Just One Kiss
by Traci Hall
Copyright © 2021 by Traci Hall. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Grace Sheldon hunkered down behind the top of a six-foot-tall sand dune, the scent of the Puget Sound pungent—salty air, seaweed, and rockfish.
She’d been in this cramped position since four a.m. on a freelance assignment for the Kingston Bird Museum. The dark before dawn now hinted at morning, though the sun had yet to rise. She peered through her binoculars at the mama American Robin on her nest only eight feet away. It was the final hatching of the season, and this pair had been the last to lay eggs. Papa Robin scavenged mollusks and berries, taking his turn to warm the three blue ovals during the day, while Mama kept up the heat at night.
Grace discreetly stretched so as not to upset the robins, who, so far, remained unalarmed by her presence. Her best camera rested on a flat piece of driftwood nearby, ready for her to snatch it up and shoot.
In the crook of a low branch on the pine tree, the mama bird opened her eyes and shifted her feathers over her nest. Papa bird stretched in his perch above them where he’d been on guard against snakes and raccoons.
Silence, except for the soothing slap of water against the shore.
Grace sensed a change in the air and tensed. According to the chart she’d pinned on her refrigerator, the hatching should’ve happened yesterday—she started a temp job tomorrow, so it had to be now.
Setting the binoculars aside, she picked up her camera and zoomed in. Mama bird’s pretty rust-colored plumage covered the eggs.
Feet smacked against the coastline behind her. In an instant, a shirtless man with short, dark brown hair ran by. Muscles sculpted his back and shoulders, his thighs tight in molded black running shorts as he strode down the beach.
Where did he come from? He could be Michelangelo’s David alive in gorgeous splendor.
Turning, her finger accidentally pressed on the shutter button even as she lowered the camera away from the birds, her attention on the man.
A bundle of fur pounced on her, knocking the camera out of her hand. “Oof!”
Grace pushed at the furry weight as a large tongue licked her cheek, but the big dog only moved to the side and continued slobbering all over her face, wagging his tail. Fine, if he wouldn’t move, she’d push herself up this time. “Get off,” she grumbled.
Leaping down the dune, the light brown golden retriever lunged at her camera in the sand as though it were a juicy steak. Her digital camera she’d saved up for all of last year.
“Stop! Touch that and you, you…” What? She preferred peace over conflict, and the idea of wrestling a furry dog-monster didn’t seem right. “Please let it go.”
She straightened and tried to find her balance on the dune then climbed down the six feet to the soft sand. The dog joyfully rolled, nipping at the camera strap. His canine eyes sparkled and his body wriggled. Grace bit back a smile as she started to offer her hand for a scratch on his golden-brown ear.
“Bert—heel.” The man’s authoritative tone brought the hair up on her arms in alarm, and she snatched her fingers back.
The dog, however, had the leather strap of her camera between its teeth and growled playfully at the semi-naked man, and then her, giving a low woof.
“Drop it, Bert.” The man crossed the sand in front of her, getting between Grace and the dog. Clean-shaven over a strong jaw and thick, sable brows, he had a slightly crooked nose that did not detract the least from his appearance.
“Is this your—”
“Hang on.” He crouched before the wiggling fur ball and stared the dog in the eye. Grace took in the man’s lean runner’s physique. How had they gotten access to her private beach?
“Drop. It,” he demanded.
Bert released the strap and lowered his ears in shame.
Grace reached for her camera on the ground, hearing the chirp of a bird from the tree she’d been watching. It was time.
“I’m training Bert.” He sent her an apologetic glance. At his name, the dog wagged his tail.
She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coveralls, her gaze on the silver frame in the sand. It was obvious he wasn’t doing a very good job. She tried to reach for her camera again when he commanded, “Stop!”
Grace did, out of reflex, but then glared at him. “I hope you aren’t talking to me.”
“I am.” He never broke eye contact with the dog, who remained still as stone. “One, two, three…release.”
He held up a hand to Bert, and the dog stayed put while he rescued her camera.
“Sorry about that.” He smiled and brushed the sand from the view finder.
Grace sighed. Not the best start to her day. “It’s all right.”
His gaze narrowed with suspicion. “You’re taking pictures of me?” He jammed a well-manicured pointer finger against the screen. “Do you work for Daniella?”
Who was Daniella? “I am not doing either of those things. I’m here for the robins.” She gestured to the tree and held out her hand for him to give her camera back.
He stepped closer to show her a blurry picture of his shoulder. “Explain this?”
Oh. That did look incriminating, but it was completely by accident.
“You interrupted me—” She reached for the camera, and he raised it up, too high for her to grab.
Bert must’ve thought the man was playing a game. He sprang from his sitting position to snag the camera and raced to the top of the dune, banging the frame and open lens.
Grace still had a chance to salvage her morning if she could just get her camera before the baby birds hatched. She dashed up the dune to where she’d left her binoculars. Maybe she could interest the dog in a trade.
The man flew past her on the way to the top. “Drop it, Bert.”
The dog didn’t listen—big surprise—but scrambled over and down again, dragging her camera like a chew toy. She heard a loud crack, and her stomach sank. What were the chances it was unbroken?
She and the man teetered off-balance on the dune—just as the sand gave way and they rolled down to the bottom. His arm slipped around her waist, his palm cradling the back of her head. He smelled like expensive spice cologne, her face and nose tucked in the warm crook of his neck and shoulder as he protected her.
They slid to a stop, his practically naked body on top of hers, his expression one of concern, then…something else. Something that made her face heat. His brown eyes bore into hers—searching, intense.
There was a chirp and flutter from the tree to her right. Panicked, she pushed against his muscled chest, slick and hot to her fingertips. She scrambled backward from him, her breaths in pants as if she’d been the one running down the beach.
He was in perfect control as he stood in one fluid motion, his abs something from a gym commercial, then offered his hand to help her up.
She accepted it.
When the dog pranced around them, she saw that the screen on her camera was cracked, a corner of the silver frame missing, and sand caked the fine lens.
“Oh no!” Grace reached for the camera, at a loss. Ruined. Bert crawled over and licked her cheek, as if to apologize for taking things too far. “What did your dog do?” She glared up at the man in disbelief. She’d waited so long for this one chance to capture the moment of the birds hatching.
“I’m sorry about Bert.”
“I’ve been working on this project for three weeks.” Grace pointed to the tree and the robin’s nest, where she heard multiple faint chirps.
He didn’t budge from his position in the sand, his arms crossed. “You’ve been spying on me for three weeks? How is that possible? I just moved here.”
What? She shook her head. “No. I’ve been watching for the last hatching of the American Robin before it migrates for winter.”
As he followed the sightline of her finger to the tree, his fine dark brow arched. Bert barked. “You’re pretending to be a birdwatcher? To get my photo? I’ll give you points for originality.”
Grace patted her many pockets down, but she’d chosen to leave her cell phone at home to concentrate on the birds rather than social media. “I’m not pretending to be anything. Can I borrow your phone? I need an image of those birds being born.” The right photo could pay as much as two grand—money she desperately needed.
He lowered his arms to his sides. Grace was forced to look at his bare chest and chiseled abdomen. There was a jagged scar the size of her thumbnail at his rib cage, and he had slim hips in black shorts—no room left for a phone.
“I never bring it with me when I run,” he said.
She blinked back frustrated tears. It would take her ten minutes to sprint to the house for her spare camera, change the batteries, rush back here, and hope that she wasn’t too late. Throat tight, she said, “I have to go—but for the record, you need to keep that dog on a leash.”
“You can’t leave until I know why you had pictures of me,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Grace Sheldon.” She dragged her eyes from his chest. “I don’t know who you are, but you owe me a camera.” The man didn’t offer his name. He really thought she knew him. He was beautiful enough to be an actor.
He patted his flat stomach then his hips on his snug running shorts. “No wallet, either.”
She swallowed and pulled her eyes upward from the dip of his navel. “I’ll be right back and we can exchange information.”
He scowled. Bert tossed her camera strap, inviting them to play with him. “I can’t wait for you. I have a full day scheduled. Why did you have photos of me?”
“You ran into my line of sight, which is why I took your picture. Accidentally.” Her camera was ruined, and the dog wasn’t giving it up, though the pup watched the conversation between them with interest, ears perked. Urgency filled her, and she turned toward home. “I have to go!”
“Where?” This close, he smelled like sand and salt, with a dash of spice.
“To get a different camera,” she managed after a gulp of air. He made her senses swim. She glanced at the dog. Bert danced back. She had no choice but to get an image of the hatchlings, and she only hoped the stranger was a gentleman and would still be there when she returned. It was obvious he didn’t believe that she didn’t know him. “Fifteen minutes. I’ll hurry.”
…
Sawyer Rivera had never seen eyes so crystal a blue in his life, and as he’d searched them for guile or dishonesty, he’d gotten lost in their depths. Grace Sheldon.
Had she been telling the truth about the birds?
“Stay,” he told Bert. The golden retriever was mixed with a breed or two that resisted training, but Sawyer would find a way to mold the wayward pup. It was why he had two books and an option for a possible television show in the works.
He climbed up the sand dune to where Grace had been and shaded his eyes, peering across to the pine trees. Sure enough, there was a nest.
Sawyer didn’t know one bird from the next to prove they were robins, but he had a sinking feeling she’d been telling the truth. And his dog had ruined her camera—which looked expensive.
He rocked back on his heels and swiveled toward the direction Grace had gone. How much time had passed? The gray sky turned faint blue with the rising yellow sun. Tension had him pacing the top of the dune for any sign of the woman. He had so much to do this morning before he’d meet with his realtor to get the keys for his new business, Bark Camp.
A tower of moving boxes waited for him to unpack. There were men to hire. A reputation to salvage. He smacked his palm to his racing chest. Bert nudged him, eager to keep running down the sand.
Then he heard a rustling in the pine tree. Feeling guilty about the camera, Sawyer patted Bert’s head. “Stay, boy.” He climbed down the dune and crossed beneath it to eye the nest overhead. A broken blue shell tipped over the brown edge and fell to the sand. A warble sounded, weak but alive.
Bert broke the stay command and joined him below the tree, snuffling the hatchling shell, pink tongue over his nose as he wagged his tail at Sawyer.
Cute pup, but a pain in the butt. That’s what he got for not sticking to his criteria when choosing a dog for his Sawyer Rivera Training System. A week since he’d accepted Bert without meeting him first, a week of frustration—but he wouldn’t give up.
Then, right before his eyes, Bert swung the camera by the strap, separating the silver frame from the leather. The dog swallowed the hard plastic frame and view finder in two crunches before taking off at a sprint down the beach, in the opposite direction of home. That couldn’t possibly be healthy.
Sawyer whistled a “come back” command the retriever also ignored. That dog! Once he caught Bert, he’d call Cindy, the vet tech who worked for Dr. Garcia, and see if the veterinarian could examine the pup right away.
“Bert!” The dog dove into the bay and barked at seagulls in sheer joy.
As Sawyer chased the dog, he was genuinely sorry he couldn’t wait for Grace—and maybe she’d been right about the leash.
