4. Summer
Summer
W hen I sat at the two-top at The Cabin, I expected nothing different other than being there for their sweet potato fries on the happy-hour menu.
Designed with meticulously weathered white shiplap and dark-blue walls, the waterfront restaurant boasted the best views of Freedom Bay.
As a child, my father would take me here on every birthday, allowing me to get the pirate ship meal off the kid’s menu. My first legal drink was at the bar, a slippery nipple that tasted better going down than it did coming back up three hours later. The walk from Ridgewood Inn took me across Front Street, past Sticky Cow Brewery, and up a staircase to the heavy cabin door.
The day had been a long thirteen hours at work. When one of my servers called in a half hour before his shift, I knew that the day would be tough. Marnie in housekeeping had informed me that the guests in 221 stole the towels and pillows from the room and that Angie’s car had broken down and couldn’t get a ride to work until her boyfriend returned from his job.
All I wanted to do was head back to my apartment, but my fridge was as empty as the gas tank in my red two-door Camry. While I could have Nutter Butter bars for dinner—again—I deserved tourist-priced wine.
With my glass of a local Viognier on its way, I opened my reading app, pulling up A Ladies Guide to Impropriety.
When the server set my wine down, he winked.
He was cute enough, someone a few years older than me at school. I was pretty sure he had asked Devin out at some point.
As he walked away, I sent Devin a text.
Summer: Is John who works at The Cabin the guy who sang Ed Sheeran to you in the middle of the courtyard at lunch junior year???
Devin: It was Coldplay, but yeah
That was a no-go. I added “serenading servers” to my immediately jail list. So far, I had cheaters, men who wear deep V-neck shirts, girls who baby-talk in the middle of a conversation, anyone with a beer opener on their sandals, people who hate Taylor Swift and Beyonce based on vibes, and those who tell me I don’t understand Wes Anderson movies.
It would’ve been nice to have a little physical attention, though. The dating pool in Ridgewood was getting slimmer each year. While I’ve had a few flings over the years, hooking up with a random from the Skol House wasn’t an option anymore when they could also show up at the hotel.
Dating apps were a lost cause. Most people who popped up lived across the water in Seattle, and with as horny as I could get at night, I wasn’t going to hop on a boat for an orgasm.
Switching from the message thread to my library book, I read the first sentence when the door opened. I glanced up, the street roaring below us, and almost dropped my phone on the table.
It was the guy.
It had been over a month since I had seen him. But somehow, he looked better. In all the heightened emotions of the day, I told myself he wasn’t nearly as good-looking as I remembered. But, no, if anything, he was better-looking. A clean gray tee shirt clung to his broad chest, gripping those firm biceps. His beard had grown out thicker, but it was well groomed. When I last saw him, his dark hair was disheveled, but it was neatly combed.
I wasn’t sure what I liked more.
He stopped at the hostess stand, his thick forearms flexing as he shoved his hands in his pockets. A sly smile crossed his face as he talked with the hostess. She giggled, then waved him toward my general area.
No. This couldn’t be happening.
He wouldn’t come over and talk to me, would he? Our exchange was awkward, possibly felonious, and I had done everything to wipe it from my mind. So much so that I wasn’t sure I remembered his name.
Taking a gulp of my cold wine, I racked my brain.
Did he tell me his name?
No, I didn’t think he did.
Did he?
He looked like someone with a butch name. Jagger or Diesel or Ace. Something like that.
Surely, enough people were there to hide among.
Pulling my blonde hair over my eyes, I picked up my phone, my eyes downcast.
The night before, I had been engrossed in the tale of Viscount Rodolphe as he stole a phaeton to confess his love for Beatrice.
Now, I had to will myself to reread the same sentence repeatedly. My eyes darted to the bar where the mystery man was seated with his back to me. The server was flirting with the bartender, leaning between the row of ketchup bottles and rolled napkins to talk.
Had they put my order in the system yet?
At this rate, I couldn’t avoid being seen. I willed my server to stop flirting.
The sooner I could finish my food, the sooner I’d be on my threadbare couch watching The West Wing .
Josh Lyman wouldn’t do me wrong.
With a shaking hand, I sipped my wine and trained my eyes to stay on my book. Viscount Rodolphe was easing Beatrice’s chemise off her shoulder. As this was my third time reading this book, I knew biggest gossip in the Ton would soon interrupt them.
“You changed your hair,” the deep voice sounded.
He stood beside my booth, looking at me.
From my vantage point, he was eight feet tall. And big—all over. His crotch was directly at my eyeline. It was difficult to tell whether that bulge was odd-fitting jeans or if he was majorly packing. Judging by his mere size, it was likely the latter. For a moment, I wondered what those strong thighs would feel like between my own.
Don’t be thinking about this stranger’s dick right now.
Blinking away my lusty thoughts, I craned my neck to look at him.
Those startling gray eyes boring into mine, rimmed with long dark lashes. The kind of lashes that women spent hundreds of dollars on. Life wasn’t fair.
“Do I know you?” I feigned innocence.
“Nice try, little thief. I’d recognize you, new hair or not.”
“I didn’t steal anything.” Sending invisible messages for him to go away, I looked back at my phone.
It was embarrassing enough that he showed up here, but did he have to call me out for my terrible behavior in my favorite restaurant?
He slid onto the other bench, set his beer on the table, and folded his hands.
Scratches and white scars riddled his knuckles. Working-man’s hands. He was tinkering with something greasy when he found me in his home. I bet he worked in manual labor and that those hands wanted to wring my neck for showing up in his house.
My father had working-man’s hands, never clean enough, even after scrubbing them with the orange-scented grit.
“What are you doing? I didn’t ask you to join me.”
He shrugged. “I was about to place a to-go order for dinner and have a beer at the bar and then I saw you.”
“And?” I asked, not bothering to hide my annoyance.
Sure, I had barged in on this man in his home, but the time for him to be upset had long passed.
“You looked like you could use a rescue.”
“I don’t nee—” Scowling, I set my phone face down. “I was reading a book. Despite what men may think, a woman sitting alone is not an invitation for company.”
The comment didn’t seem to bother him.
“I was going to stop by your house, since I know your address from your check, but here you are.” Instead, a glint of mischief flashed in his eyes. “And it felt like fate.”
“Fate?” I snorted.
Fate was for my dreamy cousin, Autumn—and for my mother, who flitted around Southern California in her camper van, never knowing where the road would take her and sending me birthday cards a month late.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. And yesterday, my cheating ex tried to proposition me.”
Sitting across from me, he studied my face. “You owe me a favor. I’m here to collect.”
Brow raised, I took a tentative sip of my wine and waited for him.
Long stretches of silence never bothered me. My friends would fill up those moments with idle chatter but not me. There was a power in not saying anything at all and staring down your opponent.
Unlike most of the men I would level, he didn’t appear ruffled. He chuckled softly to himself, nodding, as if I was confirming something for him.
“Here’s the deal. I need a date for the parade. My boss has a house on the route, and every year, he throws a big party at his place. I need you to come with me and pretend to be my girlfriend for the day.”
I snorted, cocking my head. “Your date? Yeah, sure, big guy.”
“I’m serious. You owe me.”
He didn’t seem to be lying.
Back flush with the cold wooden booth, I crossed my arms. “You’re a good enough-looking guy. I’m sure you could be charming if you weren’t so pushy. That’s a week away. I’m sure you could find some other random gal to take with you.”
“I can’t use some random gal. It has to be you.”
“Me? Not that I don’t think I’m a catch, but I doubt I made that great of an impression that you’ve been lusting after me dripping rain all over your rug.”
This time, he looked away, his mouth turning to a grimace. After grumbling and huffing, he finally looked at me. “Because I already told my boss that you’re my girlfriend.”
A burst of laughter wheezed out of me.
“Wait, what? Why?” I choked out between laughs.
He leaned back in his chair, studying me, as I tried to contain my snickering. “You done?”
Lips pursed, barely containing a smile, I nodded.
“It came out. My boss asked me to take his granddaughter out, who I’m sure is a perfectly nice woman, but I don’t date anyone seriously, and I can’t risk my job if I broke the heart of some barely-out-of-college girl. So, I told him I had a girlfriend, and when he asked for a name, I gave him yours.”
“Mine? I’m the first person you thought of?”
“Unfortunately.” He glared at me with a murderous expression.
I drained the rest of the wine and set the empty glass on the edge of the table. When the server saw it, he nodded at me.
“I still don’t know why you would ask me to do that. You don’t even know me.”
He held my gaze, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I was the first to look away.
Years before, I went on a road trip to California. Autumn had talked me into hiking near Mammoth Mountain to see Rainbow Falls. We saw this towering formation of basalt columns there, the geometric rocks dwarfing us.
His eyes were the same gray of those boulders, striking and enigmatic.
Copying my pose, he crossed his arms, mirroring me. “I have a good feeling about you. It’s one night and then you can go off on whatever breaking and entering fantasies you like to conjure up.”
“First of all, there was no breaking, only entering. You left your front door unlocked. And second, I told you my ride let me off in the wrong spot, and I was lost.”
A smile quirked on his face.
“Sure, let’s go with that.”
“Why would you trust me? I could be a serial killer for all you know.”
“A female serial killer who mails a check for dry-cleaning your rug in the comment line?”
My steady gaze faltered.
“Yeah. It’s a devious move, obviously.”
“Not that I didn’t appreciate the gesture, but maybe think twice before sending someone a blank check in the mail. I could have ripped you off.” He frowned. “You didn’t even write my name on it.”
“You didn’t give it, and I had better things on my mind than getting to know the man who was about to call the cops on me.”
“It’s Donovan Logan. Van.”
“Van Logan.”
The server returned with a second glass of wine and my salmon and avocado tacos. I ordered them overly garlicky, as I wasn’t kissing anyone tonight or any other night.
“Anything for you?” the server asked him.
“Yeah, can you have them make my to-go order for here? I’m dining with my girl.”
The server’s eyes flashed to me in confusion, but he nodded. “Of course. Give me a minute.”
I scowled at him. “Why did you do that?”
He grabbed a piece of avocado that had fallen from my taco and popped it in his mouth, a familiar gesture that twisted my stomach. “Because we have loads to discuss. Come on, my treat.”
I thought of the hefty chunk taken out of my savings for the first and last month’s deposit for my apartment. Of the money, I had to spend on businesslike yet comfortable heels for work.
“No funny business.”
“Only serious business.” He frowned, his brow furrowing mockingly. “Of course, Ms. Townsend.”
“Don’t call me that.” I flicked my thumbnail against my pinky nail three times.
He pushed his half empty beer to the side and leaned forward, his voice low. “What should I call you? Summer? Because you are the least sunny person I’ve ever seen.”
“As if you’re the most charming person yourself,” I retorted. “You bulldoze your way over here, ruin what should have been a perfectly pleasant evening of wine and tacos, and worst of all, interrupt my reading when it was getting good. It makes sense your name is Van because you drove roughshod all over my night.”
He pressed his full lips together as if biting back a smile. “You done?”
I flipped my hair over my left shoulder and gave him a withering look. “Maybe.”
He ran a hand through his dark hair, mussing the styled coif. A lock fell over his forehead as he leaned toward me. “Look, it’s one night, great view of the parade, free food—and even better, free drinks. I just need my boss to stop trying to set me up with his granddaughter.”
While I had stopped following Cory everywhere, he still viewed all of my posts. Didn’t hide behind a fake account or anything. It was possible he even had notifications turned on because he was the first to view each post. Maybe if I popped up with someone else, he’d leave me alone. And suffer a little. I wasn’t above wanting him to suffer.
“I have one condition. You will let me take lots of pictures of us together.”
“You need to make someone jealous?”
No way was I divulging my reasons for this guy.
I raised a brow and stared him down. “Do you want me to come or not?”
Van nodded, extending a hand. “Fair enough. You got a deal, sunshine.”
As I took his hand, a zing of something ran down the inside of my arm. His hands were softer than I had expected, though still calloused. His grip was solid. A man who didn’t know how to shake was an immediate turnoff for me. A man with a weak grip for no reason doesn’t respect you enough to think you can handle it. This man didn’t hold back, his touch firm. I liked that. It was as if he knew I could take it and more.
I tightened my grip, and a sly smile played on his lips.
“Deal.”
As he pulled away, his thumb grazed the back of my hand, his touch sliding down my fingers.
A scene in my book flashed through my mind. Viscount Rodolphe pulling off Lady Beatrice’s glove. The wantonness of such an innocent move bound something in my chest.
Slipping my fingers around the stem of my wineglass, I needed to steady myself before I took a drink.
The server came back with Van’s burger, setting it between us.
Before he could leave, I said, “My guy here is insisting that I take a slice of the peach pie home. Could you box that up for me?”
Van snorted, shaking his head and then nodding at the server. “Of course. Anything my girl wants, she can have. Why don’t you make that the dessert sampler? We’ll need a treat for later—extra energy and all that—won’t we, Sunshine?” He gave me a lascivious wink.
Despite myself, heat flooded my cheeks. If this were one of my books, I’d call him rakish. In our time, it’s a fuck-boy look.
The server mumbled his response, walking away.
My smile dropped, and I scowled. “Was that necessary? You look pornographic winking like that.”
“Pornographic. My, my. You have an imagination.” With his elbow propped on the table, he swirled his thumb over the tip of his pointer finger.
I thought of how that hand felt in mine, the strength of those fingers as they slid over my skin. I had never given much thought to the strength of a man’s hands, but it was consuming me.
“It’s indecent. I work across the street, and now the server is going to be picturing us in bed together.”
Van glanced at the server, who was at the bar talking to the bartender. “That man has been picturing you in bed this entire time.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I scoffed.
“He has, and you know it. You can be my little thief, but don’t you dare lie.”
“I didn’t steal, and I’m not your anything.”
Regretting the decision to allow him at my table, let alone agreeing to this fake date with him, I realized I could always stand him up.
“Oh, you’re something alright, but that’s not important. Now, before you get too far in objectifying me, let’s talk logistics. What do I need to know about you before Saturday?” He took a big bite of his burger.
Staring across the table at this gorgeous man, I tried to think of a dozen reasons to leave.
I didn’t know him. He was infuriating after fifteen minutes. His face was far too symmetrical to be trustworthy.
All the warning signs were there. This was a stupid idea. But it wouldn’t end with me having to get tested at the clinic or with a bottle of duty-free champagne thrown at his door. I was original enough to switch things up, anyway.
What harm could one fake date do?