Sandy Kisses by the Sea Read online

  SANDY KISSES

  by the Sea

  TRACI HALL

  Copyright © 2017 Traci Hall

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design ©Christopher Hawke - CommunityAuthors.com

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  A Note From the Author

  About the Author

  By the Sea

  AMBROSIA by the Sea

  KARMA by the Sea

  PUPPY LOVE by the Sea

  MASQUERADE by the Sea

  HOLIDAY by the Sea

  FESTIVAL by the Sea

  DANCING by the Sea

  FOREVER by the Sea

  BLUE CHRISTMAS by the Sea

  RETURNING HOME by the Sea

  BLOSSOMS by the Sea

  BILLIONAIRE by the Sea

  SANTA BABY by the Sea

  Chapter One

  Lucia Constantine sat at the smooth mahogany bar, her elbow resting on the polished wood just as many a customer had before her. O’Neill’s had been around since the end of prohibition—an event not taken very seriously so close to Miami and Key West. Salt life meant relaxed and easy, and often that went hand in hand with a cold beer or a frozen whiskey sour.

  The back of the bar was open to the elements and a rush of sea air stirred the napkins stacked on the counter and held in place by a conch shell. From her barstool she had an open view of turquoise water, palm trees, and hammocks big enough for two—this was the most relaxing place she’d ever lived—and she’d been all over the United States.

  Lucia didn’t drink, but her boyfriend’s family had owned this same bar for the last seventy years, and Ronan joked that the O’Neills had saltwater and whiskey rushing through their veins. They were kinder than anybody she’d ever met, and could shoot whiskey as if it were water. All of them, right down to sixteen-year-old Graham–whether it was legal, or not.

  She cringed when she thought of the stuff she’d done at sixteen and kept her mouth shut. Her stepdad, Henry, used to say that opinions were like assholes, and everybody had one. Sixteen seemed a lifetime ago. The scent of candlewax preceded Ronan’s voice.

  “Happy birthday to you–happy birthday to you…”

  She tapped her short, unpainted fingernails along the varnished wood and forced a smile as she heard thirty voices rise in celebration. Ronan walked toward her, his dark hair a little long, but not too–he blew it back off his forehead and grinned, his exuberance sparkling like a twisting kaleidoscope. Lucia couldn’t help grinning right back. She loved him, and if it made him happy to have a birthday party for her, then she’d suck it up and eat cake.

  Ronan stopped before her, his turquoise eyes surrounded with dark lashes that matched his unruly curls. “Happy birthday, dear Lucia, happy birthday,” he paused and did a Marilyn Monroe impression, whispering huskily, “to. You.” He held the cake in front of her. “Blow.”

  Her heart thumped with painful fervor, uncertain at how to react. She’d never, in all of her twenty-eight years, been so obviously cherished. He wouldn’t comprehend that there’d been times when she’d forgotten her birthday altogether. Her traitorous eyes filled. “I,”

  “Just blow, honey,” he said, holding the cake steady. It was shaped like a white rose in full bloom, trimmed in red chocolate-flavored frosting; designed like her logo at the tattoo shop.

  She blew the candle out in a tiny puff of smoke, and the bar full of Ronan’s relatives clapped and cheered.

  Lucia envied him his childhood, growing up among people who applauded your every breath. She’d greedily absorbed the multitude of O’Neill family memorabilia hanging on the walls. Baseball games, dance recitals, church communions. Cousins and siblings and grandparents-the family she’d dreamed of having when she and her mother slept in the back of a car in the junk yard.

  She’d been around six when they’d hit the streets. Dreams of a safe, loving family had kept her believing, until she’d realized her mother would never be well. Would never be sober, or un-addicted. Her mom chose, always, to get high. Lucia hadn’t dreamed again until she’d learned to tattoo. A portable trade, where all she needed was her kit, stocked with needles and ink.

  “Here,” Ronan said, handing her a wrapped package.

  “No gifts.” Lucia’s cheeks flamed. “You promised, Ronan.” The last thing she wanted was a bunch of presents-she never liked owing anybody.

  “Just a small one.” He nodded at his father, who stood at the bar. A tray of champagne flutes were handed around, though Lucia barely noticed, ensnared in the love in Ronan’s eyes. For her.

  He leaned forward and she took strength from his kiss. One of the most amazing things about Ronan was his wealth of compassion. She rarely had to explain her feelings; he seemed to understand that they sometimes weighed heavy. “You are the best gift I could ask for,” she whispered against his lips. “I don’t need anything but you.”

  “I feel the same way.” He took her hand, and brushed his mouth lightly across her knuckles.

  Absorbing his words, her heart unfurled like a budded flower coaxed alive by the sun. Ronan dared her to believe in fairy tales, despite her first-hand experience of knowing better.

  He accepted a glass of champagne and passed a flute of club soda with lime to Lucia. He’d been respectful of her story, the parts she’d shared-which were cleaned up versions of the truth. The tulle of her skirt rustled as she shifted on the stool, anchoring her heel over the rung.

  His brother Jaime, red-haired like their father, clapped his hand on Ronan’s shoulder and laid a resounding smack of his lips against Lucia’s cheek. “Happy birthday, Lucia. I still can’t believe you picked the brother too chicken for a tattoo.”

  Ronan’s blue eyes flashed with annoyance and Lucia laughed.

  “He got a tattoo.” She smiled at the memory. “You boys had a few too many after Matthew’s bachelor party...”

  Matthew hooted from the back, raising his new wife Moira’s hand, the diamond ring catching the light.

  “Sorry, Lucia,” Moira called.

  With a dismissive wave, Lucia said, “No, no. It was my lucky day.” Moira had turned into a friend—all of them had. “Four handsome men stumbling into the tattoo parlor, wanting a souvenir.”

  Banter and jokes went around the bar and Ronan’s mother, a porcelain-skinned woman with dark hair, shook her head in mock shame–though Lucia had spent the last six months realizing that nothing Patricia O’Neill’s boys did would lose her love.

  Mother’s love was supposed to be unconditional, but this was the first Lucia had witnessed it. She held onto the thread of the story, refusing to give her past any more power.

  “And who falls into my chair, but this one?” She ruffled Ronan’s hair, the silly gesture fueling her passion. Even drunk, he’d treated her with respect, careful of her things, calling her ma’am.

  “He needed a tattoo, by the most beautiful tattoo artist in South Florida,” Jaime said. “You’d just moved here, and already built a reputation.”

  She’d left Savannah, headed for Key West when her car broke down—she fell in love with the long expanse of quiet beach and decided to stick around a while, renting space in a tattoo parlor. Then, she fell in love with Ronan O’Neill. She brushed her hand over his broad shoulder.

  “I’d never heard of you before,” Ronan confessed sheepishly, ducking his head.

  “You never had a tattoo before!” Matthew shouted from the back.

  “Too chicken.” Jaime lifted his glass in salute. “Which was my point.”

  Lucia sighed with exaggeration. “And how could I turn him down, when he asked for my best work with such sincerity?�
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  Ronan, taking the jibes in stride, went with the teasing which was part of being an O’Neill. “I sprawled out before her, a sacrifice on her altar,”

  “No poetry,” teenaged Graham yelled.

  “His poetry sings, baby brother,” Shannon, the youngest daughter at twenty-two, said. “Just because you learned to rhyme with Dr. Seuss doesn’t mean one of our clan can’t have some class.”

  “I love your poetry,” Lucia said, stealing a kiss from Ronan’s mouth. “And I did as you asked. I gave you a tattoo to be proud of.”

  Jaime leaned over, laughing so hard his face turned red. “I Love Mom.” He looked toward their mother. “No offense, Ma.”

  Patricia rolled her eyes.

  “It was a fine tattoo,” Lucia said with a twitch of her lips. “And you were happy enough with it when you went home that night. But the next morning?” She shuddered. “Showing up at the parlor in a rage.” Lucia smoothed her hand over Ronan’s bicep. “You were furious. Adorable, but angry.”

  “You laughed when I told you I would sue you.”

  “Sue her?” Patricia asked with disbelief. “It was your drunk self that got the tattoo!”

  “I know, Ma. I’m not proud, but imagine my surprise, waking up that morning with a headache and a giant heart on my arm.” Ronan stood next to Lucia and played to the crowd. “I threatened her with everything I could think of. She finally licked her finger and swiped it through the ink. It smudged.”

  His mother gave a satisfied laugh, though she’d heard the story before. Lucia loved being a part of their family lore. “Serves you right, Ronan. Poor Lucia. I’m shocked she agreed to date you at all.”

  “I realized I’d been a jerk and I begged her to let me apologize with breakfast.” He propped an elbow back on the bar, charming, always.

  She leaned so that they were arm to arm as they faced his relatives. “He was very smooth over bacon and toast. And when he poured maple syrup over his eggs?” Lucia shrugged. It was her favorite way to eat them, but not for the faint of heart—she’d never met anybody else who liked them like that. “I had to give him a chance.”

  Ronan held up his hand for quiet as his family laughed. “You’ve stalled long enough. Open your gift.”

  Lucia, smiling as she recalled the expression on his face as he’d realized his tattoo was fake, that he’d been busted, pranked, punked, by her and his family, pulled the ribbon free from a pretty silver box. Earrings, maybe? A necklace? She lifted the lid, then stared at Ronan with confusion. A gold band. A diamond. “What?”

  He faltered as he saw her reaction, then brazened through. “Lucia Constantine, I fell in love with you that day. Will you marry me?”

  Responses whizzed like disturbed wasps through Lucia’s brain. She’d made her opinions on marriage clear–bondage, with no escape route for either party. Not even children were a reason to tie the knot.

  Hadn’t he known she was serious?

  He stared at her with love and dawning realization. She blinked quickly before she gave anything else away.

  She loved this man as she’d loved no other. She trusted him, and adored his family. They all stared at her with expectant smiles.

  Sick to her stomach, she thrust the ring into his hands.

  “No.”

  Ronan watched in what amounted to shock as Lucia ran from the bar. Her dark curls flowed behind her, her floral print dress with the red tulle skirt and candy apple high heels, rounded the corner before he could think to go after her.

  He turned to his family, who all stared at him, stunned.

  Finally Shannon said, “That bitch.”

  Liam O’Neill gave his daughter a reproving look. “None of that,” he boomed. “Come, Ronan. Talk to me in the back.” He gestured toward the office behind the bar, his dad offering him a way out of the spot light.

  Waves broke against the pilings of the dock, a pelican dove for a fish, Lucia’s floral perfume mingled with the sea. Champagne fizzed from his flute on the bar. This moment would be forever imprinted on his mind.

  He’d just offered his heart, for the first time in his life, to the woman he knew down in his soul was the one meant for him.

  She’d humiliated him by turning him down.

  In all of the scenarios he’d imagined after offering her his ring, he’d never imagined that.

  Chapter Two

  Ronan faced his father across the desk piled high with old receipts, pictures and an ancient calculator that still ran on an AA battery.

  “Well,” his dad said with a gruff voice. “That was unexpected.”

  Wincing, Ronan gave a curt nod as he sat back in the wooden chair. “Yeah.”

  “You wouldn’t a put her on the spot, if you’d been figuring a yes.” His father’s thick fingers drummed against the papers on the desk, his expression neutral as he watched his son.

  “She doesn’t like to be the center of attention,” Ronan admitted with a helpless shrug. Was that why she said no? “But she loves me. I love her. We’re moving in together.” They’d talked about it last month. They just had to wait until her lease was up.

  “I believe that she loves you-I’ve seen it. But how well do you really know her, son? Six months of dating isn’t that long.” His dad picked up a small framed picture of his wife, taken in the late seventies. His mom looked like a hippie chick, with a flower in her dark hair as she sat on the dock, surrounded by the familiar blue ocean.

  “You asked Mom to marry you the day you met.”

  His dad nodded, his mouth set. “Luckiest day of my life.” He kissed the picture and returned it to the mess.

  “I mean,” Ronan pressed, knowing he couldn’t be wrong. “You knew.”

  “O’Neills are lucky that way. Never heard of a one that won the lottery, but finding love, we got.”

  Ronan rubbed at his aching heart, replaying the flare of Lucia’s red tulle skirt as she ran out of the bar. Away from him. “We love each other.”

  “As wonderful as that feels, sometimes love isn’t enough to make a life.” His dad hesitated. “She never really talks about her past. Maybe there’s a reason for that?”

  “She’s a private person, Dad.” Ronan knew she’d been hurt, badly. Her mother’s addictions, her dad’s abandonment. She didn’t like to talk about it–preferred to act as if her childhood hadn’t happened. She seemed well-adjusted, so he hadn’t pried. He guessed she’d grown up with her grandma—though he knew she had no living family—Ronan was happy to share his.

  “We’ve noticed she doesn’t drink,” Liam said in a voice that withheld judgment. “Is she an alcoholic? That might scare a woman, getting hitched to a bar owner if she’s got a jones for the punch.” Somehow, throughout the generations of O’Neills, they all managed to enjoy their liquor responsibly.

  “Not her.” Ronan sighed, wondering if the bar life was too big a bad memory and Lucia just didn’t want to tell him. Because he knew his dad cared, he shared, “Her mother was the addict. Not just booze.”

  “Is that why she’s moved around so much?” Liam sat back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Listening to her talk about her travels is interesting, Ronan, but not the sign of a woman thinking to settle down. She’s been to forty-eight out of fifty states.”

  “It isn’t her fault she went from place to place!” Ronan realized he spoke defensively and lowered his voice. “She went where her mother took them.”

  “As a child yes, but she’s all grown now.” His dad coughed into his fist, uncomfortable at saying things that might hurt him. “Every few months she packs up and moves. She said living here for the past seven months has been the longest she’s lived anywhere. Why is that, son?”

  Ronan didn’t have an answer. He’d assumed she’d stay put once she found love. Stability. A normal life. Was he off-base? “Habit?”

  “I’m not telling you what to do, but Lucia is no stray puppy you can bring home and nurse to health. Marriage is a commitment between two like-minded adults. You ca
n’t marry someone who’s broken and expect to have a healthy relationship.”

  “Dad.” Ronan’s simmering anger grew in defense of the woman he loved. How had today gone so wrong? He’d imagined toasts, and jokes and plans that included a barefoot wedding on the beach, toes in the sand. “She’s not damaged goods, for Christ’s sake.”

  Liam held up his hand. “You have a great heart, Ronan, always have. It’s what makes you so good with your poetry, and a wonder behind the bar. You feel, you care, and people respond to that. But you can’t fix every wounded soul that crosses your path.”

  “She doesn’t need fixing! She’s fiercely independent, but she’s had to be in order to survive. So what if she doesn’t want to get married?” As he said the words, disappointment fell like volcanic ash. He’d wanted the white picket fence since he’d understood what it meant.

  His dad’s thick red brows hiked upward. “It’s how we do it, son. Marriage, family. We O’Neills have had this bar for seventy years, getting married and raising our kids right here. It’s tradition.”

  Did his dad see something in Lucia that Ronan missed? Was she really so bad? He’d admired her edgy humor. Spent hours trying to understand her prickly need to do things for herself–he’d had to win a round of poker to get her to let him open the door for her without resistance.

  Damn. Had he been pushing her to fit into his world?

  He shouldn’t have pressured her, in front of everyone. She’d said she didn’t believe in marriage. Hell, to be honest, she’d gotten spooked when he’d brought up living together. He sank further down in the chair, realizing he hadn’t been considerate of her at all.

  “There are many kinds of love,” his dad said with a shrug, concern in his eyes. “I suggest taking a few days and cooling off. Examine what you really feel for Lucia. Just maybe she did you a favor. I don’t want to see you miserable ten years down the road, Ronan.” He jabbed his pointer finger against the desk. “Sometimes a woman is too broken to mend.”