by Mia Kerick
Her timing couldn’t be worse, not that she had the luxury of choosing it. My attention is drawn away long enough for the stocky drunk guy to take a swing and clip my jaw. I can’t respond to this sucker punch because Mika’s safety comes first. I have a little soft spot for her too.
I stomp across the bar to where she’s trying valiantly to dole out drinks from her teetering tray. The guy whose hands are cupping her ass is old enough to be her grandfather, which is really not relevant to his bad behavior. I’m far from an ageist.
“Hands off the server, sir!” The deep and raspy bark in no way resembles my usual bored tenor.
He drops his hands and Mika scoots away, shooting him, and then me, a dirty look. “Make that creeper leave, Oliver. Like now!”
To complicate a situation that is already pretty damned convoluted, my poor jaw feels like it’s dangling from the side of my face, entirely prepared to separate from my body and drop to the floor. To make matters worse—if that’s even possible—the asshole who delivered the blow is now seated at the bar, waiting impatiently for me to return and take his order. As if that’s gonna happen. “Fuck me.”
The old man who molested Mika finishes off his glass of bourbon in a single swallow. He checks her out lewdly and grumbles, “I’m leaving, I’m leaving. Don’t get your knickers in a knot, little girl.” As he heads for the door, he’s so intent on making eyes at Mika that he barrels directly into me, knocking me ass first into a crowded table. I land gracelessly on some girl’s lap. She isn’t very happy about it. Neither is her hulking boyfriend who grabs me by the neck of my T-shirt, drags me back, and heaves. Next thing I know, I’m looking up at Mika from hands and knees on the floor.
Just before the angry boyfriend’s work boot makes contact with my ass, I bellow, “Get Jack!” And then I’m sent sprawling into the rungs of a bar stool.
“Like ouch, Oliver.” Mika bends to help untangle me from the stool, which is a sweet gesture, but not what I need most.
“Seriously, Mika,” I mutter, shaking off her hands and dragging myself upright with the assistance of the same stool that ambushed me. “Get Jack. I need him at the bar.”
“You sure do. There are like ten people waiting on drinks.” And somehow, she manages to sound bored.
Telling it like it is—and too bluntly—is certainly a talent of Mika’s. Nonetheless, I love working with the petite, red-haired server. She gets things done. I smile for a second, remembering how Mika was hired on her twenty-first birthday, the same week Jack hired Sam and I, about two years ago. Surf’s Up staff has a tendency to turn over in waves—workers can only take so much of Jack’s antics and bail out in groups. But Mika was thrilled to land a job at the island’s most popular bar.
Back to reality. My head pounds, my jaw aches, my ass throbs, and when I reach down to touch my knees, I find them sticky with blood and/or beer. Which I probably deserve for wearing shorts. “Just fuck me,” I mutter again, straightening up.
“I will, if you insist. But you’ve been playing hard to get lately.” Jack leers at me. Just what I need.
“You’ve got to work the bar, Jack.”
“Isn’t that your job, Oliver?”
“In case you didn’t notice, we’re severely understaffed tonight.” My voice is hostile. Way more so than I’d intended. Something about my ex brings out the petulant teenager in me.
Jack tosses back his head and cackles. His perfectly whitened teeth gleam in the dim light as if they’re fluorescent. “Relax, babe. You’ve got this under control.”
I shake my head in frustration until a commotion in the hall near the restrooms steals my attention. “I’ll take care of the brawl in the hallway. You’re on the bar until further notice.”
He runs his palm over his light brown waves, cut and styled to Kennedy-like casualness. And he opens his mouth to speak, likely to inform me that I’m not his boss. Which is true. But the sound of breaking glass in the hallway puts a quick end to this debate.
“Unless you want to break up the brawl…” After a perturbed huff, Jack spins on his boat shoe and heads to the bar. “I didn’t think so,” I utter beneath my sigh and head down the narrow walkway that leads to the restrooms.
When I reach the scene of the crime, I survey the damage I’m too late to prevent. Naturally, those responsible are long gone. A framed print of Jimmy Buffet standing beside a palm tree on a white sandy beach is marinating on the slippery floor, shattered glass around it.
“Damn shame, it is.”
I glance up—and I mean way far up—from the scattered glass to peer at the hulking customer who spoke in a deeper bass than my put-on tough guy one. His gaze seems to be fixed on the floor. A black cowboy hat is pulled so low I can’t see his eyes. “What?”
“The signature, man—it’s all smudged.”
“On the Buffet print?” I’d never noticed it was signed. I guess I’m not tuned in to those types of details.
He bends and picks up the print. When he stands and holds it to his nose, I catch a glimpse of his eyes. I’m not sure if they’re plain brown or deep bronze—the lights are low—but whatever the color, I’m captivated by the heat in them. The way he looks at me is…not to be dramatic…smoldering.
“Yep. Just like I figured. It smells like a brew—Sam Adams, I’d say.” Did the guy with the smoking hot eyes just sniff the picture? And identify the brand of beer based on the scent of a drenched photograph? If it wasn’t so odd, it would be impressive. “Hate to tell ya, but your Jimmy Buffet pic, here. It’s history.”
I’m absolutely certain this night can’t get any weirder. Nonetheless, I have a job to do, so I clear my throat and issue a stern warning. “Please don’t touch anything else, sir. You could cut yourself on the glass.”
A chuckle comes from low in his belly. “Sir…I like that.”
My cheeks warm to what I’m certain is a humiliating tomato red. Fortunately, the darkness provides cover. “Can you do me a favor and make sure nobody steps on the glass while I go grab a broom?”
“Thought you were the bartender, not the janitor.” The stranger doesn’t sneer on the word janitor as if it is a lowly job. He just nods at the bar where Jack is working the blender, and then slips the hat from his head and presses it against chiseled abs, barely hidden beneath a once white, tissue-thin Henley. I am tuned in to certain details. “Or the bouncer.” He places his thumb lightly on the tender bruise blossoming low on my jaw.
His touch barely lasts a second, but I shiver as if the gesture was of intimacy rather than mild concern. “I…uh, I multi-task around here. You know, I do what’s necessary.”
“Cool.” I glance up from the hat to see unruly, auburn curls falling softly around the face of a cowboy. A few days’ growth blankets his cheeks and chin. And his crooked smile is more naughty than nice. “I’ll keep this area clear. I’m at your service…uh?”
He wants something from me—must be my name. “Oliver. My name’s Oliver Tunstead.” I realize I’m staring at him but can’t seem to stop. “And you are?”
The cowboy tilts his head and smiles, exposing even, white teeth. This man, I decide, was made to smile. I strongly suspect he isn’t the giddy, gleeful type, though. I’m the recipient of a rare gift.
In fact, his smile melts my heart more than when Hugo does it. My shoulders loosen. My jaw relaxes. I pull in a lazy breath. “What’s your name?”
His lips quirk. “Just call me sir.”
And once again, I’m on edge. Prickles of heat crawl my spine, so I force my gaze from his satisfied smirk that lifts just the left side of his face. I look south, to his shoulders, which can only be described as strapping. My attention is next drawn to a sculpted chest and a narrow waist. And then to long, leanly muscled legs, clad in faded jeans. And finally, to worn brown harness boots. By the end of this perusal, I’m sweating.
“I’ll be right back, sir.” According to most everyone in my life, Oliver Tunstead has perfected the frosty art of sarcasm. I try to employ it
judiciously, but I use it now. Out of pure necessity. I’m in desperate need of the ice bucket challenge, but I’ll settle for this less satisfying attitudinal cool down. And I don’t insist on learning his name. I’ll never see his perfect buckaroo face again after tonight, so it doesn’t really matter.
Naturally, the broom isn’t in the closet where it’s supposed to be. I end up tracking it down in the employee lounge, if you can call it that. It’s really just a dusty back room with a bunch of folding chairs circling an antique, wooden trunk. And a couch with a history I’d gladly give my eyeteeth to forget.
I rush back to the hallway near the restrooms and my mouth falls open. The cowboy has somehow herded all of the desperate bathroom-goers into a single file line pressed against the wall, totally avoiding the glass on their sandaled feet. None of them are complaining or pushing the person in front of them. They’re all staring at him open-mouthed. As am I.
“I want y’all butt to belly, folks. ’Til I give the word.”
Fucking amazing. Especially for this time of night when most everybody is three sheets to the wind. And he’s corralled the glass into a neat pile near the opposite wall, probably with one of his sexy boots.
“Hey…um,” I greet him. “Yeah, well, thanks for watching this area for me.”
“No problem.” He’s returned the cowboy hat to his head. His flashing eyes are shadowed beneath the brim, but he still wears that ridiculously hot smirk. The Marlboro man is clearly amused by my chagrin.
I reach out to shake his hand and notice that he’s stuffed it deep into his pocket. When he pulls it out, I can’t miss that blood stains his fingertips. Instead of thinking “lawsuit,” I’m genuinely concerned. “You weren’t supposed to touch the glass. That’s why I was getting the goddamned broom.”
Instead of shaking it, I grab his hand to inspect the damage. He snatches it back. His gaze on my face now feels more sullen than sultry. As if he doesn’t trust me to hold his hand.
“I was just checking to see if you’re okay,” I whine, unreasonably insulted by this minor rejection.
“I’m fine.”
Dad once told me that when these two words are used in conjunction, they always amount to a lie. “Have it your way, then.”
He watches in silence as I sweep up the pile of glass. As soon as it’s in the pan, he redirects the line of people to the middle of the hallway with a mere point of a bloody finger and a muttered, “Get moving.” Crowd control is so fucking easy for him.
“Enjoy your night, sir,” I say in my bored voice, resisting the urge to thank him again.
The cowboy tips his hat. “Got a feeling it’s gonna go downhill from here.” I try to ignore the way his tongue slides across his top lip. This proves to be a challenge. And without my consent, that pesky heat slithers down the length of my chest, settling below my belt.
Just perfect.
I have no idea what he meant with his cryptic statement. Nor do I care. I turn my back to “sir,” the nameless cowboy and make my way through the crowd to the bar. Time to relieve Jack so he can go back to the pressing duty of playing Candy Crush on his cell phone in the office.
Chapter 3
Instead of taking our leisurely walk on Main Street this morning, I toe off my sneakers, hook Hugo on his leash, and head across the street to the beach where I set him loose. Hugo can’t run as far and fast as I can, but the beach is fairly short, so after trotting beside me for a few lengths, he plunks himself on the sand and watches me run for the remainder of an hour. We’re the only ones on the beach except the gulls, which isn’t unusual. Pendle Beach is more of a local spot than a tourist hangout. I like it this way.
After our run, I return to the cottage to clean in preparation for the arrival of my new tenant, Bodie. The small-statured man in a Stetson. It’s quite a coincidence that the overly helpful patron from last night was wearing a cowboy hat. We usually don’t see too much of that around here, but summer season has arrived, so all bets are off. In any case, I don’t want to scare off my new housemate with the sight of kitchen grease and bathroom scum. I need his rent money for my soul-saving car.
After a late lunch of leftovers from a take-out power bowl, I bathe and dress for work in my usual khaki shorts—you’d think I’d have learned my lesson, but no—emerald green Surf’s Up golf shirt, and black Chuck Taylors. I brush my damp hair, spread it out over my shoulders to dry, and then glance in the mirror over the bathroom sink. The bruise on my jaw is dark and slightly swollen. A perfect match to the boot print on my ass. And my tattered look is balanced out by badly scraped knees. Whatever. I’m as ready as I can be. And Bodie could arrive any time now, so I keep an ear open for the rumble of a motorcycle.
At a few minutes after two, when I hear the distinctive thunder of a Harley, I pull the front of my hair into an elastic, fold my arms, and wait. It doesn’t take long until there’s a single knock on the door. Just one.
“Whatever,” I repeat, this time aloud as I head to the door.
I open it to find Sir, last night’s annoyingly helpful cowboy. He doesn’t appear to be even slightly surprised to see me.
“Hey, Ollie.”
His eyes, as it turns out, are a pale bronze in the daylight. And his hair…Well, the sun brings out infuriatingly glorious shades of ginger in its curly strands.
“It’s… it’s you.” I jab my finger at him accusingly.
Isn’t he supposed to be a short guy?
“Yup—I mean, it was me last time I checked.” His tone, strangely, isn’t sarcastic, but matter of fact. Bodie holds his hand out to shake. I experience déjà vu, almost expecting him to yank his hand away and bellow, “In your face, loser!” But he doesn’t. He follows through with the greeting. The tips of two fingers and his thumb are wrapped loosely in what looks like toilet paper.
“Last night—you knew it was me.” Another accusation.
He nods and smirks. And it’s sexy. I catch my breath as the heat rises to my face. I’m beginning to expect this sort of reaction to the ridiculously hot cowboy.
“I sorta figured. The island’s not real big and Oliver’s not an everyday name.”
“Well, you may as well come in.” Way to sound welcoming. And I have no business wondering where his Stetson is, and hoping like hell he didn’t leave it behind at Surf’s Up last night just because it looks so damned perfect on his head. “What I mean is, come on in.”
Hugo finally gets up to say hello to our visitor. Make that our housemate.
“He’s not much of a watchdog, I take it.”
“Um, no. He’d be more likely to smother a thief with love.”
“Cool.” Bodie drops to Hugo’s level and allows the dog to nuzzle his face. His black T-shirt slides up and his gray sweatpants sink down as he wrestles playfully with my dog, exposing a taut lower back and the snug waistband of chalk-white Calvin Klein briefs.
Unexpected.
More unexpected is that he wears the same well-worn Harness boots that he had on last night. With sweatpants. And, somehow, his unlikely outfit works. Maybe this is because he’s about 6’3” and built like a linebacker. Or is it a tight end? I’m not very knowledgeable on football positions. All I know is he’s even taller than me and far more rugged. He’d make a brown paper bag look appealing.
“So, you want to check out your room?” I ask when the Hugo-Bodie lovefest reaches the two-minute mark.
“Sure. Lemme grab my shit first.” He literally kisses Hugo’s wet nose and stands.
I trail after him as he makes his way out the front door to my crushed shell driveway. His gaze softens as it falls upon the black Harley-Davidson Road King. He looks at it like it’s his trusty steed.
“Jeez, that’s nice,” I say, referring to the affection in his eyes.
“Yeah, she sure is,” he agrees, opening a saddlebag and grabbing a camo backpack. Then he rounds the bike, pops open the other saddlebag, and pulls out a black leather duffle bag.
The cowboy hat, strapped on the rea
r seat with a bungee cord, catches my eye. I’m glad he didn’t lose it and I have no idea why I give a shit.
“Lead on, Ollie.”
I reach for the duffle, but Bodie refuses my offer with a quick shake of his head. “Is that all you’ve got?” I ask to cover my unease.
“It’s all I need.”
Okay, then.
“I’ll show you to your room.”
Bodie and I return to the cottage. He stops just inside the door, but instead of stroking Hugo, whose tail is wagging wildly, he takes a look around the living room. Antique white pine floors with plenty of nicks and crevices, finished off with Grandma’s castoff braided rug. Bare walls featuring chipped, pale, lime-green paint. Dad’s old living room set, consisting of a retro plaid couch in shades of avocado and rust and a worn, brown leather chair. And the coffee table I made in Industrial Arts class as a high school sophomore. It’s actually fairly sturdy. “I like what ya done with the place.”
“I haven’t done a thing with the place except pay the mortgage. I haven’t even hung a damned poster.” And speaking of posters, I’m the poster child for living within my means. Except when it comes to my impending and quite frivolous car purchase.
“I get it—cash is tight. Been there…” Bodie grunts his agreement. His tone is earnest, and I believe him. “Your kitchen is cool.”
Cool. That word again. “The dining room table and chairs were a housewarming gift from my mother.”
He blinks. Just once, and deliberately. Not that blinking is a big deal, but the way he does it catches my attention. “Not too bad.”
Not too bad? The white country cottage set is the nicest thing in my house. Not to mention the kindest gesture Mom has made since I was in middle school. No, make that grade school. Maybe ever. “And all of the kitchen appliances are new.”
“Sweet.”
They’re actually not as fancy as I’d like, but they don’t have years of use in them. Seeing as creating new flavors is my thing, I negotiated new appliances into the home’s purchase.
