The Redhead Plays Her Hand Read online

  And they could hear me coming, something Jack was also careful about keeping under wraps after a particularly wicked session in the outdoor shower had me screaming his name over and over again. I tried to keep quiet, I truly did, but mother-of-pearl, it was hard.

  And so was he . . .

  And so was he.

  I grinned at him, letting him pull me up off the sand to stand next to him and look out over the deep blue. Knotting my sarong more securely around my waist, I squinted at the horizon, searching.

  “I hear them, but I don’t see them.”

  “They’re out there. We should head in.” He settled me in front of him with his hands around me, flat against my tummy. Tucking his chin into my shoulder, he held me tightly.

  We were enjoying our last little bit of time together before he left to work on his next film. There was just enough time for a little break before the holidays, and when he asked if I wanted to take a trip, I agreed immediately. I wanted to come back to our lovely beach house.

  Hearing the roar of motorboats a little closer now, he slapped me on the ass and hustled me toward the house. “Come on, Crazy. They already got enough shots of you in your bikini.”

  They really had. In the past, I would have been horrified to see pictures of my bathing suit–clad backside as I dug for shells in the sand next to my boyfriend, who had his hands all over said backside. But now? Eh. It was just how we rolled.

  He paused as we shuffled across the beach on our way back to the house and began tracing his feet through the sand.

  “You writing me another message, George?” I laughed as I stood on the steps, shaking sand off my legs.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Another grand gesture?”

  “Uh-huh.” He grinned, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he wrote with his big toe.

  “You gotta come up with something new. That’s old material. You need a new grand gesture,” I teased, taking off my hat and letting my curls run wild in the ocean breeze.

  He finished and extended his hand to me. “Why don’t you shut up and come read it,” he challenged, mischief in his eyes.

  Wicked wanton man.

  I kicked back down the steps, the sand hot between my toes, and took a running leap at the last minute to pounce on him. Catching me in midair, he let out an oof, a very British sounding oof, mind you, and let me monkey-crawl around his torso to perch on his back, wrapping my legs around his waist.

  As I nibbled at his ear with my hands in a choke hold around his neck, he wobbled over to his masterpiece. Which he’d crafted with his toes.

  “Okay, let’s see this grand gesture.” I giggled, peering over his shoulder and slapping at his hands as they tried to raise up my sarong skirty thing.

  I could see one letter, then another, and then it all became so very clear.

  Marry me?

  I froze, no longer slapping. My legs, however, tightened.

  “Ow, ow! Crazy, hey, ow!” he cried, unlocking my legs and pulling me off his back. With me in front of him now, he tilted my chin up and chuckled at the look on my face.

  I was shocked.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a box. Small, black. This was real.

  He took my hand and opened my fingers, which were frozen into some kind of terribly romantic claw. Placing the box inside, he opened it up to showcase a perfect, round, brilliant diamond. Just one perfect diamond on a platinum band. Giant. Sparkling. Wow.

  He leaned down to nuzzle me, pressing kisses across my face—eyelids, nose, cheeks, that damnable spot just below my ear. And in the Queen’s English, in that very ear, he said, “Marry me.”

  I looked into his eyes as tears spilled over and down my face. They had to go around a giant smile to make their way to the sand below.

  Yes.

  PHOTO BY LISA NORDMANN

  ALICE CLAYTON worked in the cosmetics industry for more than a decade before picking up a pen (read laptop) and starting a whole new career as an author. She enjoys gardening but not weeding, baking but not cleaning up, and is in the process of convincing her boyfriend to make her an honest woman. Visit her on the web at www.aliceclayton.com.

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  A New York Times bestseller that’s captivating readers with its honesty, grit, and headstrong heroine, White Trash Beautiful is a story for anyone who has ever felt trapped in life, cheated by love—and longed for something more . . .

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Alice Clayton

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  First Gallery Books trade paperback edition December 2013

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-1-4767-4125-3

  ISBN 978-1-4767-4131-4 (ebook)