The woman blushed like the proverbial schoolgirl—of fifty, Annie thought uncharitably.
“My pleasure,” Patsy said. “Hope to see you and your wife around during the competition.”
Annie thought Patsy had forgotten she existed. Normally Annie was the typical overfriendly American. But since she was now Brazilian, she must have forgotten. Annie also didn’t speak a word of Portuguese. It was close to Spanish, which she did speak, but she wasn’t going to take a chance onhasta luego.
Dan must have noticed. “What’s the matter?”
“No hablo inglés.”
He laughed. “That’s not Portuguese.”
“Which is why I didn’t say anything.” She side-eyed him. “I didn’t take you for flirtatious.”
He shrugged. “When the situation calls...”
“Yeah, well, a little advice. If you ever have arealwife, I wouldn’t do that in front of her.”
He gave her a look as if she were crazy—which was exactly how she was feeling. “You’re right. You do get cranky when you are hungry. Let’s eat and then get cleaned up.”
Annie devoured her brunch in an embarrassingly short time, and then headed into the public bathroom to wash up a little. Dan said they’d go shopping afterward to pick up clothes to change into after showering, but he wanted to change their appearances a little before checking into a hotel and too many people saw them.
The mirror was one of those nonglass safety types found in public restrooms and didn’t give off the best reflection, but she managed to dampen her hair, cut a good six inches off in a mostly straight line—her hair was wavy, so it didn’t matter as much—to just past chin level, and do a light application of makeup.
She was fine until she started filling the paper bag Dan have given her for the purpose with her hair. Looking down at the pile of thick brown waves, she wanted to cry. Maybe it was good that she couldn’t really see in the mirror that well.
It’s just hair.
How much difference could it make?
A lot. As she discovered when she left the bathroom and found Dan waiting for her. She took one look at him, and her stomach dropped. Or flipped—she couldn’t tell. But everything inside her seemed to be skidding around in all kinds of directions.
Oh, crap.
He’d shaved.
Eighteen
Dean took another sip from his pint, wondering what he’d said this time. The newly dubbed Mrs. Thompson—of the Mr. and Mrs. Thompson who’d registered at the guest house—had been prickly since their trip to the market earlier.
“Thanks,” Annie grumbled, barely looking at him before turning back to her food.
Maybe she was cranky because of all those vegetables she ate. He was tempted to offer her some of his steak but figured she might not see the humor right now.
All he’d said was that her hair looked cute. She’d done a good job with the cut. The silky, dark strands fell to just past her chin in those loose, sexy waves that were popular right now, framing her face and emphasizing the delicateness of her features. Except for her eyes, which looked enormous.
She had this vulnerable thing going that if anything made her look even hotter, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her that. But definitely Bambi 2.0.
He’d been having a hard enough time keeping his eyes in his head since she walked into their shared room after using the hall bathroom—the guest house didn’t have en suites.
He’d never seen her dressed for dinner before, and she looked like a million bucks. Which was all the more impressive since he’d only given her a couple of hundred to buy theclothes she would need for a few days. She’d come back with an impressive stack of garments. And even though like most straight men he didn’t know shit about fashion, he knew enough to know that wasn’t enough money for anything designer. But somehow she’d turned a slinky black sundress, a black cotton wrap sweater, and thin black flip-flops into a fashion model straight off the pages of a glossy magazine.
He, on the other hand, had bought the first white polo and tan cargos he could find, as well as a few pairs of shorts, T-shirts, board shorts, and surprisingly—given that it was Scotland and not Coronado—a Baja-style sweatshirt.
Windsurfing was big on the island, and the big competition that Patsy had assumed he was participating in—the Tiree Wave Classic—was the longest-running windsurfing contest in the world. Not bad for a small Scottish island most people probably hadn’t heard of. But it explained the beach vibe of the place. “The Hawaii of the North” was what they called it. He wasn’t sure he’d go that far, but it had been a lucky pick.
Dean wasn’t a professional by any means, but he was a decent surfer and windsurfer courtesy of the years spent in Coronado and Hawaii. If the need arose, he would be able to fake it.
As for faking the laid-back surfer dude? For that all he had to do was harness his best Donovan impression. Maybe he should have looked for an ugly Hawaiian shirt in that secondhand store.
