Free The Summer Girls by Mary Alice Monroe Page A

she said. She felt awkward for pushing the beer if the guy was an alcoholic. “A refill then?” The ice clanked loudly in the pitcher as she poured his tea.
    “Did I say something to offend you?” he asked.
    “No,” she replied, shifting her weight. “Not at all. I’m just preoccupied.”
    “Anything I can do to help?”
    “Not unless you know someone looking for a stills photographer.”
    “So, you’re a photographer?”
    “Yes. But not like for portraits or weddings. Though I’d freelance those now, if you know anyone who’s looking. I work out of L.A. In the entertainment business.”
    Understanding flickered in his eyes. He leaned back against his chair. “So you take all those publicity shots we see in magazines and online?”
    “No,” she replied slowly, realizing she’d have to explain for the thousandth time what a stills photographer did. “I do anything to do with photos for marketing a film. I shoot episodes, backdrops, behind the scenes—whatever, to promote the show. It’s complicated,” she said, cutting the conversation off. She was reminded to check her messages to see if any of her contacts might’ve come through with a job possibility. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
    “Oh. Right,” he said in a rush, realizing he was taking up her time.
    She swirled away, stopping at tables to refill glasses, take orders, bring food in the dance of waitresses. Half an hour later he was still sitting at his table reading. Carson stopped back to check on him.
    “Refill on that sweet tea?” Southerners always rolled the two words together so it sounded like sweetie.
    He looked up from his papers and smiled. “I’m good,” he replied in his easy drawl. “Just a check.”
    She was about to turn and fetch it, but, thinking of her tip, paused to say, “Sorry I had to run off like that before.”
    “I’m sorry I kept you from your job.”
    He really did have a nice smile, she thought. When his lips slid halfway up in that sweet teasing grin, his dark brown eyes sparked with what she knew was flirtation.
    “What’s your name, anyway?” she asked him. It seemed wrong to think of him as Mr. Predictable .
    His grin widened to reveal white teeth. “It’s Blake. Blake Legare.”
    Recognition clicked. “Are you one of the Legares from Johns Island?”
    “Guilty as charged.”
    “No kidding? Do you know Ethan Legare?”
    “Which one? We’re a big family and there are a few Ethans.”
    “The one who works at the aquarium. Married to Toy, who’s in charge of the sea turtle hospital.”
    “Sure do. That Ethan’s my first cousin.”
    “Really?” She’d forgotten how living in Charleston was like living in a small town. Mamaw had always impressed upon her the importance of dressing well and speaking politely, because there were no strangers in Charleston. “Ethan and I used to surf together back in the day. I haven’t seen him for . . . well, years.”
    “I don’t figure he’s got much time for surfing nowadays, what with two kids.”
    “Ethan has two children?” She chuckled, remembering the skinny kid who was as fearless on the water as she had been. “That’s hard to believe.”
    “It happens,” he drawled.
    “What about you?” she asked him. “Are you married with kids in tow?”
    “Me?” he asked, amused at the idea. “God, no. I mean—” He faltered, seeing her shocked reaction at the emphasis. “Not that I’m against marriage or anything, it’s just, well . . . No. I’m not.”
    He was blushing slightly and Carson thought it was mildly beguiling.
    “Do you surf?” she asked Blake, steering them into a different topic.
    “Used to in high school. Don’t anymore.”
    That was typical of a lot of men who grew up along the coast. Most boys she knew tried surfing at least once, but few really took up the sport. Too bad, she thought.
    Blake added, “I’ve taken to kiting.”
    Carson’s mind did a U-turn. “As in kiteboarding?”
    He nodded. “Yeah. I