Down Home (Balsam Bay #2)

Chapter 1

I’M PETER, BY THE WAY.

BILLIE

I’m horny and ready for an orgasm. Or two.

The woman sitting next to me is pretty. While she looks a little uncomfortable in a short dress, I appreciate her obvious effort—her hair is done, her makeup is flawless, and she’s got a fresh manicure.

It’s doing nothing for me, though, which is too bad because I have waxed, plucked, and shaved every last unwanted hair from my body, and it’d be great if I weren’t the only one appreciating how smooth I am tonight.

She’s laying it on thick, explaining how she’d been with a man for too long, and she needs something different. Someone different.

Sorry, babe, but I’m not here to fulfill your bi-curious fantasies, or whatever.

Every time she reaches over to touch my arm or my hand, I scooch a little further away on my barstool. Any more scooching and I’ll fall right off, but she doesn’t seem to notice my disinterest.

I look to one side, wondering how quickly I can make my escape if I pay my tab now.

The bartenders are both caught up with a keg that seems to be giving them a hard time, so they don’t see me.

I’m half tempted to go help them so I can get away.

Instead, I chew on the straw from my drink.

I’m not even looking at her anymore. What was her name?

Kate? Kim? We met less than half an hour ago when she sat next to me, and I’ve already forgotten.

It’s early, so there aren’t many people here.

It’s also a warm Thursday evening in late May, and Haligonians are congregating on the patios along Argyle Street or at the waterfront a few blocks down from here.

Suddenly, I want to be out there, too. I opted for the hotel bar so I didn’t have to walk far, but maybe that would have been better.

Fucking damn it.

My knee bounces as she leans in close, and my level of discomfort grows. I’m going to have to tell her thanks, but no thanks, even though I hate that part. I can be a hard ass on behalf of my team or my clients when I need to, but in my personal life? The word no does not come easily to me.

Letting out a slow breath, I prepare myself to deliver the blow.

I sit straighter and inhale deeply, and at that same moment, there’s a pleasant warmth at my back, like some invisible shield has built itself behind me.

A shield that smells like a clean, soapy man.

A man who has great taste in cologne or aftershave or whatever the hell they use.

“Sorry I’m late, darling. Traffic was a nightmare, of course.” I turn my head toward the deep voice, noting that, despite his closeness, he’s not touching me. His brows lift over his caramel-colored eyes, silently asking me to go along with whatever he’s doing.

“Did you forget there was construction on Sackville?” My recovery is a little shaky. I have no idea if there’s work on that particular road, but it’s spring in Halifax. There’s work happening literally everywhere all at once, and it’ll be finished sometime in the next half-century. Maybe.

“You know me, I always forget shit like that.” He shrugs, and his knit polo clings to his shoulders perfectly, making him look like he stepped off a Ralph Lauren billboard.

The handsome stranger runs his hand over his dirty-blond hair, tucks that same hand into the pocket of his linen pants, and gives me a lopsided grin, making goosebumps rise on my exposed legs. Or maybe that’s the AC.

“But you remember the important things, don’t you?” The question comes out as more of a statement, which surprises me, but not the man now grinning widely at me.

“You know I do, baby,” he whispers the words with a wink, and I nearly melt into the expensive leather stool. Pretty Boy is… hot. Okay. This is an unexpected surprise.

“So, is this gonna be a party of three?” The woman I’d completely forgotten about speaks up, and we both take our time prying our eyes off each other.

I open my mouth to respond, but I’m not fast enough. “Sorry, but after dinner I absolutely do not plan on sharing my dessert.”

When I look back up at him, his eyes are already on me, and I swear there is actual fire inside them. Damn, he’s really fucking good at this.

Unsure of where to look next, my decision is made for me when Whatever-Her-Name-Is huffs. My knight in linen armor slides a fifty next to my empty glass, then places a careful hand on my lower back where the low-cut shirt I’m wearing covers my skin. “Our table is ready. Shall we?”

I don’t even hesitate. I blindly reach for my phone on the bar top, throwing the annoyed woman a somewhat apologetic glance. It’s definitely a sorry-not-sorry situation, though, and based on how she’s already looking around the bar for someone else to talk to, she doesn’t care all that much.

As we slowly walk away, I let out a relieved breath. “I thought I was going to have a tartle moment back there.”

“A what now?” he asks with genuine curiosity.

“It’s a Scottish word. Means that sort of dread you feel when you have to introduce someone but can’t remember their name.”

With his hand still warming my skin through the fabric of my shirt, the beautiful stranger chuckles, no doubt feeling the shiver it sends down my back. He clears his throat. “Are you hungry?”

“Pretty much always,” I answer too honestly, turning to look at him and finding myself unable to focus on anything other than his smile.

It’s a good smile, and it’s paired with another throaty chuckle that rattles my bones in a delicious way.

I’m close enough to note that his mouth is level with my eyes, which means he’s tall.

And that’s coming from someone who’s 5’10”.

I guess I could have worn heels tonight after all—something I tend to avoid because men are often less inclined to look up to a woman.

And I do mean that in the physical sense and otherwise.

Most women don’t have my height, so I end up feeling like I’m towering over them, but not tonight.

Nope. Tonight, I’m the one who will have to look up, and I don’t mind one bit.

His hand shifts to my waist, stopping me from bumping into the small table where someone dressed in all black is gathering menus for us. They ask us to follow, but before we do, his warmth leaves me when his right hand is outstretched between us.

“I’m Peter, by the way.” His voice is low, like he’s sharing a secret right here in the open.

I look up again, and damn, I really like how that feels. When our eyes meet, I place my hand in his. “Elizabeth.” I give him my full first name—a conscious choice I make on these trips to the city when I want to let loose.

It’s impossible to ignore the heat filling my veins as we touch.

I’ve felt this before, this instant connection.

It’s what I use weekends like this for: to meet someone I can connect with for one night, and then I go back to Balsam Bay and live my life without fear of running into anyone I’ve slept with.

With that thought, I send up a silent prayer that this guy is not from the South Shore.

I doubt it. He looks more like someone who’s visiting, with those expensive brown leather loafers and how vague he was about traffic earlier.

A Haligonian would have given a specific street name.

“You good with joining me for dinner, Elizabeth?” And there it is: he says dinner, not supper.

He’s not a Maritimer at all. But what lands softly and covers me like a warm blanket is the way he says my name.

A name I decided to avoid as a child because it sounded too old for a girl as cool as me.

So, at the age of twelve, I decided to switch to Billie.

My best friend’s little sister tried to make Lizzie stick, but other than my dad, no one calls me anything other than Billie.

My classmates all agreed it suited me better since I was such a tomboy, anyway.

By high school, when I’d come out as bisexual, some people used the nickname to try to upset me.

I became Bi-Billie to some, but when I embraced the new name rather than reject it, the novelty quickly wore off.

But now, this guy says my full name and suddenly it feels sexy, sophisticated, grown up. It feels like all the things I’ve always been told I’m not, and I like it. Whether that’s how he sees me or not, for a moment, it’s what I feel, and that means… everything.

He patiently waits for my answer, likely thinking I’m mulling over whether or not I want to eat with him, but the answer is easy.

“Oh, yeah. I’m good,” I say with my hand still in his. He breathes out a sigh, and it lands softly on my arm as he gives my hand a gentle squeeze, before releasing me.

I turn to our waiting host, and the heat from his hand returns to my back, higher this time, so we’re skin-to-skin. I like that, too. I’m starting to wonder how many more things I’m going to like tonight.