He didn't want to be quiet. He looped around until he stood directly behind her. "Twelve, thirteen, fourteen," he disrupted her counting.

She elbowed him in the gut. "What's with you?"

He rubbed his abdomen. "I'm being sympathetic," he said.

"You're being an ass."

"Breaking up sucks."

"How would you know?" she challenged.

"I've been dumped." She glanced his way, sharp and disbelieving. He recalled his play date days. "I was young. It was summer in the park. The moms sat on wooden benches while the kids played. Missy Harris and I were both three. Enter Canyon Carter, the older man, age four. We shared toys in the sandbox. Canyon offered Missy a teddy bear he'd gotten wet while drinking at the water fountain. I went with a Tonka truck. She preferred the one-eyed soggy stuffed animal. Broke my heart."

"Scarred you for life, I see."

"For about a week," he said. "Until Libby Atwell went down the sliding board and flashed her floral panties."

She stepped around him. "Panties do it for you?"

"What are you wearing?"

"My Thursday cotton grannies."

He let his gaze drop. "I imagined silk bikini. Definitely a Brazilian wax."

"Stop staring at my crotch."

He looked up slowly. "Only if your tits stop staring at my eyes."

"Jerk." She turned her back on him. "Aren't you done shopping yet?"

"Never rush the customer."

"I want you gone. Now."

He followed her to the sale rack. Shirts and shorts were half-price. "What caused your breakup?" he asked.

Pain and annoyance flickered across her face. "Why would you care?"

"Curiosity." He'd found over the years if a woman talked about her broken heart, the hurt didn't fester. He'd had women cry on his shoulder. Others had actually slapped him in their rage over another man. One had kneed him in the groin.

He glanced at his watch. He had a few extra minutes to spare. He'd listen if she wanted to talk. She was slow to come around.

"We split over sex," she finally told him.

"He needed it ten times a day and you could only go nine?"

She rolled her eyes at him.

He tried again. "You were the horny one?" Hard to believe, but he had to ask.

Her answer came through a T-shirt. She set down her notebook and located a step stool and a chrome pole garment hook. She stepped up, using the pole to straighten a T-shirt that had twisted on the hanger. Earn It was scripted on the front.

Mac's laugh was immediate and inappropriate, but he couldn't help it. "You made him work for sex."

She climbed down. "Stan thought so."

"No man likes to jump through hoops for nookie."

She turned on him. "I'm not easy."

He never thought she was.

"I made him wait."

For nearly three months from the sound of their breakup. "Your dude suffered blue balls, uncomfortable but curable," he said.

He hadn't been in Barefoot William long enough to turn blue. He'd hook up on Tide One On. He had his eye on the tall brunette from Crabby Abby's. Her white crocheted string bikini was so small she spilled from the top. He figured she was bare shaven. He thought about buying her a Friction Club T-shirt. He needed a good body rubbing.

"Did you care for the guy?" he asked Jenna. In his mind, knowing someone for three months was lust, not love.

"I thought we had more in common than we actually did."

"Deceiving bastard."

She tried not to smile, but he saw the slight curve of her lips. She showed him a T-shirt with the slogan I Used to Have a Handle on Life, but It Broke. She was ornery and standoffish, but still feeling vulnerable.

She went on to count a row of men's cargo shorts, jotted down the number, then hesitantly asked him, "How long do you stay in a relationship after you realize it's over?"

"A minute, maybe two." He'd broken a few hearts. Several of his lovers had begged him to stay. But if he wasn't feeling it, he was gone. He wasn't being mean, merely honest. "Leading a woman on is far worse than letting her go to find the right man."

"You're the wrong man in so many ways." She pointed to a shirt pinned to the wall. Your Sole Purpose in Life is to Serve as a Warning to Others.

"Do you always let your T-shirts speak for you?"

"The slogans say it all."

He wandered over to the men's shirt rack, sizes medium and large. He looked through the larges. He liked the slogan Got Sex? He would fit right in on the booze cruise.

His shorts were dark brown, but he couldn't distinguish the background color of the T-shirt. He raised both shorts and shirt and called to Jen. "How's this?"

She scrunched her nose. "Orange isn't your color."

He put back the shirt, tried again. This time he chose what appeared to be a tie-dye with Try Me, You'll Like Me. "Jen, does this work?" he asked.

She glanced over. "Only if you're a firecracker. Red-gold is too bright. More women than men buy tie-dyes."

Crap. He'd yet to nail the shirt. He hated to draw her into his decision, but he didn't have all afternoon to fool with the color. There was a beach babe on the party yacht with his name on her. "Pick one out for me?" he requested.

"Do I look like your mother?"

"A little bit around the eyes."

"I'm busy," she stated. "The inventory won't take itself."

Contrary woman. "Help me with my shirt and-" His heart skipped a beat. "I'll take you to the Sneaker Ball," he said in frustration.

She did the unexpected and laughed in his face. "Not a sincere invitation," she said. "What makes you think I'd go with you?"

"I'm a volleyball god."

"Believe what you will."

"Guess you'd rather go alone."

"Guess you're right."

What was her problem? Mac wondered. Women stood in line to date him, yet Jen hung back, reluctant and indecisive. She looked a little nauseous.

Several minutes passed before she set down her notepad and found him a shirt in a light color. Beige or white, he guessed. He smiled over the slogan: You Say Psycho Like It's a Bad Thing.

She handed it to him. "Tan goes well with your brown shorts."

He felt a mild sense of relief.

"Need help with a towel?" she asked next.

"I can manage." He headed toward the shelves of towels near the front of the store. The color didn't matter. He snagged the first one within his reach.

Jen came up behind him. "I didn't take you for a peach kind of guy."

He'd thought it looked deep gold. A rack of sunglasses on the checkout counter caught his attention. Very cool shades by Bandy West and Red Eye. He lost sunglasses as fast as he bought them. He tried on a narrow dark frame with even darker lenses. "What do you think?" he asked her.

"What does it matter?"

"I'll be wearing only my Bandys shortly."

"Buy a bigger frame."

"There's not a frame big enough-"

She held up her hand, stopped him. "Too much information."

"I have a lot to share."

She'd had enough of him. "Pay up so you can go pass out."

"I don't drink to pass out," he said. "But I still get hang-overs."

"Hangovers are a waste of a morning."

"All depends on who you're spooning."

"I've never known sex to fix a hangover."

He grinned. "I have. It's all about blood transfer from the brain to the penis. Pain shifts to pleasure on climax. Headache's gone."

Jenna Cates stared at Mac James. There was something about him that irritated the hell out of her. He was too good-looking and he flipped off life. Chiseled and athletic were a dangerous combination. He seduced by breathing.

Sex was as much a sport to him as volleyball. Town gossip had him in and out of a relationship before a woman could pull up her panties. Commitment gave him hives.

He was an amazing volleyball player, according to her cousin Dune. When Mac was "on," he was unbeatable. He'd never played in Dune's shadow. Focused and honed, he had years of greatness ahead of him. Should Dune retire, Mac would be in demand as a partner.

Jen had watched countless games on television. The Cates clan followed Dune religiously. Beach Heat and Ace-hole dominated. The moment a game ended, Mac embraced his fans before accepting his trophy. Men shook his hand and women grafted themselves to him. The beach babes consoled him when he lost. The night was one big party when he won.

His lifestyle went beyond what she'd ever known. He lived life large and, for some unidentifiable reason, that grated on her last nerve.

Perhaps she was a little jealous, she forced herself to admit. Men didn't flock to her. The few guys she dated lied to her without remorse. She'd become a spinster with four cats at twenty-eight. She told herself that didn't bother her overly much. She had the T-shirt shop to keep her busy.

She glanced at Mac. "Cash or plastic?" she asked as she rang up his sale.

"Put everything on Dune's account."

"Mooch."

"I don't carry money or credit cards with me."

"That's because you travel with Dune and he always pays."

"Eventually I pay him back."

She handed him the receipt to sign.

He wrote Dune Cates.

"You've got my cousin's signature down pat," she noted.

"Should have, I've forged it enough."

"What a good friend you are." She knew she sounded snarky.

His jaw shifted and he was suddenly serious. "Dune accepts my idiosyncrasies."

"Idiocy is more like it," she said as she slid his items in a plastic bag. She passed it to him.

He didn't immediately pick it up. Instead he flattened his palms on the counter and leaned in. His gaze was narrowed, deep blue and questioning. "Are you a man-hater or is it just me?" he asked.

"It's you and men like you." She was honest.