Page 20 of Her Christmas Wish
He’d never considered himself a business that could and should invest in securities.
However, as he helped himself to a beer from Scott’s refrigerator and headed out to the porch, he was intrigued by the thought of future investment potential.
And by an idea that had started to form when he’d been going over Sage’s information. When he got up and running again, if he was even half as successful as he had been, he needed to think about franchising. With strict caveats that would protect his brand and give him rights to intercede if he ever felt that policies weren’t being followed as they’d been designed.
He’d texted Scott that he was back. He wasn’t intending to leave the porch. He’d avail himself of early-morning beach time, when he could surf, and though the Ocean Breeze sandy oasis was surrounded by cliffs on each side, he’d figured that he could still play around a bit. The beach, with more than twenty cottages set on nearly a minimum of an acre apiece, stretched for two miles. As long as he stayed center beach, and didn’t ride out too far, he’d be fine.
Equally important, by only using the beach in the morning, he wouldn’t incur the risk of running into Sage.
The woman was giving him a quicker lease on a new life than he’d envisioned ever happening. No way he was going to screw that up with some chance encounter because he craved the feel of the ocean on his skin.
The sand beneath his feet.
Those had been the panaceas for his pain after a hard day for his entire life, his sleep aids. But he could thrive just fine without them.
All he had to do was step off the porch to feel the sand. He could see the ocean. Inhale the salty breeze. And oftentimes he went weeks without a trip to the beach.
He could also head to a public beach in San Diego if he had to. They’d sufficed for more than half of his life.
No, the problem wasn’t that he couldn’t go get in the water in front of him. It was that Sage Martin could.
She had nothing to lose if the stay-away agreement between them was broken.
The woman was savvy as hell. He’d pegged her right for wanting an unofficial restraining order. At home. In her private space. Her personal life.
And she was paying one hell of a price to get it, too.
Sitting there sipping, no longer avoiding sights down the beach—he’d already seen her up close—he had to admit he admired the hell out of the woman as much that night as he ever had...
“You aren’t Scott.”
The friendly, feminine voice came from—the opposite direction from Sage’s place. Gray swung his head around to see the slender, model-gorgeous brunette standing at the rail of Scott’s porch, smiling up at him.
“No,” he told her, meeting the open brown gaze with a smile of his own. “I’m Gray. Grayson Bartholomew.” He said the full name without forethought.
So relaxed, and relieved, so lost in thoughts of Sage Martin, that he’d failed to hold his tongue.
“The vet in the news?” The woman’s smile had faded, but the friendliness behind her expression had not. She’d taken one of the three steps up to the porch, bringing lovely, long, tanned thighs into view beneath the short white denim skirt she wore.
“That’s the one.”
“I didn’t know you were a friend of Scott’s.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t know you were, either.” They were sizing each other up. He could give as good as he got. And then some. Wasn’t sure how hard he wanted to try.
“I’m Harper. I own the place just down that way.” She pointed to the right. Which meant he’d driven by her driveway several times in the past two days. Just as Sage had driven by Scott’s. With Gray’s SUV parked in one of her brother’s two spots. One road. Only way in or out.
He nodded. They’d already covered his introduction.
And before he could decide whether or not to offer her a beer, a big flash of brown came around the side of the cottage and up the steps, to sit straight up on the porch, tongue hanging out, staring at the woman.
Harper laughed, an infectious sound that made Gray smile, and said, “I’m sorry. Meet Aggie. She’s particularly fond of Morgan, though you wouldn’t think so, based on their sizes.”
Sitting forward, Scott reached out a hand, calling Aggie with the soft, soothing voice that came naturally to him. And when she came, told the dog to sit.
Aggie, easily one hundred twenty pounds, sat. Lifted a paw for shaking, and Gray accepted the greeting, returned it.
“A Newfoundland,” he said then, petting the dog, and, because he couldn’t help himself, looking her over for good health, too.
