No Time to Explain

Book 6: Barefoot William Beach

by Kate Angell

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

A baseball pro learns a few tricks from a beautiful dog trainer in this beach town romance by the USA Today bestselling author of No Tan Lines. Richmond Rogues’ left-fielder Joe “Zoo” Zooker has his own ritual for the start of spring training—a weekend of pure pleasure, including as many pretty faces and curvaceous bodies as he can charm into his bed. After that, he’s all about baseball, especially with hungry minor leaguers just waiting to take his place. But when a beautiful woman with a smart mouth brushes off his flirting, he’s determined to go to bat as often as it takes to win a smile aimed only at him. Stevie may be new to the beach town of Barefoot William, but she’s seen plenty of hot and hunky charmers like Zoo before. Managing her aunt’s doggie daycare business, she’s up to her ears in rowdy puppies—and she doesn’t need a lifelong hound like Zoo breaking her heart. Still, there’s no denying the attraction between them, and as spring training heats up, lust suddenly begins to look a lot like love.

Release date: September 26, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 290

Sample

Here comes the bride.”

The wedding march echoed down the Barefoot William Boardwalk. The annual Southwest Florida bridal event brought both engaged and expectant women to the beach. It was a sea of sexy, sweet, and everything in between. Joe “Zoo” Zooker took it all in. The idea of marriage made him sweat. It triggered his gag reflex. He could, however, admire the ladies planning their weddings, as long as they didn’t involve him. He was a bachelor. For life.

“Does Crabby Abby’s General Store sell condoms?” asked his Richmond Rogues teammate Jake Packer. Better known as Pax.

Joe and Pax presently leaned against the blue metallic railing that separated the boardwalk from the beach. Joe knew where the condoms were shelved. He’d stocked up earlier in the week. “They’re back by the pharmacy, bottom shelf, next to the douches and the K-Y lubes.”

“You need anything, bro?”

Joe shook his head. He had six Magnum XLs in his wallet to get him through the night.

“Be right back, then.” Pax pushed off the railing. He walked the short distance to purchase his protection. He planned to get lucky. So did Joe.

The team was in town for spring training, with an entire weekend to kill. Booze, babes, and sex would definitely come into play. Monday, and they’d turn serious. They’d live and breathe baseball. The entire team would assemble for workouts and scrimmages. Nine Roanoke Rebels would also hit the field. Affiliate Triple-A players participating in preseason practices and an exhibition game. Showcasing their talent and hoping for the call to suit up in the majors.

Joe hated squad competition. Dean Jensen in particular got under his skin. The minor leaguer played left field. Joe’s position. Joe had refused him, four years running. Under Rule 5 draft, Dean had one final year to either make the club’s expanded forty-man roster or be passed over. The guy kept coming after Joe, harder and faster each season. He just wouldn’t let up. But then, Joe wouldn’t have, either, if the situation had been reversed.

He rolled his shoulders now. Cracked his knuckles. It was too nice of a day to dwell on the asshat. He turned and stared out over the Gulf. Clear skies. Turquoise water. White sugar sand. Sunbathers. Sand castles. Carnival rides, an amusement arcade, and a long fishing pier stretched south. Paradise. He would retire here. Years from now. Following his last bat.

Joe waited patiently on Pax—for all of five minutes, before restlessness claimed him. He wasn’t good at standing still. He was in continuous motion. A few brave men mingled with the wedding-minded ladies. He tugged down the bill on his black baseball cap. His mirrored Maui Jim aviators allowed him to stare, and not be caught doing so. He stepped into the crowd. Pax would find him. Unless he found a hot babe first.

So many women. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. A chick with purple hair. The multicolored storefronts on the beachside shops were all open, welcoming the stirring breeze and the aroma of salty air. The scent of freshly popped popcorn wafted, along with the aroma of chocolate fudge, cheesy nachos, cotton candy, and women’s perfume.

Ladies came on to him. He was recognized by many. Flirted with by most. Inviting glances and promising smiles. His navy T-shirt scripted with I’ve Broken All the Rules Today, So You’ll Have to Make New Ones drew whispered suggestions. Half-naked women appealed. Kink tempted. He liked the attention. A lot.

Space was tight. Whether intentional or by accident, female bodies pressed against him. Some snugged as close as skin. He didn’t mind the touching. Although a few hands got downright personal. Arousal heightened his senses. He was looking for a weekend lover, but no one fully caught his eye. So he kept on walking, sex foremost on his mind.

Long decorated tables lined both sides of the boardwalk. Signs were visible. Bridal banners arched overhead. Women clustered, checking out the area’s best photographers, florists, engraved invitations, caterers, bakers, wedding and reception venues, entertainment, hairstylists, makeup artists, prenuptial consultants, and other important services. Mannequins exhibited wedding gowns. Assorted accessories, from veils, crystal tiaras, rhinestone headbands, and sashes to every type of jewelry exhibit came next. Along with the garters.

Garters. Worn on a bride’s thigh. A total turn-on. He scanned the ruffled, pearled, lacy, feathered, monogrammed, brooched, and rhinestoned collections. Foreplay. He might buy one for the pure pleasure of slipping it up his next conquest’s leg, then slowly sliding it down. Sexy.

“Something blue,” he heard a woman say, softly and wistfully.

He glanced toward where her voice had come from. Stopped, and got an eyeful. A slender blonde stood in profile, alone at the end of the table, toying with a pale blue satin garter with a silver heart charm. He was a sucker for long hair. The sun had run its fingers through this woman’s strands, leaving them streaked and shiny. The ends touched her waist. He openly stared as she bent, her shoulders curving, her ass jutting out. Sweet cheeks were outlined beneath her short skirt. Gently stretching the elastic, she worked the garter over a sandaled foot—her toenails painted silver—then up her calf and onto her thigh. She had nice legs. Freckled knees. She straightened, admired the garter. She had yet to notice him. He appreciated her further.

Her smile came slowly, on a sigh. “Perfect, don’t you think, Lori?”

He shifted his stance. Cast her in his shadow. Then removed his aviators for a better look. Twirled them by an arm. He wasn’t Lori, but that didn’t stop him from saying, “Hot, sweetheart.”

She jerked up, and he took the opportunity to check her out. Wide eyes, deep and dark as midnight. A sharp contrast to her fairness. Tip-tilted nose. Full glossed lips, slightly parted. She wore a navy tank top; her denim skirt had a gold side zipper. Zippers made for a quick strip. Diamond studs sparkled at her ears. A collection of thin gold bracelets circled her wrist. A pearl ring on her forefinger. She was pretty, he mused, but not nearly as attractive as the babes in his nightly party posse. Those he chose for getting it on. Still, he’d give her five minutes.

She didn’t ignore him, but neither did she invite conversation. He initiated, “Nice assortment of garters.”

“See one you like? Try it on.”

Was she serious or playing him? “None in my size.”

“Elastic stretches.”

She had him there.

“The pink garter with the red hearts and white feathers looks like you.”

Looks like me? Was that how she saw him? Hearts and feathers? Her polite expression gave nothing away. He crossed his arms over his chest, hooked his thumbs in his armpits. Widened his stance. Questioned, “Having a good time?”

“Not as good as you.” Dry-toned.

“I don’t follow.”

“This is a female event.”

Predominantly female, but open to the public. He’d noted five guys on the boardwalk. Seven, counting him and Pax. “Your point?” he asked.

She told him. “Men don’t always attend bridal affairs for the right reasons. You shouldn’t be here unless you’re hearing wedding bells.”

No ringing. None whatsoever.

“There are hundreds of hopeful ladies over there on the boardwalk,” she added. “Vulnerable, emotional, and seeking their happily-ever-afters, while you men are opportunists.” Pause. “You’re not here to score, are you?” she innocently inquired.

He wasn’t taking advantage of anyone. He set her straight. “I’m not hitting on you, hon.”

“Talk to me, not to my garter.”

Busted. She was on to him, had caught him eyeing her legs. He liked her thigh gap. “I’ve got integrity.” On a good day.

She glanced toward the beach. “There’s an amateur volleyball tournament going on near the lifeguard station. A Frisbee contest by the ice cream stand. Kite flying on the pier. Sand-castle sculpting by the shore. Yet you’ve chosen the bridal event.”

“I’m tapping in to my feminine side.”

Her gaze returned to his. “There’s nothing feminine about you.”

He had a hard face, or so he’d been told. Dangerous. Intimidating. He played his features to his advantage. Several scars. A twice-broken nose. A death stare. “I like to browse.” Not necessarily through the bridal items for sale, but cruising for women gave him pleasure.

“Browsing often leads to buying.” She tilted her head, thoughtful. Observed, “You’d need to shave before trying on any bridal veils, otherwise your whiskers will catch on the delicate lace. And you’d have to tie back your hair for both the Swarovski two-tiered circlet and the vintage chandelier birdcage.”

Birdcage? That blew his mind.

A few more thoughts emerged. “When it comes to wedding gowns, large men should stay away from ruffles and layers. I can picture you in plain silk. Ivory, maybe. Or blush. Go full-length, to cover the roll at your waist. Flabby thighs. Better choose low heels. You’re plenty tall.”

Lastly, “You might also consider a manicure. Your nails look rough. Manscaping would clean you up.”

Shave his chest and his pubic hair? Not happening. Lady was a fusion of sarcasm and sweet smiles. He didn’t know how to take her. Her suggestions sucked. Along with her attitude. She confused the hell out of him.

No female had ever described him in a dress before. He had no words. She saw him as fat, when he was actually fit. He’d nearly killed himself off-season with endurance and weight training. He had single-digit body fat.

She rose up on tiptoe, looked over his shoulder. “I need to locate my friend Lori.” She strained to look over the crowd. “I don’t see her.”

“It’s just you, me, and the garters.”

She flat-footed. “Lori wouldn’t walk off and leave me.”

“You have a fear of being alone?” Rather disturbing.

“I prefer alone,” she informed him. “My car’s with the mechanic, in need of repairs. Lori’s my ride.”

Made sense. His day was open. He had free time. He foolishly found himself saying, “I could drive you.”

“Drive me where?”

“Wherever you need to go.”

“California.” She was testing him.

Farther than anticipated. He wasn’t crossing state lines or changing time zones for her. “Anywhere local?”

“I don’t get into cars with strangers.”

Stranger danger? Him? She had to be joking. He introduced himself, “I’m Joe.” His teammates and bar squad all called him Zoo. “You?”

She scanned his T-shirt. “Not sure we need a name exchange. I play by the rules. You break them. I’d rather take a taxi.”

A cab over him? He had a classic Jaguar XKE convertible in the parking lot. Mint condition. A chick magnet. Leather seats that molded to his body like a lover. A phallic long bonnet. Big engine. Top speed. Ground-hugging. Raring to go.

Somehow she’d failed to recognize him. That bothered him. A little. He was high-profile. Rogues fans filled the stadium during spring training. The players were a significant part of the community. Available for interviews, charitable appearances, and bachelor auctions. He usually couldn’t cross the street without someone requesting an autograph. Without a woman asking him out.

“Do you know who I am?” He needed his ego stroked.

“I don’t watch cartoons.” Smile or smirk, he couldn’t tell.

Harsh. He’d yet to figure her out. Women had numerous ways of catching his attention. Most were sweet, sexy, and feisty. But never this sarcastic. He racked his brain. They hadn’t met, as far as he could remember. She didn’t look the bar type. The Lusty Oyster and the Blue Coconut were his second homes.

He’d tried to be nice, friendly, appear to have no ulterior motive. She was challenging, though, for no apparent reason. Their conversation was going nowhere. He gave her one last shot. “What’s with you?” he asked.

“Ask yourself the same question.”

Question himself? He was his own answer.

She wrapped up with, “Leaving now.” Dismissing him.

He had her blocked between the table and his body, and before he could step back, she squeezed by him sideways. Her foot ground down on his booted toe. Her raised knee came close to his boys. He sucked in air, inhaled her scent—light and as warm as sunshine. He smelled citrus, and he had the questionable urge to sniff her hair. Dumb-ass. Not cool.

He tried to take in what had just happened. He honestly didn’t get it. She’d showed no interest in him. Not even a hint. “That’s it?” he called after her.

“You expected more?” she tossed over her shoulder. “No time.”

He had no idea what he’d expected. What he wanted. The fact that she’d left him standing there irritated the hell out of him. He’d complimented her garter in passing. She’d cut him off permanently. Her aversion to him was unsettling. Her tight smile disconcerting.

He held back, refusing to go after her. Her loss. He needed to move on. He had a line of women waiting to date him. Less snark, more seduction. He was ready for a willing woman to have her way with him. To take him slowly and sinfully. All night long.

“Shoplifter!” an older woman monitoring the accessories table shouted. She rounded the table, elbowing him and others aside, as she stormed after the person who’d just ripped her off. He’d been standing at the table, yet somehow he’d missed the five-finger discount. Boardwalk security joined the chase. Two men in khaki uniforms. Chaos ensued.

Gutsy thief, Joe thought. Stealing in broad daylight, then fading into the foot traffic. He followed the charge at a distance. Curious. He stood a wide-shouldered six-foot-four, and his height gave him an advantage. He could easily track the action. He glimpsed the unfriendly blonde a few yards ahead. She was alone one second, then surrounded by security the next. Trapped. The taller guard gripped her upper arm. Detaining her. Nasty accusations flew. Loudly.

Attentive, he took it all in. He hadn’t seen her lift anything. But then, he’d been staring at her legs. He might’ve missed something. Perhaps she’d taken an item prior to his arrival. Stuck it in her purse. He’d blocked her from the proprietor’s view. Until she could slip into the throng.

He watched as the shorter of the guards drew a notepad from the pocket of his slacks. He flipped it open, went on to request the shop owner’s name. Joe had hearing loss in his left ear, thanks to his old man cuffing him as a kid. He strained to hear. Apparently Giselle was the accuser. Stewie was the blonde, from what he could detect. Odd name. She didn’t look like a Stewie. More like a Summer, Shayla, or Sienna. Skylar.

Giselle pointed to the blonde’s thigh. Her hand shook, all righteous indignation. “She stole the garter. It’s under her skirt.”

Stewie paled. She placed her hand over her heart, then said, “Not on purpose, I swear.”

Giselle huffed. “Customers look, but they don’t touch. You not only handled the merchandise, you tried on the garter, and then you snuck off. Outright theft.”

“She didn’t get far.” The taller guard appeared proud of his takedown. “I’ll radio for a squad car.”

Stewie’s eyes widened in panic. She scanned the crowd, searching for someone she might know. Someone to vouch for her character. To save her. Apparently her friend Lori was nowhere in sight. Her gaze glanced off him. Swung back. Relief, uncertainty, doom, all flickered over her features. She frowned. All hope faded. She expected him to turn on her. To walk away. As well she should. He could be a dick on occasion. Far more badass than good guy. That’s who he was. No shame. No remorse. His own man.

She’d flipped him off without any thought of further consequence. That consequence was now. Karma had returned her to him. She was in trouble, and he could help. He smiled to himself. She would owe him for saving her. Owe him big-time.

Game face on, he stiff-armed his way through the crowd. Glared people back. They gave him space. He eyed Stewie. Her lips parted. Her breath caught. She had no idea what he would do, what he might say, but then, neither did he. He went with the obvious. Women came and went in his life. He seldom went on a date with the same girl twice. But he made Stewie his date-for-the-day. Despite her sucky attitude.

Once he reached her, he draped his arm about her shoulders and drew her to his side. Tucked her in tight. She fit nicely. Her shuddered resistance appeared to be shivery compliance to those looking on. They gave the impression of a couple. He dipped his head, nuzzled her cheek, then spoke low near her ear, “Time for me now, babe?”

She blushed. Deeply. Perhaps embarrassed by her previous snub or merely at the fact that their bodies were touching so intimately. “No need for an arrest, Roy,” Joe read the security guard’s name stitched over the pocket on his khaki shirt. “I can explain the garter heist.”

“Joe Zooker.” Roy recognized him. He grinned broadly. “Shed some light, my man. I’m listening.” He released his hold on Stewie. She shook out her arm. A purple thumbprint showed above her elbow. Joe’s body tensed. He hated that she’d been manhandled. That she’d been bruised. Son of a bitch.

A protective growl rose deep in Joe’s throat. A warning. Dark. Animalistic. He tamped it down. Now was not the time for further confrontation. He needed to get Stewie off the hook and away from the security guards. He was good at stretching the truth, always had been. White lies were as much a part of his life as baseball, booze, and sex.

He went with, “We were browsing the bridal event, and we stopped at Giselle’s table. My woman here”—he claimed her—“found a garter that she liked, and I asked her to try it on. She did so—for me.” He stroked Stewie’s hip, fingered the denim, then suddenly hiked her skirt three inches up her thigh, until the accessory was visible. He nudged Roy. “Sweet mercy, don’t you think?”

The guard eyed Stewie’s gartered thigh along with the other onlookers. There were nods of approval, and a low whistle rose from one man in the back. Comments ensued. Everyone agreed with Joe: Pale blue was her color. The heart charm, romantic. It was the perfect wedding accessory.

Stewie shifted beside him. She dug her nails into his wrist, pushed his hand off her hip. Her attempt to step back failed. He tightened his hold. She huffed her annoyance. The lady was unappreciative.

Joe clarified to Roy, “She asked me to purchase the garter while she moved on to the next table. Cake toppers. She walked away, and I was reaching for my wallet, just as Giselle shot past me. There was no one to pay.” Short pause. “She’s no thief. It was an innocent mistake. I went after Giselle ready to pay, but she’d already sounded the alarm.”

Roy accepted Joe’s account without question. “Thanks for clearing it up, Joe.” He nodded to Stewie. “Purchase it or return the garter, so we can close the incident.”

Robbery dismissed. Accountability upheld. No one was headed to jail. Interest waned. The crowd thinned. There was no price tag on the garter. “How much?” the blonde asked Giselle.

“Sixty dollars.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. Apparently elastic didn’t come cheap.

“The charm is sterling silver,” the shop owner said in defense of the cost.

Stewie dipped one shoulder, rolled down the garter. “I don’t have sixty—”

“I do.” Joe bent, placed his hand over hers, then skimmed the garter back up. Higher, this time. Denim brushed the backs of his knuckles. His thumb met her thigh gap. Satin against smooth skin. Their secret. He and Stewie knew she wore the garter, yet it was no longer visible to the casual observer. He squeezed her freckled knee. Straightened. She tried to pass under his arm, to wiggle free. He refused to let her go. Not until he was ready.

Payment came next. He removed three twenties from his wallet. Giselle snatched the money from his hand. Hurried back to her unsupervised table.

A new disturbance drew security down the boardwalk. Two women were arguing over a wedding veil. It was about to get ripped in half. The area cleared. Passersby skirted them. Joe and Stewie were left alone. He and his supposed date.

He stared down at her. She stared up at him. Her sigh was heavy. Her expression questioning. “Do you think I stole the garter?” His response seemed important to her.

He shook his head. “There’s not a criminal bone in your body. You were blamed—”

“It was all your fault.”

He stopped short. “How do you figure that?”

“You cornered me by the accessories table. Came on to me.”

Get real. “No more than a passing comment.”

“You stared at my garter.”

“I’m a leg man, babe.”

“You made me uncomfortable.”

“I tend to fluster women.”

“Not in a good way.”

“Good for most.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I couldn’t get away from you fast enough.”

“Fast got you into trouble,” he reminded her. “You walked off without paying for the garter.”

She stuck out her chin. Stubborn. “I would’ve eventually noticed it, gone back, and paid.”

“Giselle was quick. She accused you of shoplifting. I saved your ass. Kept you out of jail.”

Her dark eyes flashed. “I could’ve managed just fine without you.” The lady was short on gratitude.

“Keep telling yourself that, hon. Your booking was seconds away.”

She huffed. Her breasts rose, inches from his chest. Her nipples nearly flicked him. “I would have been entitled to a phone call. Someone would’ve bailed me out.”

“Not Lori, she deserted you.”

“I have other friends.”

“You’d have sat in Holding until your ride arrived. Paperwork takes time. Cops eat doughnuts. Cells are nasty. You’d never have survived.”

“And you would have?”

“I have.”

She didn’t seem all that surprised by his comment. Pretty accepting, actually. She obviously didn’t think much of him. So be it. He had a juvenile record, having been the fall guy when he took the rap for a stolen car for his younger brother. He’d never regretted his decision.

She swallowed, said, “I’ll . . .