Barefoot Beach Box Set

Chapter 5: Something to Show You-2

We walked for what felt like forever in our bare feet under the blazing sun. Portions of the property along the beach were privately owned, but people knew and liked me in the community, and simply waved when seeing me trespass with the handsome stud at my side, basically ignoring the two of us.

We talked about numerous topics, of course: favorite places to eat in the city, his life in Boston, and my bookmaking career with Turtle Bay Publishing. Although neither of us were being fresh, we did walk very close. Once or twice our shoulders brushed together, but that was hardly a concern or stood out as shocking. Slowly, we made our way past bungalows eight, eleven, and fourteen.

“Tell me the history of your bungalow,” he said, looking at me as he spoke and walked at my side.

“My father built it in 1967,” I said. “He was only twenty. His two brothers helped, but died shortly after the house was completed. My father then met my mother, they married, moved into the bungalow, and then I came in the world.”

“Did you always live here?”

I nodded. “Mostly. I had an apartment in Fort Myers for a year, but the beach called me back. That happens, you know. It has the ability to hum in your ears and play with your heart. Fort Myers just didn’t feel like home to me, but Barefoot Beach always has. I’m sure you feel the same way about Boston, don’t you?”

“I think I like it better down here. I completely understand what you’re saying about the beach having control over your heart. Sometimes I feel that way. The Gulf is my home now. Boston is just a blur. I’d feel uncomfortable moving back up north.”

The heat was playing tricks with my head because I had had too much alcohol in just a few short hours. I felt dizzy next to Brayden, but didn’t admit my condition to him. Instead, I tried to pull my head together, think about what he had just shared with me, and wanted to find a logical response. After seconds of befuddled turmoil I came to, shook my dizzy spell away, and said, “I couldn’t sell my beach house to you for anything, Brayden, just so you know.”

He left out a polite chuckle and said, “I realize that. You’re too connected to it. Money doesn’t motivate you. I respect you for keeping it and not selling out. That tells me you’re an honest man to your soul, which I admire.”

“I hope we can still be friends,” I said. It sounded ridiculous but it was true, and it was exactly how I felt about the man, who was still somewhat of a stranger to me.

He chuckled again, this time playing with me. “You make it sound like we were dating.”

I flushed a little with embarrassment and listened to the Gulf waves as they crashed into the shore, a sound I had been in love with for years. Mixed with it were a number of nearby seagulls squawking over something. “I do, don’t I? It sort of just slipped out of me. The heat is playing a serious game with my head. Sorry about that.”

“I rather like games, Ian. But not ones that deal with the heart. I’m not a man who gets off on drama.”

Frankly, I didn’t know if Brayden York was gay, straight, or bisexual, but I was helplessly growing a crush on him. The man seemed to know what to say and when to say it, which I found sexy as hell. Carrying out a conversation with him was nothing less than easy, and the walk at his side wasn’t so bad either, even if the sun and its pounding heat were playing havoc with my consciousness. “Tell me what type of games you like to play.”

Again he chuckled, which I enjoyed hearing. His voice was deep and sexy, and caused a shiver of blissful excitement to careen up and down my spine in speedy motion. Following his snigger, he said, “I don’t think I’m ready to tell you that, my friend. But maybe in the future I will.”

He was teasing me, I assumed, which I was fine with, because I too enjoyed games, particularly ones with attractive and blond property buyers. He didn’t reach out and grasp my left hand, arm, or shoulder and provide the body part with a gentle, caring, and masculine squeeze even though I had wanted him to. Brayden was good at keeping his distance from me, though, which even confused me more about his sexuality. Part of me was dying to know if he enjoyed the s****l company of a man. In due time I might learn that detail, but for now he had not crossed a line and merely continued our conversation with, “There’s something I want to show you, Ian. You up for it?”

I was, and grew even more excited, engrossed in our twosome on the sun-beaten beach. “What kind of something?”

He didn’t answer me. Instead, I walked at his side like a faithful follower through the sand. Again, a dizzy spell had found its way between my temples and the May heat had splintered inside my brain. Oxygen was lost for a few seconds, but I kept walking and came to, surfacing. Perhaps the ten alcoholic beverages prior to that walk with Brayden weren’t such a great idea. Why did I drink so much? What the hell was I thinking?

At bungalow fifteen we stopped walking, stood side by side in the sand, and looked at the dilapidated structure that had yet to be remodeled after hurricane Sandy’s fury. There were a few bungalows along Barefoot Beach that resembled number fifteen. Homeowners had abandoned the structures uninhabited during Sandy’s rage. Certain bungalows were left to deteriorate by the Gulf’s wind and rain, and their owners had planned never to return to the abodes after leaving them and the city behind, heading north and beginning new lives away from Florida. Basically, each was nothing more than frames with hollow centers. Roofs, like number fifteen’s, were half blown off, doors were missing, and Sandy’s destruction had swallowed furniture, personal belongings, and homely whatnots of importance.

“This is what I do,” Brayden said, pointing at the ramshackle edifice in front of us. “I purchase properties like this, rehab them, resell them, and make money.”

“Is bungalow fifteen your next victim?”

“One of a few. I’ll be working on her soon.”

“You do all the work yourself?”

He shook his head and said, “Only some of it. I hire the electricians and plumbers because of code. I do most of the decorating and some of the building. It depends what the project is, to tell you the truth.”

“I’m horrible with wood,” I said, which sounded absurd and caused me to feel embarrassed yet again. Sometimes things just happened to slip out of my mouth before I thought about them in full.

A smile formed on his face after my comment. He was a gentleman, though, and seemed to ignore my self-analysis, or interpreted the statement exactly the way I had wanted him to: having no ability to function with lumber. No matter what, my verbal error was bypassed, without injury, and he said, “I like to work with block and greenery. Those are my favorite—”