She's Like The Wind (Angel Sands 2)

“You should talk to him.” Lorne’s voice was kind but firm. “At least so you know what’s going on with the sale. Frank Megassey said he saw some out of town contractors eyeing the place up yesterday. Do you know if the sale’s completed yet?”

Ally felt a shiver work it’s way down her spine, in spite of the warm weather. “I’ve no idea.” Maybe she should listen to those voicemails when she went home to shower. “I’m guessing it will take a while, though.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“There’s not much I can do about it. But I’ll keep you updated if I hear anything.” That’s how it worked here in Angel Sands. Either you told people what was going on or they made assumptions. “I’d better go,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I’ll bring you a coffee as soon as I’ve opened up. You still taking three sugars?”

“Of course.”

Ally smiled. Lorne’s wife was in a constant battle to try and reduce his sugar intake. She’d asked Ally to only put two sugars into his coffee, but he’d realized right away. “I’ll bring you a cake too, if you promise not to tell Marcie.”

Lorne touched the side of his nose with the tip of his crooked finger. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

* * *

A minute later, Ally walked around the side of the Beach Café, stooping down to wipe the sand off her feet as she reached for the shoes and socks she’d stashed behind the trashcan.

But there was no sign of them.

Ally frowned. She quickly scanned the rest of the deck, wondering if she’d put them somewhere else. But as soon as she turned the corner, all thoughts of her shoes disappeared. The main door to the café was wide open.

She licked her lips, the taste of saltwater lingering on her tongue as she peered inside the open door.

“Jeff is that you?” she called out, wondering if the chef had made it in early for once. She walked inside the café, the tiles cold against her bare feet, and called out again, her voice stronger this time. “Did you steal my shoes?”

A loud bang came from the kitchen, before the door swung open revealing a dark-haired man wearing a pair of tailored grey pants and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms. He reached up to run a hand through his thick brown hair, slowly lowering his gaze from her face, down past her spandex-clad body, his brows rising up as he spotted her bare feet.

Nope, that definitely wasn’t Jeff.

She followed his gaze, grimacing at how long overdue her pedicure was. When she looked back up, the man was still staring at her.

Their eyes met with a clash.

She opened her mouth to ask him who he was, then snapped it closed again. Because in her heart she knew. This dark-haired, smoothly dressed man with a suit that seemed to love every inch of him was the new owner of the beach café.

* * *

“Uh, hi. Can I help you?” Nate said to the blonde who was giving him the strangest of stares. “We’re not really open yet, so I can’t offer you a coffee.”

She shook her head, her brow still pulled down into a frown. He could see two tiny lines furrowed deep into the skin between her eyes. Christ, she was pretty, with those big blue eyes and golden hair.

“Are you okay?” he asked when she hadn’t replied.

“Um, yeah.” She let out a mouthful of air. “I work here.” He watched as she bit her lip then released it again. “My name’s Ally.”

“You’re Ally Sutton? The manager?” Damn. This wasn’t exactly how he’d intended to introduce himself. “I’m Nate Crawford. I just bought this place.” He reached his hand out to her. She gave him the hastiest of shakes, as though she was afraid to touch him.

She stared down at her palm for a moment, as if he’d burned it, before bringing her gaze up to his. “I don’t suppose you know where my shoes are, do you?”

“Your shoes?” His mouth turned suddenly dry.

“I left them on the deck,” she told him, “but they’re gone.”

“Those were yours?” he asked, his eyes widening. “I thought they were trash. I threw them in the can out front.” He pulled at the collar of his shirt. Was it getting hot in here? “I’m sorry, they looked really old and beat up. I didn’t think…”

“They’re worn in. Not beat up,” she almost snapped. Her frown deepened, if that was even possible. “It takes weeks to get them to feel right.” She turned on her heel – her bare heel – and walked back to the doors, stepping out onto the deck where the trashcan stood. Nate followed her, stopping behind as she peered in, a frown on her lips, staring at her shoes resting on a layer of wrappers and peelings.

Nate stared at the shoes over her shoulder. They really were beaten up. She couldn’t blame him for thinking they were abandoned.