Dancing Barefoot by Amber Lea Easton Read Free Book Online Page A

summer. People had come and gone, crashed on their sofa for days. Every night had been a party—sometimes mild but often wild. No one had had any cares. Life had been simple.
    He smiled down at his feet. “For awhile this afternoon, I wondered if she had set this up somehow, pulled the stings with the gallery to arrange it so we would run into one another, but I cannot find the link. I think it is too much of a coincidence that the only gallery where I am having an exhibit is not only blocks from your apartment, but is owned by a friend of yours.”
    Well, that would fit Ava’s MO. She slammed the bread onto the counter. She need ed to eat. Now. With her head spinning from alcohol and Jacques’s confusing presence, she needed food. 
    “And Carter? Are you two still friends?” Diverting the conversation to his family and friends seemed like safer ground than their relationship, at least until she had food in her stomach. 
    Tell him why you never returned. Tell him that you never intended to leave him, that life got in the way and you were stuck. Explain. Get it over with, just say it. She slapped cheese onto the bread without looking up.
    “Would that surprise you if we were?” He sat the beer bottle on the counter befo re walking toward the hallway. Like a caged animal, he prowled. “I know you think I’m too nomadic for relationships.”
    “ I don't want to fight with you, I really don't.”
    “Just making a statement.” Arms folded across his chest, he shrugged as he looked down the hallway toward her bedroom. “Yes, we’re still friends. Don’t you want to ask about Simone?”
    “God, no,” she groaned. “I could care less about her.” 
    “I thought you would be married to some safe accountant or stock broker, someone more suitable than a vagabond like me.”  He grabbed the sandwich from her, his eyes hard and scrutinizing. “You're in your thirties now. As far as plans go, isn’t there a nice man and a house with a picket fence in your near future? And what is it called in the States? The PTA?”
    God , he knew how to piss her off. He couldn’t simply keep the small talk light. He had to go in for the kill. 
    “Congratulations on your career, Jacques. Must be thrilling.” She ripped off a piece of her sandwich and shoved it into her mouth without looking away from his eyes. 
    “Exciting as hell.”
    “Traveling the world, a new woman with a flick of your finger. Must me damn exhilarating.” She turned her back on him to pour herself a glass of water. No more alcohol. Not for a few days minimum. 
    “The women are the best part. I can’t keep them out of my bed.”
    “Must get tiring, all that sex and travel.”
    He said nothing. When she turned, he had walked from the kitchen and stood staring up the stairs toward the music. The expression on his face was more curious than angry.   
    She thought of the drawing above the sofa and knew she didn't want him to see it. If he saw the easel, the paintings, the wine bottle...he'd know how screwed up she'd become .
    “Do you remember the first meal I made you?” she asked to divert his attention away from the upstairs.
    He grinned without looking at her. “A pastrami sandwich on fresh baked bread from the market down the street.”  
    “We had every window open to get some air because it was so damn hot our clothes were sticking to our skin.”
    “So we took them off.” He moved up the stairs, his gaze locked on something above.
    “ We drank an entire bottle of wine.” Her breath caught in her throat as she followed, sandwiches in hand.
    “ We had gelato for dessert.” Thumbs in the loops of his jeans, he stood at the top of the stairs. “If I remember right, that gelato cooled us off in creative and erotic ways.”
    She studied the way the material of his shirt stretched across his back.  “Must be why I crave Italian from time to time.”
    Energy snapped off him as he moved toward the tattered sofa and muttered beneath his