the Bernard-Lyons wedding.”
Gussie cringed, falling into one of the conference table chairs. “Really? Then you probably don’t want to know that I just saw the bride’s parents checking into the resort when I walked through the lobby.”
“Ugh.” Ari dropped back and blew out a breath. “It’s only a matter