3. Weird Mating Ritual
weird mating ritual
Strider
Not thirty minutes later, I’m sitting at the bar that’s nearly empty in the early afternoon, talking with Tom, the bartender. He slides a bowl of shrimp and grits—his recommendation—in front of me with a flourish and refills my water from the soda gun.
“You enjoy.” He dips his head to the huge bowl in front of me. “I know you will.”
He returns to cleaning the glassware that already looks spotless.
It takes exactly one bite for me to fall in love. “Damn, that’s good.”
Tom’s smile cracks his weathered face. “Told ya.”
“You did. Now tell me about this place from a local’s perspective. What makes Fairhope Fairhope?”
He launches in, regaling me with why he recently moved to the town that sits on Mobile Bay’s eastern coast, who here he’s come to love and trust, and who in town raises his suspicions.
“Not because they’re bad, mind you. It’s”—he looks out the windows to the European-style terrace—“they just make me wonder is all. All nice people. But still. Keep an eye out for Fuzzy and Fergus. Those two are trouble. They act all innocent, but they seem to be in the thick of it, no matter where that thick may be. All I know is I bet their elementary school teachers—God rest their souls—or coaches, or employers or, hell, the folks at the senior center would all say the same thing. How they’ve skated by must be legendary. ”
“Fuzzy and Fergus. Got it.” I push the plate away several bites after being too full, but the rich gravy and the buttery base are addictive. “How do you make this kind of polenta?”
Had I known I was detonating a bomb, I would’ve thought twice about the question.
“Polenta? Boy.” Tom stretches out the word as his eyes go wide. “Grits. You are in the south. There’s no such thing as polenta. ’Cept in those fancy Italian restaurants. Even then, it’s grits. Don’t go making that mistake again.”
“Yes, Sir.” My face splits into a smile. “Tell you what, Tom. I’ll come back tomorrow, try another dish, and listen to more wisdom. That work?”
“That works. I’m here open to close.” He slides my plate off the bar and drops it out of sight with barely a clank. “Polenta,” he mutters under his breath. “The boy said polenta.”
“Strider.” I extend a hand. “Strider Anderson. Nice to meet you, Tom.”
The sun blinds me as I exit the restaurant and wander the main drag on my way back to the cottage. Friday afternoon seems to bring with it some extra traffic, but people wave and yell their hellos to each other.
Yet again, I note the charm. That’s the only word for it. Warm, welcoming, almost enchanting. Pulling out my phone, I send a text to my youngest sister.
I’m in coastal Alabama.
And I like it.
Lolo
Is this a Gondor-calls-for-aid situation? Quick. Prove this is my brother.
Restaurants provide salty freebies for satiety. Or whatever that word is. And you know I’ve been here several times, right?
Does she?
Whew. You had me worried for a minute. Why are you in Alabama?
Work thing. But I extended my trip. It’s 70 degrees and sunny.
You sure you’re okay? You don’t make weather-based decisions.
A horn honks, and the driver waves at me. I lift a hand in acknowledgment before spinning around to look behind me, hoping I didn’t just make an ass of myself with someone else being the intended recipient.
Nope. It was meant for me. Weird.
I’m fine. How are wedding plans coming along?
Bubbles dance for longer than I can imagine as I wait.
Good, but it’s a lot of hullabaloo for one day. It should be about the union, not the party, you know?
I don’t. Not at all.
And that’s the reason we know you and Liam will make it. And, sis, hullabaloo?
We continue our text chat as I meander through the streets back to the cottage. I’m almost to the porch when movement in the driveway catches my eye. Rounding the house along the brick pathway, I stop dead in my tracks.
“Freckles?”
Mirren
I drop my eyes closed just as my jaw falls.
Busted.
After seeing the search results on my new renter, I packed a bag and was getting the heck out of Dodge. Of all the times and places I could bump into him, this is the least dangerous… but the most awkward. And since I’m caught red-handed in my own driveway, my stealth skills definitely need work.
Slowly pivoting on a heel, I find the man whose arms I tumbled into earlier this week—fully dressed this time—standing before me.
He’s just as handsome. No, he’s more so. Though wariness flits across his features, he’s more relaxed, as if the weight of something heavy has been lifted.
“Freckles?” I won’t get my back up over a childish nickname.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looks sheepish. “Yeah. Sorry. I”—he gestures to me—“I don’t know your name, so I called you Freckles in my head.” He points, pretending to dot my nose. A flush creeps up his cheeks. “I should stop talking now.”
He’s gorgeous, but there’s something downright cute in his mannerisms. I can tell he didn’t mean to let the words escape, and he can’t wrangle them back in.
“Mirren.” I extend a hand to shake, jolting when our palms connect.
“Strider.” His eyes lock on mine after flitting to our joined hands.
I nod. I knew that.
“Your home”—his eyes never leave mine—“is… Wait, were you leaving?”
My overnight bag weighs heavy on my shoulder. Awkward. I shrug, looking at our still connected hands, before hitching a thumb over my shoulder toward the street. “I have a thing.”
“It seems you had a thing a couple of days ago too. You were…”—his lips quirk—“unexpected.”
He’s boyish and real, not at all like the slick-talking soldiers I’m used to. His ego doesn’t arrive three seconds ahead of him.
“I’m sorry about that.” I drop my gaze, letting my hair curtain my face. No excuses. No proffered explanations.
“I’m not.” The words are quiet and sincere. “But the way I see it, you made a promise you haven’t kept.”
My spine goes straight, and my head snaps up. “How’s that?”
“Well, there was the implied promise of breakfast. Or a meal of some sort when you used the ruse to get into my hotel room.”
“An implied promise?”
“I opened the door after an explicit offer of services to be rendered.”
“Are you an attorney or something?” I know better, but what the hell?
He shakes his head, a hint of a smile playing on his perfect mouth. “Just a man who thinks the least you could do is have coffee with me. Breakfast or dinner would be better.”
“Are you”—he can’t be—“coercing me into going on a date with you?”
His smile is coy, a little crooked, and sexy as fuck. “Well, okay, Mirren. Because you asked so sweetly, I’d be glad to go on a date with you.”
I sputter. I didn’t ask. He basically linguistically kinged me in checkers and I’m left… speechless.
He gestures to my shoulder. “I don’t want to keep you from your thing. But let me get your number. Or would you prefer I contact you through Airbnb messaging?”
Exactly what I need—the site where I make my money watching the weird mating ritual between the awkward and the perpetually charming.
“Give me your phone,” I say reluctantly, extending a palm.
He unlocks it, offering it to me.
I add my number and type Mirren in contacts. No last name. No nickname. Certainly not Freckles. And hit send to my own device so I know who I’m avoiding… or avoiding poorly, in my case.
So far, I’ve managed to bump into the man twice in a handful of days. Once at my own damn house. Yeah, my stealth skills need work asap.
“Nice to meet you officially, Strider. I’ll uh… see you around.” I turn toward the garage.
“Would you prefer dinner or breakfast?” he calls as I retreat.
My eyes close. He’s so, so tempting. And I can’t afford to be tempted. Not by the charming, funny man who ticks every one of my boxes.
“Dinner.” I don’t turn back as I walk.
Breakfast implies the night before. If I don’t watch myself, it would be way too easy for him to tick that box too.