No Tan Lines by Kate Angell Page B

blinked. No jockey or boxer line. Interesting. His boys had freedom.
    A shift of his weight, and his pants again flattened against his stomach. The untucked tail of his dress shirt now lay against his thigh.
    Shaye blinked, breathed again.
    Trace held up two shirts for her inspection. “Which one?” he asked. “I want to advertise volleyball.”
    His chest would make a great billboard, she thought. Thick, wide, toned. Either shirt would work for him. She was certain whichever one she chose, he’d pick the opposite.
    She went with the tan T-shirt with Volleyball printed over a tattoo tribal design. It was very masculine. The white polo with Got Sand? would be a constant reminder that she was forced to rent two hundred feet of his beach.
    Trace was surprisingly agreeable to her choice. He reset Got Sand? on the clothesline, then leaned his forearms on the rim of a circular rack, a relaxed stance.
    “We should get T-shirts made up for the tournament,” he said. “They’d make great souvenirs.”
    Oh, crap. “They’re, ah, already on order,” she was forced to admit.
    “I missed the memo.”
    “I didn’t consult you.” She experienced a hint of guilt but not enough to make her feel bad. “I’ve worked with the same silk-screening company for years. To get the T-shirts in time, they had to be ordered yesterday.”
    She’d placed the order last week but wasn’t about to tell him so. A day or two shouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of the event.
    The irritated tic along his jaw told her she’d jumped the gun. Once again. He pushed off the clothes rack and came to stand beside her. “How many did you order?”
    “Five thousand.”
    “On credit?”
    She nodded. Every store in Barefoot William extended their credit line over the summer months, when tourism in Florida slowed to a snail’s pace. Money was tight. They didn’t have the cash flow to pay outright.
    He pinned her with a look. “That’s a hell of a lot of shirts to store in your garage had I not gone along with the tournament.”
    She shrugged. “You did agree. We’re working together now.”
    She’d been confident when she purchased the shirts that the event would move forward, with or without Trace’s beach. Just on a smaller scale. They were going big now, and she wished she’d ordered ten thousand.
    He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re a difficult woman.”
    “You’re not easy to like either.” He was a Saunders.
    “I did agree to your event,” he reminded her.
    “The pro/am benefits you, too.”
    “There will be perks,” he said with annoying assurance.
    She thought of Nicole Archer. “ One perk only.” There would be no more. Ever.
    “Ground rules,” he went on to say. “I want full disclosure from now on. No more moves behind my back. We discuss before you initiate. Understood?”
    He wasn’t the boss of her. She’d never worked with a partner. But she would agree for the time being. She shrugged and said, “Sure. No problem.”
    She adjusted her hair band, then scuffed her bare toes across the floor tile. She had more to confess, but it would only piss him off further. She needed his signature on the recreational permit. She would downplay whatever decisions she’d already made as they arose.
    She smiled to herself. She wasn’t his keeper. She had no idea where he would be each second of every day. If a snap judgment was needed, she’d pretend she couldn’t locate him. She was perfectly capable of moving forward on her own.
    Trace Saunders studied Shaye. She hadn’t come clean. He was certain she had more to share but wasn’t giving it up. He hated surprises, especially in business. The volleyball tournament was a huge undertaking. They had only three weeks to pull it all together.
    Instead of talking to him, she ran her fingers through her rain-tangled curls. Each movement drew her sagging top farther off her shoulders. The swell of her small breasts became evident. Her