Dream a Little Dreamboat (Pleasure Point #4)
Chapter 1
Captain Kendra’s Log: Thursday. Salty Dogs are life
It’s not every day your childhood best friend kicks you in the lady balls.
No matter how often I swore I wouldn’t look at the news, my fingers again reached for my phone—pulling up the gut-wrenching article that made my heart ache.
The Early Riser Bakery Welcomes CIA-Trained Baker.
I lifted my empty glass and found it devoid of any remnants of the crushed ice it once held.
The dimly lit bar enveloped me as I tore my gaze away from the screen.
A chalkboard at the end of the weathered bar announced that today’s special was “Chili, fast as your shift.” It was next to a hot cop calendar that was two months behind.
I squinted my eyes. Scratch that. It was two years and two months behind.
I pounded my fist on the smooth bar in frustration. “Hit me again.”
The bartender, a stout man with gray hair and a faded T-shirt that read, "Home is where the vodka is," sidled up and fixed me with a stern stare as he stubbornly crossed his remarkably muscular arms. “Haven’t you had enough?” he scolded. I could almost feel the disapproval pressing against my skin.
For crying out loud. I wanted to drink my troubles away, not be criticized for my poor choices. If I wished to have Judgy McJudgeface as a bar companion, I would have gone to my brother’s watering hole on Pleasure Point.
I raised an eyebrow and pointed toward the bartender’s shirt. “Maybe I haven’t made this place home yet.”
“If you’re living at The Squad Room, you got bigger problems than vodka.” The man turned away to mix me another Salty Dog.
I felt my phone screen judging me, too, waiting for me to give it more attention. My hand itched to caress the screen and swipe the Pleasure Point News app open. It called to the edge of my mind. Look at me! You can obsess over the bad news again!
Nope. Nope. Nope.
Not today.
Today, I would drink my drink and ignore the article.
Today, I would not think about the proverbial kick to the lady ‘nads that turned my world upside down.
Today…
Fuck it.
Today, my heart was broken into a million pieces, and I needed more vodka.
“Here you go,” The bartender grumbled. “Add it to the tab?”
I nodded absentmindedly, and the bartender slid the drink my way.
I took a leisurely sip through the plastic straw, letting the familiar taste wash over me.
It was an outlaw move, having plastic straws in a bar by the Florida Gulf Coast. They were dangerous to sea turtles.
The straws, not the bar. Although come to think of it, the bar was probably dangerous to sea turtles, too—all the drunken idiots in here.
Myself included.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
My eyes refused to pay attention to my brain. The siren call of my phone screen drew them like moths to a flame.
Selene Strickland announced the hiring of Truette Heffernan at The Early Riser Bakery. Heffernan studied at the Culinary Institute of America (CIA) and recently ran a bakery in Jackson, Mississippi.
Heffernan said the move brings her back to Florida and closer to her family, which will be critical for her upcoming wedding.
Heffernan is engaged to Pleasure Point native Jesse Barbot.
A wedding date has not been set.
Heffernan. Sounded like a heifer.
That made me snort-laugh, but since I had recently taken a sip of my Salty Dog, this snort-laugh caused me to spit vodka and grapefruit juice all over the man sitting next to me.
“Oh, My Lanta! I’m so sorry,” I spluttered and reached for those tiny napkins that do jack all to clean up spilled drinks from a stranger whose blue eyes danced in the dim light of the bar.
The man shrugged off the mishap with a good-natured response. “Don’t worry about it, Goldilocks.” His voice had a tinge of an accent.
What kind of accent was that? Canadian? French? French Canadian?
Ugh. I had a hard time with languages unless it was semaphore.
The fifty vodka drinks probably didn’t help either.
Despite the haze of alcohol and the blurry room, I homed in on the stranger's dark hair with scattered flecks of white, cut with precision.
The deep tan of his skin showed slight crinkles around his temples, indicating he squinted at people a lot with his strikingly vivid eyes.
Salt and pepper stubble covered a jaw that could cut glass, but I knew it would be soft and the perfect size for my hand.
What the hell was wrong with me?
“I don’t know, Goldilocks, but I think it has something to do with your stream of drinks?” The strange-accent man smirked.
I blinked back to reality. Damn it. I needed to use my inside voice. This is the trouble with growing up with too many siblings. You could say just about anything in the Jarett household, and no one would notice in the din of boisterousness.
I shook my head to clear thoughts of my brothers and sister. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spit my drink all over you.”
His eyes lit up. “You can spit on me whenever you like.”
Which, of course, is what I did a second time.
Damn. It!
“Barkeep!” I yelled, grabbing more tiny napkins and blotting the stranger’s pants. Had I snort-laughed my drink on his crotch? No. Should I be feeling up a stranger’s junk without consent? Also no.
I was on a roll today.
“Name’s Dixon,” the bartender said, tossing me a dry towel that hit me in the chest. “Former police detective Dixon. And if you keep spilling your drinks on my customers, I’ll have some of my Flamingo Cove P.D. friends escort you elsewhere in the back of a squad car.”
I cast a curious glance over my shoulder, where, sure enough, a table of Flamingo Cove’s finest stared at us. They were the only other patrons in the joint, crowded around two mismatched tables that balanced precariously on the black and white checkered floor.
One of the burly police officers, dressed in a crisp blue uniform, lightly rested his right hand on his sidearm, his eyes fixed on me as if anticipating trouble.
His imposing figure shifted toward me, and I couldn't help but notice the subtle tension in his body as if he were prepared to spring into action at any moment.
It was almost comical to think he was concerned about me causing a commotion.
I hadn't realized I had made such a nefarious impression.
“She’s alright,” my human sponge remarked, waving to the crowd. “Working a few things out in her big brain.”
The bartender, Dixon, shook his head and muttered something about Cupid before disappearing through the swinging door to the kitchen.
“My name is Kendra, not Goldilocks,” I said, trying to regain my composure.
That was difficult on a rickety barstool, and one flip of my hair nearly sent me to the floor.
Instead of my face getting up close and personal with the checkered tile, I landed in hard as a freaking rock arms. And the man’s lap.
Which also had something freaking rock-hard.
I scrambled back to my stool, muttering apologies.
“Okay. Kendra. You can call me Raff,” the rock-hard stranger rumbled beside me like a souped-up jetski revving its engine, waiting for me to climb on him.
Board! Climb on board!
Down girl.
“Nice to meet you, Raff. What’s that short for?” I reached for my drink and found it empty.
Raff shrugged. “Nickname of sorts.”
“Oh-kay.” I waited for the rest, but apparently, Raff was a man of few words. “Hmm. Wow. Sucky story. Zero stars. Do not recommend.”
“Not much to tell, Goldilocks.” Raff motioned to Dixon, who had returned to his spot behind the bar. “Another round for my mate? And do you have any Starward single malt?”
Mate? Ah. Australian.
Unless I suddenly transported into a shifter romance.
Wait. Did I transport into a rejected mate shifter romance? Those usually ended with a happy ending when the girl ended up with the boy who was oh-so-wrong but all kinds of right for her. And by “all kinds of right,” I meant he had the most impressive trouser monster in the pack.
“We have what you see on the wall behind me,” Dixon grunted.
Raff squinted at the wall of booze in front of a cloudy mirror. Someone else who was too vain to wear glasses in public. Ha! He pointed to the back row. “Fine. The best single malt you have, then.”
Dixon crossed his arms and leveled a glare at Raff that would’ve cowed bigger men. Raff lifted his chiseled jaw. Dixon squinted. Raff raised an eyebrow. It was as if these two were conversing in a way only cavemen could understand.
My phone vibrated for real this time.
Joy
How are you holding up?
Me
I’m good. So good. GOOOOOOOOOOD.
Joy
That, in fact, tells me you are not good. Far from good. Not even on the outskirts of good.
Me
*gif of Earth being destroyed by a cat with laser eyes*
Joy
Don’t distract me with laser cats, Ken.
Me
*gif of a kitten trying to jump from the back of a couch to a counter and failing miserably*
Joy
Knock it off.
Me
*gif of cute kitten knocking everything off a counter*
I’m fine. Everything’s fine. A-OK. All systems G-O. GO.
A new Salty Dog cocktail appeared before me on the bar, glistening with condensation, and I couldn't help but steal a glance at the handsome stranger seated beside me.
The edge of a tattoo peeked out from beneath his green short-sleeved shirt, hinting at an intriguing and maybe salacious past. It resembled the edge of an anchor, but it could be anything.
"Are you a sailor?" I asked, unable to contain my curiosity.
"I've floated around," Raff replied with a sly grin, revealing a set of straight, pearly white teeth framed by his soft, full lips. His smile made me momentarily forget the impending marriage of the love of my life to someone else.
Jesse.
A mental record scratch jolted me back to my current heartache.
“Ach. And we were having such a good time, too,” Raff said. “What’s with the frown?”
“My best friend is marrying someone else.”
Raff's full lips twisted into a grimace. “And you wanted her for yourself?”
I smacked his ridiculously hard shoulder and shook out my hand. “Holy boulder shoulders. What do you have in there?”
He chuckled and flexed. “I don’t skip arm day. And you’re avoiding the question, Goldilocks.”
“Well, sexist much? My best friend is a man. And he is marrying another woman.”
“You thought he should marry you?”
“Well—”
“Did he ask?”
A pain stabbed me in the heart. “Ah. No. But I had a plan.”
“A plan.”
“Yes! A plan! His divorce recently became finalized—”
Raff shook his head and shot back his drink. “The man was married once before?”
“Yes. To the wrong woman.”
“The right woman being you.”
Why was this guy busting my lady balls so much? They’ve had enough abuse today. “Why do you care?”
“You’re chasing after this man.” Raff ignored my question.
“I’m not chasing after him,” I huffed. “I was finally going to tell him how I felt.”
“How long have you been friends?”
“Thirty years.”
“And he didn’t know how you felt already?” Raff narrowed his eyes that, somehow, focused electric blue lasers of judgment at me.
“I don’t know.”
Raff turned on his rickety bar stool, the creaking wood echoing in the dimly lit room, somehow managing a smooth move, and squared up to me.
The glowing light from a neon sign cast a highlighter-pink glow on his attractive face.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Goldilocks, that man is a bloody idiot if he didn’t see that you’re the best thing that ever happened to him. ”
“You can’t know that.”
“Can’t I? I just met you and know it.” Raff turned back to his drink and grunted.
My stomach dropped like a stone in water. Well, dang. My plan started sounding even stupider, and a wave of regret washed over me. Not that it mattered anymore, with Jesse getting married again. I waited so long to tell him how I felt. Maybe too long.
Why did I wait? Why didn’t I say something that night before he left for college? The weight of my regret tugged on me.
I often found myself lost in dreams of that night, yearning for a different outcome.
I imagined summoning the courage to say something that would draw him into a kiss, a moment where we both would finally understand that we were meant to be together.
Then, he wouldn’t have gone to the frat party his first month in college and knocked up some rando woman who he had to marry.
Ugh. I know. I know he didn’t have to marry her. This was the 21st century, but he did the right thing. And I respected his marriage by keeping silent. I thought my chance was coming.
If I could go back in time and change that moment, I would. Everything would have been different if I said something. Or did something. Like, kiss him.
Raff waved his hand in front of my face. “Earth to Goldilocks. You seem to be stuck in your head about this. How can I get your mind off this bloke who doesn’t know a good thing when it’s right in front of his face?”
I blinked a few times and zeroed in on Raff’s lips. I slowly perused his muscular arms and the large-and-in-charge dick that his expertly-pressed khaki pants were barely holding back.
What could he do to get my mind off things?
“Just a second,” I said, holding a finger up and twirling away from him on my stool. It was a dumb move that almost sent me to the floor again. But I was a woman on a mission that I would need someone to know about.
Me
I’m about to take your stupid advice.
Stealth Brother
Which piece of stupid advice? I give out so much.
Me
That thing where if I want to get over someone, I should get under someone else?
Stealth Brother:
‘Bout damn time.
Also. Gross.
No deets.
Be safe.
Wrap it up.
I gagged, then turned off my phone before I could change my mind and shoved the now-silent piece of technology into my back pocket.
“You want to get out of here?” I asked Raff.
“Check!” He yelled to Dixon.