Perfectly Charming (A Morning Glory Novel Book 2) Read online

  She scrolled down and saw she’d missed a call from an unknown number.

  “Jess,” Eden called from the living room. “Let’s go if we’re going.”

  “Just a sec,” Jess said, seeing that whoever had called had left a voice mail. She pressed the button and listened.

  “Mrs. Culpepper, this is Jill Grover with Staff Pro. Sorry for the late call, but a position has come available I think you will be interested in. It requires availability for at least three months and is located in Pensacola, Florida, where you are licensed. If you’ll call me in the morning, I’ll relay the details—they need someone who can start in a few weeks’ time. I think this is exactly what you’ve been looking for. And as a bonus, the hospital is five minutes from the beach.”

  Jess couldn’t stop the smile that curved her lips.

  The beach?

  Oh hell yes. She’d always longed to fade off to sleep to the sound of waves crashing on the beach. To be tanned and sandy. Make a seashell collection. Be a beach bum.

  Just a week ago she’d signed up with a company providing contract medical staff to hospitals. She needed to get out of Morning Glory for a while, away from her past so she could decide her future. With her mother suggesting nice men she could date, including poor gay Chris Haven, who’d just moved back to Morning Glory to take a job at the bank, and her brother inviting her over to watch his kids scream and run around the backyard while he talked about various hardy grass varieties, she was at her wits’ end with all the good intentions whirling around her. She needed a break, but she also needed a break where she could make money. No longer could she depend on Benton’s income, and the job she’d taken at the local pediatric office last year in preparation for becoming a stay-at-home mommy didn’t pay enough to allow her any savings. And a newly single gal needed savings, plenty of wine, and, according to Carla Minnis at the dry cleaner, a good vibrator.

  She’d never had a vibrator before and didn’t know how to go about getting one. Maybe the Internet. Or one of those sleazy stores that dotted the interstate.

  But regardless of battery-powered loving, she had an opportunity tossed into her lap. If she could get away from seeing Benton at the grocery store, get away from the idle gossip of him dating Deirdre Perot, get away from all the damn pity in the eyes of every bank teller, she might be able to heal. And with the money Lacy had left her, she could afford to rent something right on the beach.

  “Jess!” Eden cried impatiently. “Come on. I turn into a pumpkin at eleven o’clock.”

  “Not midnight?” Jess teased, sliding her phone into her back pocket.

  Eden’s red lips turned down. “Come on, if this were a fairy tale I would not be wearing my cousin’s hand-me-down khakis or a borrowed shirt.”

  Jess gave her friend a smile. “If this were a fairy tale, I wouldn’t be a nearly thirtysomething divorcée wearing sequins.”

  Chapter Two

  Ryan Reyes stared out across Pensacola Bay and flipped a beer top across his deck. Part of him hated himself for doing something so cavalier. What if someone kicked it off the deck and it ended up in the sand, a potential hazard for a bare foot? The other part celebrated that it was his own damn deck and he didn’t have to pick up after himself if he didn’t want to.

  He took a long draw on the beer as he propped his feet on the top of the wooden fence surrounding the deck that sat off his bedroom. The sun waved good-bye to his right, streaking the deepening darkness with a last hurrah of pink and orange ribbon curls flung out above the white-capped waves below. It was gorgeous, like so many sunsets he’d watched over the past year. Sometimes he felt moments like these—when he sat on the deck and watched the sun set—were like a nod of approval for the choices he’d made. Other times it provoked regret.

  He always dashed the regret away, because he’d decided over a year and a half ago, shortly after he’d received that call from Tarrant Biometrics, that he would be exactly who he was today—just a regular guy who didn’t wear white lab coats, who drank domestic beer, and who didn’t care about having a long list of scientific accomplishments.

  The sea breeze coming off the Gulf made his hair wave against his forehead, and he liked that feeling. Windblown, loose, and chilled. Yes, that was who he was now.

  “Yoo-hoo,” a feminine voice called from below.

  Ryan leaned over to find Morgan Mayeaux standing below him wearing a sarong and holding a pitcher of margaritas. “Hey, whatcha got there?”

  She held up the chilled pitcher. “Dinner.”

  “In that case, come on up,” he said with a smile. He’d met Morgan at Peg Leg Pete’s last fall. She’d been wearing a tube top that barely held up her admirable rack and a pair of cutoff shorts that left little to the imagination. She had bouncing dark hair, a round face, and friendly brown eyes. They’d hit it off right away, discussing Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and their favorite kinds of Life Savers candy. She’d given him a slightly sloppy drunken kiss and then invited him back to her place, which belonged to her parents and was ironically only five condo units down from his. He’d turned her down, an oddity for him, because he liked her and didn’t want a one-night stand with someone he’d see on the beach or around the neighborhood. And because she’d told him she wanted a boyfriend, someone to share her world with. She was tired of dating and hooking up.

  And that was not what he was looking for.

  Morgan pulled the gate open and sashayed up the wooden stairs he’d added over the winter. He hated sand getting into his house, and the deck was a natural catchall when he or friends walked up from the beach. “My famous recipe, perfected when I was a bartender at the Sand Trap in Destin.”

  “I’ll grab some cups.”

  “Got ’em,” Morgan trilled, pulling two plastic cups wrapped in motel cling wrap from her beach bag.

  Ryan poured himself some of the frosty concoction, nodding as he took a sip. “Perfect.”

  “I know, right?” she said, unwrapping her own cup, filling it to the top, and sinking onto a deck chair. “Now, let’s plan your birthday party.”

  “You really don’t have to do this.”

  “Are you joking? I love a reason to throw a party. I bought some cool lanterns and Andrew said he’d spring for the keg. Sara is borrowing a beer pong table from her brother. He goes to Georgia. It has a Kappa Alpha crest on it, but you don’t care, do you?”

  “Nope. Beer pong is beer pong.” Or at least he thought it was. Was there something sacred about a fraternity crest? He didn’t know. He’d entered Stanford when he was fourteen, so being in a fraternity hadn’t been an option. Med school didn’t have social fraternities, and he’d still been so young he was rarely asked to any event. And if he’d gone, he wouldn’t have been able to drink anyway.

  “Right. And I’ve invited about twenty people. Of course, it could turn into more if some of them bring dates or friends or something. But anyway, I sent out invites via e-mail and told everyone to BYOB if they didn’t want beer and bring a snack or something. It will be epic.”

  Epic. His favorite new word. Or at least one of his favorite new words. “It’s nice of you to do this.”

  “Sure. That’s what friends are for,” she said with a shrug, but he could hear something in her voice. He knew she wanted to be more, but Ryan didn’t do girlfriends. Not because he had anything against the concept, but because he was still on year one of his new life. Technically year one. In a few weeks he’d turn over to year two, which held the possibility of a relationship but nothing too serious. He didn’t want true commitment until he was at least thirty, preferably thirty-three or thirty-four. Maybe even forty. Or never. He liked his life as it was. Why rush into anything complicated?

  “So what’s been going on?” he asked, changing the subject from his twenty-sixth birthday party taking place in two days’ time.

  “Not much. Let’s see, I worked today, went to visit Zsa Zsa, and made margaritas. I’m calling it a win.”

  Ryan held up the
cup with the words Holiday Inn inscribed on the side. “Hear, hear. How’s your sexy grandmother, by the way?”

  “Still chasing the men who can actually walk around the complex.” She touched her plastic cup to his and took a drink, propping her bare feet next to his on a weathered board. “I have a new neighbor.”

  “Yeah? They finally rented the Dirty Heron?”

  “Unfortunate name, huh? Yeah, it’s a nurse. I saw her unloading her car today. She looks really sensible, but I invited her to your party anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. ’Cause she’s new to the area? From some small Mississippi town or something. She’s working at Bay View General doing … contract work? I don’t know what that is.”

  “That means she’s working for an agency that fills positions temporarily for understaffed hospitals and clinics.” Small Mississippi town, huh? Just like him. Of course, most people he hung out with at the marina or down at Sid’s Beach Hut thought he was from California. He let them think that, though he knew sometimes his Mississippi dialect slipped through. Not to mention some of the idioms he’d picked up being raised in his small town. Didn’t seem pertinent to mention he’d been born to two ambitious educators who’d raised their intellectually gifted only child to do something more than cut up bait and take spoiled businessmen out to catch fish they’d likely not even bother to take home to eat. Of course, his clients took pictures with the fish. Facebook and all that.

  “Oh, well, she seemed nice enough. Of course, she was kinda pretty, so I hesitated to ask her to come to the party. I don’t want any competition.” Morgan slid a sly glance toward him.

  “Oh, come on, who’s prettier than you?”

  She sniffed and pushed her thick, brown hair off her shoulders. “No one.”

  “So did she say yes?”

  “She said she’d try. But I won’t be surprised if she doesn’t.” Morgan drank a few more sips. “You want to go swimming?”

  “No. Fat Sam saw some sharks feeding last evening.”

  “You scared?” Morgan asked.

  “Hell, no, but I ain’t dumb. Why chance it?”

  “So you can get naked with me,” she said with a flirty smile.

  “Morgan, I’m not opposed to getting naked with you, darlin’, but I am opposed to ruining a perfectly good friendship.”

  “It’s not like we can’t screw and still be friends.” She tried to sound nonchalant, but he could hear the yearning. Thing was, she had a smoking body and was fun to be around, but he’d already tried that with a waitress at Curly’s. Anna had gotten possessive and then gone a little crazy, spray painting the word bastard on his fence when she caught him with another woman. Thing was, Anna had sworn she hadn’t wanted a relationship when they’d first hooked up, too. Obviously she had. And he’d had to paint his pretty, naturally stained fence white to cover up the offensive word. Sometimes he imagined he could still see the scrawled red through the fresh white paint. And he could no longer hang at Curly’s, which was a shame because they had awesome wings and a nice selection of imported beer.

  He patted Morgan’s arm but didn’t answer. He liked having friends, too. There were plenty of fish in the sea. Maybe he’d invite a few barracudas from the marina that might suit Morgan … and keep her from scratching his vintage Mustang or smashing his windows. Women were incredible, but some had a temper that scared him more than the occasional tropical storm or hurricane ripping through the Panhandle. No strings seemed to mean different things to different people.

  “The tide’s going out,” he commented as the glowing orb of orange sank into the dark blue. The waves pulled at the beach, churning the sand. Tomorrow morning would bring plenty of crushed shell, but he wouldn’t have time to go down and wade through to look for any beauties. He had a deep-sea charter booked for 6:00 a.m. and he would need to cut bait and check the reels before they went out. Usually his deckhand took care of that, but Vic had to go to court tomorrow, so he was borrowing a deckhand for the day. Thankfully, he’d already fueled up Beagle, his forty-six-foot charter fishing boat. Might be rough in the morning with heavier winds, so he’d need to bring a few more buckets for the pukers.

  “Since you’re not interested in my rocking your world, I’ll head back home. I have a slight headache,” Morgan said, sounding disappointed.

  The woman needed to get laid. She rose and stretched, her chest thrusting out, making hot lust shoot straight to his groin. His good intentions wavered. What would it hurt? But then he caught sight of the fence and thought about never seeing Morgan again because she was pissed at him. He liked her too much for that. He’d find someone else to scratch that itch and pray one of his guys found the brunette to their liking. “You don’t have to.”

  “I know, but I can see you’re in a weird mood, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re such a cool guy, but sometimes you get this look. Like you’re somebody else.”

  “Because I don’t talk?”

  She shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. Most the time you’re you, but sometimes you’re so different. Like you’re above all this.”

  Uh-huh. He knew what she meant. Sometimes his good-time-Charlie demeanor slipped and he drew into himself. Being social wore him out. A natural introvert, he often craved downtime, especially after he spent several days in a row hanging at beachside bars, shooting pool and carousing. Oh, he liked the carousing, all right. After spending his entire childhood and teen years studying and participating only in activities designed to pad his résumé, he wanted to be exactly who he now was. But sometimes it wore on him. “I’m me, Morgan. And I’m looking forward to the party tomorrow night. I do have an early morning, so I guess I’m winding down. Thanks for the margaritas.”

  “Sure,” she said, glancing down at him with that damn yearning again. Her eyes took in his open linen shirt, sun-faded cutoff khakis, and his bare feet. He knew he looked the part. Beach bum. No worries. Totally cool.

  He was no longer Dr. Ryan Reyes, MD, PhD, major nerd.

  “See ya tomorrow, darlin’,” he drawled, flashing a dazzling smile thanks to his home bleaching kit. He liked the way his white teeth looked against his tanned skin. Being on the water every day had its advantages.

  “’Night, Ryan. Don’t worry about bringing booze tomorrow. I got your favorite tequila.”

  He saluted her and watched as she carefully made her way down the steps. She’d put on those weird shoes women wore … uh, wedges. They did wonders for her nice, tanned legs. But they’d not accomplished Morgan’s goal of seduction. Ryan congratulated himself on his self-control. Normally, he’d take what a girl like Morgan was selling. And no one could look sideways at him for making up for lost time. After all, he’d gotten two doctorates before he’d ever even gotten laid. He was due some fun.

  Maybe tomorrow night he’d meet a girl who didn’t want anything but a good time.

  A woman who knew the score.

  Jess pulled the heavy glass door closed and made her way across the rental to the front door. It had taken her all day to unpack her few suitcases and stock the empty fridge with healthy foods. She’d studied all the good stuff—Oreos, Cheetos, and Fruity Oh’s—at the grocery store, but knew if she indulged in them she wouldn’t fit into the new clothes she’d bought in preparation for beach living, including the cute red bikini with the anchors on it. Yeah, she hadn’t worn a bikini since spring break in college, but she’d bought the skimpiest damn one she could find at the semiannual clearance sale at the Dillard’s in Jackson. And why the hell not? She’d lost enough weight grieving her marriage. Might as well surf the silver lining.

  She winced as she bumped into the ceramic sculpture of a heron. The top of the bird’s head was missing. Maybe so she could store her umbrella? She wasn’t sure.

  Okay, so the condo wasn’t something out of Southern Living, but the location more than made up for the kitschy decor and bright-yellow paint. Yes, view trumped tacky every time. An
d she had two of them. A string of ten condo units sat facing the bay on the narrow strip of land called Gulf Breeze, which split Pensacola Bay from the Gulf of Mexico. Thankfully, her particular condo sat across from the Gulf, giving her a view of the crashing waves from the back of the house and the gentle lapping bay from the front. She had only to cross the two-lane highway and follow the gangway before she emerged onto the wide beach.

  Once Labor Day rolled around, she’d have to give the rental up to “the nice couple from Jersey” who spent every winter in the Dirty Heron. That was the name of the condo. Dirty Heron. She had no clue why anyone would name a condo something so absurd, but it had a certain ring to it, she guessed. After the holiday weekend, the rental company would find something else for her. Her only requirement was that it was either beachside or beach view. She wanted the crash of the waves on the beach to lull her to sleep every night and the silky sands only feet away when she needed the particular therapy of sun and salty waters. Which after a long day was exactly what she needed—a hello to the beach.

  Crossing the highway and traversing the weathered walkway between the dunes, she emerged onto the wide stretch of sand. Jess stared out at the dark waters lapping at the white powder sand. The moon was full tonight, making the beach glow. Small crabs sidled sideways across the sands, and sea oats danced in the night winds.

  Paradise.

  And exactly what she needed to soothe away the hurt.

  Something about the sea made a person feel small, her problems insignificant. So her husband had walked out on her? Big deal. So she had to start over careerwise and relationshipwise? Wasn’t like she was totally dead in the water. Much. She was still young—not even thirty yet. And she had a good job. Contract work paid well. And her boobs didn’t sag. Much. And she didn’t have stretch marks from being pregnant. Or a C-section scar. Or crow’s-feet. She was good. She could start over. No big deal.

  Jess walked down to the water’s edge, marveling at the gulls dipping and diving like acrobats, chasing their evening meal before roosting somewhere. Where did the gulls go? They must go somewhere when they weren’t greeting beachgoers each morning and wishing them farewell each night. The water was cool, but not cold. It was August, which meant warm gulf waters. The waves rolled in, covering her feet.