Chapter Sixteen
Brittany
“Florida!!” Jen, one of Harlee’s friends, sings loudly as we step out onto the beach house’s deck. She’s a ball of fire, and while she’s from the same small town as Harlee, she now works in Los Angeles. But you’d never know, given her cowboy boots with her beachy, pale-yellow sundress.
“You have to see this place we always go to.” Harlee threads her arm through mine, guiding me.
“I can’t wait.” I smile at her and then glance down at my sandals and black flowy dress, hoping I fit the vibe of wherever we’re headed.
“We can walk there from here,” Jen says, pointing somewhere I can’t quite see. The beach house we’re staying in is one of many set along the gulf coast. It’s beautiful and warm, and the breeze is blowing through my hair as Harlee and I meander behind her.
This place is something out of movies. Although, so is New York City, so I guess it’s just a different kind of movie. New York is fast paced. But where I’m at right now seems like the perfect setting for a Nicolas Sparks book or movie, and I’m not sure which I’d prefer.
“You know, there’s not that many people around since Spring Break isn’t here yet,” Jen says from ahead of us, stopping so that she’s walking on the other side of me. “What do you think so far?”
“I think it’s beautiful,” I admit, rolling my lips together. “I could come here more often.”
“You should come with us every year,” Harlee chimes in. “It’s a shame Louise and Mara aren’t here. They’re so much fun. You’d have loved them, and I’m sure they’d have loved you, too.”
“You’re pretty awesome.” Jen gives me a grin. “I’m so glad Harlee convinced you to come.” She pauses, flipping her hair over her shoulder and gesturing toward a beachside bar and cabana. People are dancing and drinking, and there’s a fire going, closer to the water.
Again, like straight out of a movie.
“Ugh, I just love this place.” Harlee sighs, tugging me forward at a much faster rate. “And I could totally meet the love of my life tonight!”
“Me, too.” Jen sounds a little less enthusiastic about the idea, and I take note of it, wondering what she’s been through.
Maybe she got her heart broken, too.
There’s something comforting about knowing that all three of us are single. It makes me feel just a little less alone.
But I’m not looking for anything right now.
I don’t need to be jumping from relationship to relationship.
And that’s what I keep telling myself as we walk to the counter to order a few drinks.
“I’ll have a “Pina colada,” I say to the bartender, who barely looks old enough to be working as one. She makes our drinks quickly, as a country song hums through the place. It’s charming, and as soon as I have my drink in my hands, I turn around to see what people are up to.
“We should dance,” Harlee offers, sipping her own fruity drink. She’s watching the crowd like I am, with fascination in her eyes. She turns to meet my gaze. “Do you wanna?”
I laugh lightly and then shake my head. “I’ll let you and Jen have that kind of fun tonight. I don’t think I’m cut out for the country two-step.” It looks easy enough, but I was born with two left feet, and no amount of ballet could fix it.
“Suit yourself,” Harlee says, grabbing Jen’s arm and dragging her out to the floor. They hold their drinks and seem to sway around, giggling and chatting over the music. It’s not long before they’re approached by three guys, all of them wearing cowboy hats.
Are they real cowboys?
I can’t help but wonder, even though I have no interest or care in the world. But still, I watch the exchange, sipping my drink until there’s not much left.
Suddenly, Jen is pointing at me.
Uh oh.
One of the men who’s standing with them follows her pointer finger. His dark eyes lock with mine, and before I know it, he’s on his way over. I take a deep breath and brace for impact, setting my empty drink down on the counter beside me.
“You must be Brittany,” he says, his voice thick with a southern drawl. I get how, for some women, it might do something for them. But for me? Yeah, no. It just seems like I should be sipping on sweet tea.
And I don’t even like sweet tea.
“They’re gonna dance with my friends, and I figured you might wanna dance partner, too,” he continues. “I’m Brandon.”
I force a smile. I’m not opposed to the idea, but … “Nice to meet you.” I pause. “I’m horrible at dancing.” I put the truth out there, and he just chuckles.
“That’s okay. I’m not great either.” He extends a hand, and I take it, throwing caution to the wind. I mean, I guess it wouldn’t kill me to live a little.
But just a little.
Brandon, a dark-eyed, blond-headed cowboy of sorts, leads me out onto the dance floor, and I don’t miss the way Harlee and Jen whoop and holler their approval in my direction. I roll my eyes as Brandon smirks at me.
“I think they’re happy you said ‘yes.’” He winks at me as he places a hand gently on my waist, pulling me close to him, but not too close. He’s at least respectable enough to keep some room for Jesus. “Where are you from?” he asks as he starts to lead us—two steps forward and one back.
“New York City,” I tell him, and instantly see curiosity brewing in his expression. “What about you?”
“Georgia,” he answers. “I knew there was something different in your accent. You’re definitely not from around here.”
“Nope.” Thank goodness. “I love New York.”
“That’s one place I have to say I don’t have any interest in visiting.” He chuckles, shaking his head.
Maybe I should find it offensive, but honestly, it comes as a relief, because now I know there’s a pretty big chance he’s not going to ask for my phone number, which allows me to relax.
I don’t have to combat the urge to try and consider if Brandon might be a secret Prince Charming out to save my freshly-broken heart. I don’t have time for that kind of heroism. Especially not from someone who doesn’t even like New York City.
“I thought you said you were bad at dancing.” Brandon’s voice draws me back to the present. “I don’t think that’s the case at all.”
“I’m pretty sure I have two left feet.” I laugh and shrug, listening to the song and hoping that it’ll end soon as I catch sight of a little gift shop attached to the bar. For some reason, I’m drawn to it.
Maybe I can find something to send Weston with my Superman cape picture.
As soon as the final note plays, I pull away from Brandon. “Thank you for the dance.”
He grins, tipping his cowboy hat in my direction. “No problem. If you weren’t from New York City, I might ask for a second.”
I frown, not remotely charmed by the passive-aggressive remark. “If you weren’t from Georgia, I might be offended by that.” I give him a nod right back, and then slip through the crowd, not missing that Harlee and Jen are still in the arms of Brandon’s friends.
Let them.
Maybe since they’re from the same area, it doesn’t bother them as much.
I slip into the gift shop, the lighting warm and welcoming. My eyes scan all of the random gifts—all apparently from local businesses.
Now this is charming.
“Welcome!” an older woman says, sitting behind a counter. “Let me know if you’re looking for anything specific.”
“Thank you,” I say, and then hesitate, unable to keep myself from asking. “Isn’t it a little odd for this gift shop to be attached to a bar?”
She tips her head back and laughs. “My daughter owns the bar. I let it slide, just for her. And you’d be amazed at how much looser people are with their wallets after a few drinks and some dancing.” The mischievous expression on her face is more than amusing.
“Clever,” I tell her, gravitating toward a rack of handcrafted postcards. I squint to get a better look at them, seeing a few of them appear to be hand-painted. “These are so cute.”
“I did them myself,” the woman says proudly. “I like creating something unique for someone to send out or take home. I just think it means more that way.”
I nod. “I haven’t ever seen anything like it.” I carefully pick up a postcard with an alligator sitting on a beach lounge chair by the ocean. It screams of something Weston would like, and I’m not even sure why or how I know that.
But I have a good feeling he’d appreciate it.
“Do you have any stamps?” I ask her, carrying the postcard up to the counter and setting it down. “I kind of want to mail this to my friend sooner rather than later.” I don’t know why I feel the urgency, but I do, and it makes my chest warm the more I think about the laugh it might bring him.
“I have a few stamps of my own somewhere…” The woman pulls open a drawer and starts digging through the contents.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” I frown, leaning over the counter. “I can just buy a stamp from the post office when I send it.” I don’t want to be an inconvenience, especially not for someone whose artwork I’m trying to support.
“I really don’t mind.” She pulls out a roll of American flag stamps, as well as some card-sized envelopes. “If you want, you can go ahead and fill it out, put it in one of these envelopes, and then I’ll drop it off in the mail with the rest of the things I have to send out.”
“That would be absolutely amazing,” I say, unable to hide my excitement. “If you wouldn’t mind doing it, of course. I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Oh, you’re not at all!” The woman’s smile is larger than life as she rings up the postcard, the total popping up on the screen.
I swipe my card, paying for it, and then take the pen from the cup beside the register. I take the postcard back, and hover the tip of the pen over the lines. What do I say? I ponder carefully, feeling like the woman is watching me.
“Would you like some privacy?” she asks with a laugh, as if she just read my mind. “I don’t want to eavesdrop on your love letter, honey. Don’t worry.” With that, she exits from behind the register. “You can just leave it on the counter when you’re done and I’ll get it.”
I tell her a quick “Thanks,” then go back to focusing on the postcard that is definitely not a love letter.