Free Barefoot in Pearls (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 3) by Roxanne St. Claire Page A

saying it made him feel better. “But that’s it. That’s all I’ll do.”
    She stared at him for a long time. Too long. And, damn it, he could have sworn there was moisture in her eyes. His gut clenched a little, and his whole chest squeezed.
    Wasn’t she going to say anything?
    He looked down at the faded lettering of the Cracker Jack company, mostly to avoid her slicing gaze. Putting both hands on the sides, he started to stand and bring the box with him, expecting her to rise, too.
    But she stayed firmly on the filthy ground, staring straight ahead, the flashlight still on her lap.
    “Let’s go to the truck,” he said.
    Silence.
    “Come on, Ari.” He hoisted the box higher. “The worst of the storm’s passed.”
    The one outside, that was. The one in her eyes was brewing pretty hard.
    “I promise I’ll be careful with it,” he added, thinking that was her problem. When she didn’t move, he puffed out a breath. “And I’ll put it in the back cab, so it won’t get wet.”
    Because God forbid seashells get wet .
    His arms were starting to burn from holding the box, but she stayed as motionless as a statue. All this over a box of fucking rocks!
    Giving up, he pivoted and marched through the house, trusting instinct and good luck not to trip, stepping into the night where the rain had slowed to barely a drizzle. He walked to the truck and set the box down— carefully —and opened the quad cab door so he could wedge the crate in safely.
    Looking back at the house, he peered into the doorless front entry, hoping to see the flashlight as she found her way out. But it was still dark and quiet there.
    Damn it, woman . He slammed the door and trudged through the mud to get her. He heard her before he saw her, the sound of pounding and ripping coming from the old pantry. He found her in there, biting down on the flashlight, ripping off a giant piece of drywall.
    He stood for a minute, watching her small but muscular frame reaching up to rip sheetrock like a professional. Or a woman on a mission.
    “Ari, you don’t have to—”
    She spun around, ripping the flashlight out of her mouth, the depth of sadness in her eyes stunning him. “I thought you were…” She shook her head, biting back something she clearly didn’t want to say.
    “I was what? The builder? The contractor? I am and I—”
    “The One .”
    He drew back, most from the surprising force of the words she whispered. “The one what?”
    Another vicious shake of her head, and she whipped back to her job, sending that curtain of hair swinging over her back. Unable to stop himself, he closed the space between them with one step, taking the flashlight with one hand, placing the other on her shoulder. “The one what ?” he repeated.
    He felt her tense and swore he could hear her clamp her mouth shut. With a furious yank, she finished pulling at the sheetrock, exposing more studs but no more boxes of rocks.
    She grunted in frustration. “I’m not leaving until I’ve been inside every wall.”
    He glanced behind him, confirming that every other wall he’d seen in here was plaster and lath, as any old home would have. This drywall had been put up much more recently. In fact, he thought as he eyed the structure of the pantry, this whole closet had been added on to a much older home.
    “Only this pantry,” he told her. “The rest of the house is impenetrable, and probably why the walls withstood hurricane-force winds.”
    She went to work on the next drywall panel, punching her bare fist into it to make a hole. Granted, it was soft and moldy, easy to break, but the move was still stunningly strong. And, shit, sexy. Jesus, his brain was seriously messed up.
    Because she might be cute and smart and all kinds of hot, but she was nuts . And that meant it was time to end this interlude and focus on why he’d come to this island.
    But before his messed-up brain could disconnect from his mouth, he pressed again, because he just had to know. “What do