Barefoot Bay: Unconventional Love (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Scarred Hearts Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  Unconventional

  Casey Hagen

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Epilogue

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Roxanne St. Claire. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Barefoot Bay remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Roxanne St. Claire, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Unconventional

  Love

  Casey Hagen

  Hagen Novels, LLC

  KENNEBUNK, MAINE

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to Barefoot Bay Kindle Worlds, a place for authors to write their own stories set in the tropical paradise that I created! For these books, I have only provided the setting of Mimosa Key and a cast of characters from my popular Barefoot Bay series. That’s it! I haven’t contributed to the plotting, writing, or editing of Unconventional Love. This book is entirely the work of author Casey Hagen, a popular author I know my readers are going to love. Especially those who love a good silver fox hero…and I know there are a lot of you!

  Casey gives us some of my favorite story elements – a single mom hoping for a new life, a damaged hero doubting he could ever love again – and brings them to Barefoot Bay with flair and fun! This pairing is not conventional but that makes it all the more appealing. Kick off your shoes and enjoy this lovely story of two hearts meant to beat together in Barefoot Bay!

  Roxanne St. Claire

  PS. If you’d like to read all of the Barefoot Bay Kindle Worlds novels, or would like to explore the possibility of writing your own book set in my world, stop by www.roxannestclaire.com for details!

  For my husband, who puts up with my crap while I pound out all the words. You rock!

  Find more of my books on my website

  www.caseyhagenauthor.com

  While you’re there, sign my guest book, I would love to hear from you!!

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  http://eepurl.com/-QXBr

  “Maybe it won’t work out…but maybe seeing if it does will be the best adventure ever.”

  -unknown

  1

  Laura’s cell vibrated, making it slide on the gleaming wood bar. She set down the fourth sample glass she’d just drained and unlocked her screen.

  Nate was called in. I can’t make it. I’ll make it up to you!

  Well, crap.

  Okay, so Kelly didn’t stand her up maliciously or anything. She couldn’t help if her husband had been called in to cover a shift. Of course he didn’t turn it down; as an EMT, nothing short of the plague would make him say no to covering a shift. When Nate didn’t cover a shift, people died.

  Okay, maybe not quite that dramatic, but still.

  Nate’s unwavering commitment to rescuing the world left Kelly stuck at home with their daughter, and Laura sitting at the bar of the Toasted Pelican sampling a flight of craft beers alone.

  Okay, so the beer part didn’t hurt Laura’s feelings any. How long had it been since she’d allowed herself to splurge on drinks?

  Two long freaking years.

  “So, which one did you like the best?” the bartender asked. He had said his name, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember the damn thing.

  Placenta brain. That’s what they called it. You have a baby and your ability to do quick math, recall or learn new song lyrics, and remember people’s names flew the coop…literally.

  “This one.” She pointed to the fifth small glass in the flight of beers she had just tasted.

  “Ah, the Hops Stimulator Double IPA. A beer girl after my own heart,” he said with a wink. “You ready for a pint?”

  “Hit me with it,” she said with a smile. Screw it. She’d have a beer and make the half-mile walk back to the postage stamp of a bungalow she rented with her sister, Maureen, in the middle of Mimosa Key. It was the closest she’d come to a girls’ night since Ken died on that damn motorcycle he had bought.

  That pinch of guilt twisted in her heart again and her breath caught. No matter how many times her sister told her she needed to let it go, how it wasn’t her fault, and no matter how much Laura told herself the same, she hadn’t let it go. At night, alone in her bed, cold and lonely, with just the thud of her own bruised heart pounding in her ears, guilt kept her company.

  He’d wanted it. He’d always wanted a motorcycle, and he worked so hard to support their family, how could she say no? So she didn’t say no.

  And now Ken was dead.

  Bryce didn’t remember his own father.

  She was pretty sure she was doing this girls’ night thing all wrong, especially when dredging up mercilessly-ironclad memories only capable of bringing her pain.

  Afraid to go home after work and have something interfere with her night out she killed some time at the library, checking out financial planning books before arriving at the recently-remodeled Toasted Pelican. The place had gone from dive-bar reeking of desperation to cutting-edge gastropub in short order. Law Monroe had done his worst and if the craft beer wasn’t enough to draw you in, the upscale food menu would make…

  Her stomach growled just then, because not stopping at home also meant no dinner before heading out. Drinking on an empty stomach? Yeah, she was a victim in the making.

  She sighed. Girls’ night with no other girls, drinking on an empty stomach, and—she glanced down at herself—black tank top and drawstring work scrub pants—about the least-sexy clothes she owned other than her Good Luck Care Bear onesie pajamas.

  She winced. There was no hope for her attire, but she could appease the angry, fist-shaking stomach easily enough.

  She flagged down what’s-his-name. “What can I get for you, honey?”

  “You don’t need to flirt with me, Romeo. I’m a heavy tipper.”

  He leaned his forearms on the counter and grinned. His shaggy hair fell over his barely-legal, smooth-as-a-baby’s-butt forehead. “Maybe I’m interested in more than the…” his gaze drifted lower, “…tip,” he said with a raised brow.

  She snorted into her beer. “I’m an in-debt widow, I live with my sister, and I have a four-year-old son.”

  His eyes lost a bit of sparkle as his smile slipped on the son part.

  “Total boner-killer, right?”

  He had the grace to wince. “What can I get for you, ma’am?”

  “Ouch, I’ve gone from a sex object to being ma’amed in about a minute. That hurts. Maybe you can assuage my pain by bringing me…” she glanced down at the menu, “…the hot chili butternut squash soup, French fries with truffle oil, and the honey-drizzled baklava.”

  “You want those all at the same time?” he asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Coming right up.” He gave her another smile, not nearly as bright this time, and made his way down the bar to wait on other patrons after sliding her order slip in the window.

  She took another sip of her beer and glanced around the place. So many people lau
ghing, drinking, eating, mingling on a Wednesday night. It might as well have been a Friday.

  Top-40 tunes filled the air from high-quality speakers. Her foot tapped to the latest Bruno Mars song, “24K Magic.” Her son, Bryce, loved this song. At four years old, he had already become one hell of a dancer.

  He got it from her, if she did say so herself. She’d been dancing with her boy in her arms since he was an infant.

  People around the bar huddled in their clusters, engaged in animated conversation. A few outliers moved about, jumping into a group here or there for a few minutes, and then moving on.

  Those outliers? Mostly men.

  Glancing about, she caught a man staring at her from the other side of the bar. Not bad, dark hair, thinning just a bit.

  Hey, none of us were perfect. Stretch marks party of one right over here.

  He had a medium build, white dress shirt, maroon tie. Likely well-employed. He saluted her casually, his gold wedding band winking in the glow of the teardrop lights hanging down overhead.

  Married.

  Of course he was.

  Let that be a lesson on why she had no business picking men up in a bar.

  He offered her a greasy smile. She had never known what her sister meant by men with greasy smiles until just that moment.

  She glanced away, wishing for someone to swoop in and claim the empty spot next to her, especially when, out the corner of her eye, she spotted him pushing off his stool, grabbing his drink and jacket, and heading in her direction.

  Please, please, please God…it’s my first night out. Have I not suffered enough?

  Give her a bubbly blonde with a big mouth and weird fake boobs.

  Give her a young surfer with a twenty-four-hour erection she had to keep from humping her leg.

  Give her a crusty old fart with more stories than the Bible.

  She could handle any or all of those, but the smarmy shit making his way over—no, thank you!

  A shadow fell over her and she cringed. Her face scrunched. Cringing, she peeked off to her right and prayed for mercy.

  Not greasy guy.

  No fake boobs.

  No surfer humping her leg.

  Not a crusty old fart…exactly.

  This guy was…

  More.

  He hooked a scarred black boot on the footrail of the bar and nodded his head at Baby-Butt-Forehead-bartender guy.

  Despite her best intentions, regardless of smarmy guy’s perfect lesson as to why picking up men in bars was bad, she ran her gaze over the Levi’s pulled tight over the thigh next to her, up to his narrow hips. For the first time in a long time, a hum of awareness pulsed through her.

  A black t-shirt clung to his thick chest and broad shoulders. She wanted to scratch her nails up over those pecs he kept half-hidden by an unbuttoned flannel shirt.

  She shook her head and snickered. Hmm, might be time to ease up on the beer until the food arrived.

  He glanced down at her and gave her a distracted half-smile before directing his attention back to the bartender.

  Well, of course he did; it’s not like she had marched into the Toasted Pelican that night dressed to impress.

  “Jack, haven’t seen you in a while, man.” The bartender shook his hand. “What can I get for you?”

  “A Floridian, thanks,” Jack said, dropping a sparse set of keys on the bar next to his cell.

  A young woman appeared with a tray. “Your butternut squash soup, truffle fries, and baklava.” She unloaded three plates in front of Laura, and had she not had a good dose of beer easing her self-consciousness she might be mortified by the feast and lack of nutrients before her.

  “Thanks,” Laura said.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  Laura laughed. “No, I think this is plenty.”

  Laura went for dessert first. Hell, it was girls’ night out and her son wasn’t there to see, so she would do exactly what she wanted.

  She used her fork to break off the corner of the baklava. The minute it hit her mouth a mix of delicate sweetness, crispness, and a heavy richness melted on her tongue.

  Her eyes drifted shut.

  She shivered.

  Her skin prickled and she opened her eyes to find Jack’s aquamarine eyes on her, a smirk on his face. At her glance, he went back to his beer.

  He had years on him, no doubt. Quite a few more than she, if the deep creases in his cheeks when he smiled or the crinkles around his eyes were any indication. Of course, like most men they only made him more attractive.

  George Clooney, Daniel Craig, Pierce Brosnan…need she say more?

  This guy looked like Christopher Meloni. A little grayer, but yeah, looking didn’t hurt her feelings at all. As Laura searched Jack’s face, she wondered what it was about his expression that was almost sad. Like a man haunted by…something.

  Maybe memories tormented him the way they did her.

  For reasons Laura couldn’t explain, she had to know.

  Liquid courage fueled her. She set her fork down, grabbed a French fry, and pointed it at him. “I see adventures in those eyes. I can’t explain it...”

  She cleared her throat. “Your next beer is on me. Sit with me a while, pick a memory that made you, and tell me every single detail.”

  2

  Jack had parked his ass next to a dramatic one. He took in the flushed skin of her pretty pale face and her glassy olive-green eyes.

  Or a drunk one.

  Either way, her clever request had him searching his memory for something he could tell her that didn’t tear open a still-healing vein.

  “I have a son, probably your age, that I’ve never met,” he said before draining his beer.

  So much for not tearing open that vein. Christ, why did that pop out?

  He’d never told anyone. Of course, his family and friends back home knew. Word got around in Pensacola, especially when teens give up their baby for adoption.

  His family claimed to support him, but his parents always seemed a bit “pinched” when they looked at him. It wasn’t the same look they gave his younger brother and sister.

  Of course, Jordan had become a lawyer, married, had three kids, and made their parents over-the-moon proud. Then his sister had become a stay-at-home mom, provided four grandkids of her own, and homeschooled them, thereby solidifying Jack’s place as the family disappointment.

  He could be mad at them, but hell, his actions had caused it.

  He flagged down the bartender.

  The bartender leaned across the bar and angled an ear toward him. “Another?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “His next one is on me,” his unlikely companion said.

  She reached out a slim, ivory hand to him. “I’m Laura.”

  He took her hand in his and ignored the way his sex-deprived body jumped to attention at the feel of her soft, creamy skin brushing against his callused hand.

  A beauty. A flawless, girl-next-door beauty. And way too young for him despite his body’s interest.

  “Jack,” he said, clearing his throat and scratching his bristled cheek. “How old are you?”

  She threw back her head and laughed. A lock of her ginger hair brushed her cheek.

  “Old enough,” she said, slightly breathless. Her cheeks had reddened when she laughed, making her even more appealing.

  He took a sip of his beer. “I’m probably old enough to be your father. Jesus,” he muttered.

  She bit into a fry and smiled. “I don’t know...”

  Her gaze traveled over him, her eyes so intent, he wondered if he should squirm or be flattered.

  “When I look at you, I don’t see a father.”

  Yeah, well, wasn’t that the truth. He hadn’t been one.

  She winked and took a drink of her beer. “At least not my father.”

  Someone had to be punking him. He searched the bar and the doorway, but didn’t see any of his guys there. He finally had the second branch of Everglade Homes up and r
unning smoothly, had a solid crew, and everyone could breathe a bit easier. Some of his guys had loosened up, and they would fuck with him for sure.

  He wouldn’t put it past a single one of those assholes to convince a girlfriend, friend, or sister to fuck with his head.

  “How much have you had to drink?”

  “More than normal, but I’m relatively confident I could walk in a straight line.” She tilted her head. “Why are you so surprised that you’re hot?”

  He blinked. “Uh…”

  She patted the stool next to her. “Come on. Sit down.”

  He dropped onto the stool. “Should I be scared right now?” He looked her up and down. The black tank top stretched across generous breasts, tapered in at her narrow waist, and hugged the flare of her hips where they disappeared into nurse’s scrubs, with—he leaned down and squinted—cartoon teeth giving saucy winks and the word “Smile!” hovering over them.

  He raised his head and met her smiling eyes. “Interesting pants.”

  She craned her neck and checked out her own ass. “Cute, right? I’m a dental hygienist. The kids love them.”

  He grinned down at her and stole a fry. “I’m sure they do.”

  “Look at you stealing my food. You must be getting comfortable. So, come on, out with it. Tell me about this son of yours.”

  “And here I was hoping you forgot about that.”

  “Nope. Not that drunk. Nice try, though.”

  He took a sip of his beer and rolled his lips to suck the foam off his short mustache. “I signed papers to put him up for adoption when I was seventeen,” he said.

  Memories flooded him, sharp, as if a day hadn’t gone by. His girlfriend, Megan, handing him his son from her hospital bed. Her face ravaged from crying. His son, so tiny and perfect, sound asleep with his tiny fist curled against his cheek.

  A tiny little miracle, his eyes squeezed shut to the misery in that sterile, gray hospital room of the county hospital. He slept soundly despite the raw emotions and shattering hearts in the room.