Chapter 6
[Neve]
“You need to tell him,” Isolde says, as we stand beneath the giant party tent containing beer lovers.
Nothing says fall like a craft beer festival, and as craft brewing is the newest, largest industry in Maine, Lovewell Landing pours out to celebrate.
Chug-Along is a beer fest that is different from Oktoberfest, because this annual celebration is near National Beer Lovers’ Day and perfectly coordinates with Labor Day this year.
This small town loves to find a reason to host a party, and locals and tourists alike gather in our village square to appreciate independent beer makers.
Of course, this year, I cannot participate, so I’m on a mission to find the best non-alcoholic craft beer invented.
“I know,” I whisper, glancing around me as if someone can hear the words we aren’t saying.
I need to talk to Tate.
“It’s just . . .” I sigh. “I thought he’d be gone already.”
Without Lumi present to dump my latest concerns on, I shovel this new development onto my younger sister.
As the quieter half of my twin siblings, Isolde is a local high school teacher and a good listener.
She’s also beautiful with long hair she often wears in a single braid over her shoulder.
Her wide blue eyes are complemented by a summer tan that lingers despite the sweater weather we’re suddenly experiencing.
She’s wearing cute denim shorts and a loose-fitting sweatshirt, while I wear fashionable bib overalls and a long-sleeved tee.
For the most part, I’ve been able to conceal my pregnancy until recently.
With the loose T-shirts I typically wear, or my mechanic’s uniform, my condition has not been noticeable.
But sometime in mid-August, I popped out like I’d swallowed a medium-sized pumpkin, and there was no longer a good way to disguise the obvious.
I’m pregnant. Without a partner.
“He still has a right to know.” Isolde intrudes on my thoughts as the voice of reason.
She’s right. I know she’s right. Especially now that I know who Tate really is.
Once upon a New Year’s Eve, he was simply Driver, a hot man in a racecar driver costume who knew how to rev my engine.
Now, he’s Tatum Love, town royalty.
But he’s also so much more than a simple title.
Since our reintroduction, Tate has been considerably kind, almost compassionate about my pregnancy.
He’s worried about my swollen feet and breathing fumes in the garage.
Even deeper, his soft brown eyes express genuine concern, not pity, for me.
Like he’s just a good guy, and I should not be so surprised by that.
It isn’t like I attract bad men. I just don’t attract men on a level that involves staying power.
And after Tate’s confession yesterday, about how he wants the full-package experience, involving love and commitment, a strong relationship and partnership like being a husband and a father, he seems like a man who wants to stick.
Which is not what I expected about him.
Yet, none of that is the reason a little part of me wants to hold back. Telling him the truth would be like giving him one more sliver of me. He’s lingering in town to chat with Lumi about the sale of the garage, and that truth stares me in the face. She’s going to want to sell . . . to him.
“Are you drinking?” The sharp masculine voice turns both our heads, and I meet the face of a very concerned Tate staring back at me.
Isolde and I have been leaning on a standing table.
In this crowded space, stools aren’t available.
Only tall tables are provided for craft brew connoisseurs to rest their drinks while standing.
In the corner of the tent, a modern folk band is setting up.
This place is about to crank it up a notch and turn into a proper revelry.
And no, I am not drinking, but I do have a sample of zero-alcohol beer from The Moose is Loose in my hand.
“Yep.” I pop the -p before winding up the sarcasm. “Getting drunk as a skunk in a funk.”
Tate’s eyes widen. The man standing beside him looks equally aghast. And both men are wearing flannel shirts.
While I expect the attire on Landon Abbott, seeing Tate in yet another clothing combination is deliciously disturbing.
I’ve seen him in a racecar driver costume (and out of it), plus a tailored suit, running attire, and now this, the official uniform of all Maine men.
The flannel shirt.
I hate how well he wears this one in shades of blue with dark jeans.
“It’s a double-O,” Isolde clarifies, unable to keep up the ruse.
Landon snorts. His dad owns HammerTime Hardware Store, and Isolde worked there as a teenager.
She still works there during her summers off.
Teachers do not make nearly as much money as they deserve.
In addition to Landon’s red flannel shirt, he wears a knit cap over his brown hair.
His sexy smirk enhances the lumberjack look.
He’s also a bit of a town player, like me, I guess, although we never . . . just nope.
He has a reputation for flatlanders, people who aren’t from Maine, but visit our little hamlet. His preference stems from the lack of anyone else in town for him to sleep with, except my sister, and she’s not interested.
Landon, on the other hand, has a serious crush on the unobtainable, and the only one who doesn’t see it is Isolde.
“Do you know my cousin?” Tate addresses me while waving the plastic cup of beer in his hand toward Landon.
“Your cousin?” That’s right, he mentioned the family connection the other day.
“The Snowe sisters and me go way back,” Landon says, giving Isolde a wink. She scrunches her nose, lifts her beer for a sip, and turns her head, blatantly ignoring him. The problem with Landon is that he’s ruggedly good-looking and difficult to dismiss in a crowd.
Tate nods, and the conversation instantly stalls, which leads me to hope he’ll walk away.
He’s just too pretty to look at, and he’s been exceptionally nice to me.
I shiver at the thought. Not that I want him to be mean, but I don’t know how to handle a good guy.
And he seems genuinely good. He keeps worrying about my feet and lifting my legs, as if he actually cares about me.
I could joke that he probably treats all the girls like that, but how many pregnant women can a guy know?
Mentally, my head says hold out on talking to him. He’ll be gone after the holiday weekend. Tuesday at best, Wednesday at the latest.
But my heart knows I owe him the truth.
Isolde explained that if Tate’s company acquires Rusty’s Wrecks for Bucky Beaver Body Shop, Tate might be back. He wouldn’t be my boss because he’s only brokering the sale for someone else. Which leaves me hoping he’ll disappear after the sale. If we sell.
Still, my sister is right. Tate needs to know the truth. I just don’t know how to tell him.
“We should play a drinking game,” Landon blurts.
“Uhm.” I hold up my plastic cup, jiggling it side to side. Pretty certain, I’m not going to catch the slightest buzz with this double-O, which is exactly the point and the exact opposite of a drinking game.
“You’re so fifteen,” Isolde counters, glaring at Landon.
His gaze roves down what he can see of her body. “Whoever blushes first, drinks.” He stares directly at Isolde. “I want to pet your beaver.”
Isolde’s face flames, and the corner of Landon’s mouth tips upward, pleased that he’s gotten a rise out of my sister.
“Dude,” Tate scolds.
“It’s an otter,” Isolde clarifies about a local otter that’s taken a liking to her. While highly destructive, hyper, and not to mention a wild animal, this one has developed a rare routine of visiting Isolde’s place. Probably because she feeds him.
“And I’m not playing.” Her cheeks turn rosy once more.
“Aw, sweet otter Isolde, you’re turning red again. Drink.”
Isolde scowls, giving him her best teacher face. “Landon Abbott, go away.”
My sister should really tell him to fuck off, but she rarely swears, and as they stare each other down, I’m not convinced she really wants him to go.
“Leave it,” Tate counters, bumping his shoulder against his cousin.
Landon chuckles. “I can never help myself. You’re just too easy, otter.”
Isolde glares back at him. “I am not easy.”
“That’s okay, I like it hard,” Landon wiggles his brows.
I shake my head.
While all this back-and-forth is funny foreplay to witness, I have other things on my mind, like the sudden nearness of one flannel-shirted man who smells like cinnamon and cloves. For some reason, my mouth waters.
Tate leans on the wobbly table, his forearms on display as his shirtsleeves are rolled to his elbows. “Do they always flirt like this?”
I snort, lifting my own cup for a drink, hoping to wash back how I’m suddenly salivating from his smell. And his nearness. And his forearms.
I haven’t gotten laid since . . . him. I haven’t been with anyone in any other manner since him either, which means I’ve been a lone otter in the bedroom and pregnancy hormones are no joke.
The number of times I’ve been turned on when I thought that mechanism was shut off by pregnancy is embarrassing to count.
“I think flirt might be a little strong for whatever they are doing. And how did I not know before that Landon or the Masters are your cousins?” Has he been back to Lovewell Landing since January for family occasions? Have I simply missed him in town? Or was he purposely avoiding me?
He shrugs. “I don’t know. We were all at the New Year’s Eve party.”
Our eyes lock on one another, because we both know he and I did not stay at that party.