Chapter 1 #3
And he sure as shit hadn’t gelled with the jocks.
He’d played football and baseball. He’d been better than average, but not great and certainly hadn’t been going places with it.
However, his friend group had remained close to non-existent.
By the time he landed at the CIA, he’d understood why, and it had nothing to do with anyone else but him and his own insecurities about being a walking encyclopedia.
His dad used to tell him he was a fountain of useless information, until someone needed it.
Eventually, Sterling had learned to embrace his talent.
But that had only lasted a few months until a mission had gone bad.
He pushed that thought out of his head and made a beeline for the door, avoiding…
everyone. He was tired, and he'd peopled enough today.
He pushed open the back shutters onto the deck and made his way down the wooden steps to the crushed shell of the parking lot.
The night air had cooled but it still held some humidity. That was almost always true for Southwest Florida.
The cicadas sang their usual song in the cypress at the edge of the lot. And somewhere, out past the inlet, a gator bellowed, long and low.
He'd parked his truck under the live oak at the back of the lot.
He liked to park back there, in part because no one else ever did, except maybe the police chief.
It was also cooler during the day, and he got in some extra steps.
He might not be forty-something, like Buddy, but at thirty-eight, he could use the activity.
He was halfway to his truck when he heard the shutter door swing open behind him and a pair of feet hit the crushed shell.
"Hey, wait a second." Juniper scurried across the parking lot.
He turned, and his heart fluttered. The fact that this woman could elicit that response both impressed and annoyed him.
More hair had slipped out of her bun, and it danced around her face under the moonlight, different shades catching the glow.
Her smile brightened as she approached. She balanced a paper plate in her hands as she did her best to not trip in a pair of heels, which she usually never wore.
But she’d mentioned three times tonight that weddings were made for heels.
"You forgot something," she said.
He patted his back pocket. "I've got my wallet and that has my life in it."
She stumbled to a stop in front of him and pushed out the plate. On it was a slab of white wedding cake, enough for two, with a plastic fork laid neatly across the top. She'd covered it with plastic wrap.
"That's cake," he said.
"It's wedding cake. That I made. From scratch. And there's a ton of leftovers, and it's not like I can serve leftover wedding cake to patrons."
"You could, and everyone would eat it."
"That's absurd," she said. "You're going to take this plate, and you’re going to eat it, and you’re going to like it."
He laughed. "Yes, ma'am."
"That's the spirit."
When he took the plate from her, their fingers brushed at the rim. "Thanks for this," he said. "I'll enjoy it for breakfast."
"That's gross, but I'll take it."
"Have dinner with me." He hadn't planned to ask. He'd told himself a month ago he was done asking. A man had to know when a door wasn't a door, and Juniper's door had been politely closed to him for five months.
But there he was, asking again anyway like a fool with a plate full of cake.
She tilted her head, tucking a piece of her wild hair behind her ears. "You're persistent," she said.
"I've been told."
"I have to admit, I admire that."
"My dad used to tell me persistence was the key to success." He chuckled. "My mom would follow that statement up with how it was also a good way to get locked out of the house."
"That's kind of funny," Juniper said. "I bet your mom is where you get all your one-liners from."
"She's got a sarcastic streak, that's for sure. But she has to, to be married to my dad and to have me for a kid." He shifted his weight. "Is this shift in conversation your way of avoiding answering a question that's been asked and answered five dozen times."
"Fifteen, but who's counting." She winked. "I think persistence wins this time. Let's have dinner."
He blinked. He honestly didn't know what to say. While he could be a quiet and contemplative man he always had room for words. But not this time. He stood there, staring, and saying nothing.
She laughed. "Tomorrow night," she said. "The Crab Shack. I think I can let the bar run itself for one night."
"How about seven?" he asked, grateful his voice didn't crack.
"That works."
He leaned in, pressed his mouth to her cheek, and he let it linger a half-second longer than he'd planned to. She smelled like vanilla and tequila. He stepped back. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Sterling."
Turning, he walked the rest of the way to the truck. She'd agreed to dinner. That thought bounced around in his brain like a rubber ball he couldn't snag. It was just dinner. It wasn’t like they hadn’t spent hours together at the bar talking before. It wasn’t like they weren't friends.
But the sudden realization that this could be filed away in his librarian brain as a date? He damn near dropped the plate when he tried to open the truck door.