Suddenly, Darcy’s mind did a kind of jump.
She spotted Willow a few yards ahead. Boyz’s stepdaughter, Willow. Darcy was sure. She had never met the girl, but she’d seen her several times from her windows. She looked like her mother, red haired, curvaceous, and virtuously—and unusually for her age group—clad in a one-piece bathing suit.
She was with a boy Darcy knew, Logan Smith, and Darcy literally stopped in her tracks. What the hell was she doing with Logan? Willow was fourteen; he was eighteen. He was an island kid, one of the bad boys—handsome and awesomely cool—but he was trouble.
Logan was leading Willow away from the water toward a shady hideaway between two high sand dunes. Darcy bent over, pretending to find an interesting shell, and watched the couple. Logan pressed Willow up against the dune, stroked her hair away from her face, and kissed her tenderly. Logan had been in the court report any number of times for misdemeanors—DUI, possession of pot, fighting, disturbing the peace—but he was an island boy, and the island wanted him to get through his awkward phase and become a good man. Now he had his hands on Willow’s breasts, and he was pressing his hips against hers. And he was eighteen and she was fourteen.
It was none of Darcy’s business, right?
Willow was not her child. Darcy knew nothing about her. Maybe Willow was already more sexually active than Darcy imagined. Still, she didn’t like what she saw. And she had overheard Autumn tell Otto that Willow was naïve….
So what were her options? Stomp through the sand with a stern librarian face and separate them? Forget about it? Forget about it, Darcy decided. What was that saying: Not my circus, not my monkeys.
Darcy sprinted to catch up with her group. While she’d dawdled, she missed the big news: Missy was pregnant. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to marry Paul, even though they lived together. She’d seen too many divorces—her parents, her friends—she was afraid to marry. The women all chimed in with their opinions, and Darcy forgot Willow.
The sound of a crying child made them all turn.
“Kiks,” Jordan said. “She often cries when she wakes up from a nap. I think she thinks we did something marvelously exciting while she slept, like eating her favorite mashed banana.”
The women laughed and made their way back to the group. The sun slanted lower. Clouds were wandering across the sky, as they often seemed to do in the late afternoon, which was nice, because they caused more color as the sun set. The men had to work the next day—and some of the women, too. All around them the beach was emptying as people made their way across the sand to the parking lot. Nash and Darcy said their goodbyes and headed to Nash’s truck.
“Want to stay over?” Darcy asked when they reached her house.
She was warm and lazy limbed, resting her head against the back of the seat.
“Better not. I need a shower and my clean clothes are at my place. Besides”—he glanced over at Darcy—“you know you want to watch Outlander.”
“No, it’s over for the season.” Darcy grinned wickedly. “But I can get Grantchester on my Roku. You’d like it, it’s a mystery with a vicar and a detective.”
Nash shot Darcy a knowing look. “You mean that red-haired vicar who makes you drool.”
“I don’t drool!” Darcy protested. But she did, in her mind.
“Maybe tomorrow night,” Nash said.
He helped her carry the cooler and beach towels into her house. In the front hall, Nash turned her toward him. “So see you this week?”
Their eyes met and suddenly even tomorrow was too far away. Darcy wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, pressing herself against him. He slid her shirt over her head and kissed her throat, her collarbone, the sweet spot between her breasts. His hands moved over her body. Sand made light clicking noises on the floor as they stripped off their bathing suits.
“Darcy.” Nash knelt, pulling her down with him.
The rug in the front hall scarcely softened the hard floor, but Darcy was so caught up in her passion she didn’t know, didn’t care. Her need for him was intense, and her pleasure with him was overpowering. Afterward, Nash smoothed back her hair, all tangled and moist with sweat.
“Good grief,” Darcy said breathlessly.
“Yeah, I know.” Nash was smiling.
They lay together for a while facing each other, Darcy’s head nestled against Nash’s chest. His breath was deep and regular. She could hear his heartbeat. His arm was over her waist, his hand lying lightly in her back. She felt safe, content, and drowsy.
“You know we can’t fall asleep like this,” Nash murmured. “I have to work tomorrow.”