Born for Leaving (New England State of Mind Book 1)

by Mia Kerick

  “The bathroom is in here. Just an old clawfoot tub—no shower.” I push open the door and he peers inside. “And the bedrooms are at the back of the cottage. Mine’s on the right, yours is on the left, of course. Go ahead in.”

  But he doesn’t go into his bedroom. “You said there was an outdoor shower.”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s on the deck off the kitchen.”

  He drops his bags in the hall between the bedrooms. “You cool if I borrow a towel? No room for ’em on the bike.” His cheeks turn pink. “I’ll hit the store tomorrow. Ya know, I can pick up sheets and towels and shit like that.”

  “No worries—I have plenty of towels. Come here.” I lead him into the hallway and point to a narrow closet. “I have extra sheets too. Don’t waste your money on that stuff. You’re only gonna be here for a few months.”

  Bodie nods. Once, of course.

  “You can use the bathtub if you want to freshen up before you go to work.” I do my best to fight the blossoming image of a burly naked cowboy with a crown of dark red curls, swallowed up in a pile of bubbles, lounging in my old clawfoot tub. I fail and hear my own extended sigh. “It sort of brings you back to childhood. You know, soaking in a tub.”

  “Nah.” His shoulders stiffen. “I like the outdoors better.”

  “Okay, then. And for your fingers, there are bandages in the bathroom medicine cabinet.” Bodie grunts his acknowledgment and grabs a faded pink bath towel out of the closet. Then he shakes off his boots and pulls his T-shirt over his head as if he’s alone in his bedroom.

  And just as I figured… a golden brown six pack appears beneath a light spray of copper chest hair. “Um, I’ll leave a key for you on the kitchen table.”

  “Cool.”

  When he starts to push down his sweatpants, I flee. The last thing I need is to witness a sexy cowboy perform a seemingly inadvertent striptease in the hallway by my kitchen. I’m through with great-looking men worming their way into my life and leaving me more alone than before I let them in.

  “Just lock up when you leave.” I stand at the front door, back turned to him and my hand fastened on the doorknob. Ready to run. “You’re heading to your job in a little while, right?” I glance at him over my shoulder.

  “That’s right.”

  I should ask where he works—what he does for a living—but his sweatpants are looped around his ankles and I’ll admit to being somewhat flustered at the sight of his rugged thighs, not to mention the amazing curve of his backside in nothing but his Calvin’s. “Well, I guess we’ll catch up later, Bodie.”

  “You bet your ass we will.” When he laughs—a deep rumble—it’s like he knows something I don’t. Whatever the case, the prickles of heat I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to ignore turn into goosebumps and shoot down my arms. Shoulders, wrists, and fingers—all tingling. Which can’t be good.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  As expected on the Friday of a holiday weekend, it’s only 3:45 p.m., and Surf’s Up is already packed to the rafters. A line is forming against the side of the old brick building simply because people can’t manage to squeeze themselves inside. Not because our new doorman, Nicholas Bowden, has made method of the madness. In fact, Nicholas Bowden hasn’t made his desperately needed appearance yet. In his defense, the evening shift technically doesn’t start until four, but still…you’d think he’d put in an appearance a few minutes early. Just to make a good impression.

  “Take a chill pill, Tunstead,” Jack quips as he passes. “It’s all good.” I’m rolling my eyes at the overused terms before I even realize it.

  “Listen, I’m gonna stand by the door and card everybody. You work the bar with Mika until this Nicholas Bowden person arrives. Make sure you check IDs before you serve any drinks, because God knows how many Gillamour Island High School students have already gotten inside.” I’m acting like I own this place, and it’s Jack’s baby. The Wheelers’ hugely indulgent gift to the son who couldn’t find a job after graduating from college with a bachelor’s degree in Film Studies.

  “Fifteen minutes, Oliver, and I want you back at the bar. I’m a busy man.” Tiffi and the Bubblegum Troll must be beckoning. More pressing business than his actual business.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” I offer a sarcastic salute.

  Jack waggles his eyebrows. “Sir?”

  I’ve got to stop calling men this. They like it way too much.

  I clear a path through the patrons—some of whom could possibly be in middle school. When I get to the front door, I’m just in time to literally catch the back end of the same pumped up drunk guy I escorted out last night—the man responsible for the dark bruise low on my jaw. How I wish he were nothing but a bad memory. “Dude, you’re wasted.”

  He whips around to gawk at me. “You again?”

  “I had the very same thought.” Catching my breath, I utter, “It’s barely four o’clock and you’re already trashed.” Then I grip his bicep. His extremely burly bicep. Fuck me. “You know I can’t let you stay.”

  “You’re too hot to play the cop. And too skinny to play the bouncer.” He laughs. And lunges.

  After last night, anyone would think I’d be ready for physical confrontation with this guy. I mean, he got me pretty good on the side of my face. In my defense, I was distracted. Sadly, he has once again caught me off-guard. But I manage to sidestep him. We’re surrounded by people—several mere teenagers—and I refuse to be the cause of someone else’s injury.

  “Let’s not do this here,” I blurt. Which sounds as if I’m inviting him to take it outside. Not my intention.

  In response, the guy shoves me into the wall beside the door. Instead of throwing a punch, he slaps me with his palm, and then the strikes my other cheek with the back of his hand. Thank God he’s not wearing a ring—I’d be scarred for life. “You got such a pretty face. I’d hate to mess it up with my fists.”

  Stunned, I grit my teeth, too dazed to even cover my head. And since drunkenness tends to cause fickleness, he changes his mind about punching my “pretty” face and hauls off to slug me. Dad’s investment in braces and three years as a metal mouth…shot to shit in a split second.

  But instead of receiving excruciating pain and a mouthful of loose teeth, stocky drunk guy whirls smoothly around when his punching arm is snatched midair and yanked. By someone bigger and stronger than him. It’s almost like an unintentional dance move.

  “You, buddy, have got yourself some serious anger issues.”

  I know that voice. It can’t be…but it is. “B-Bodie…I…I thought you were going to work. What the hell are you doing here?” I place a palm over one stinging side of my face. It’s hot from both the slap and a fresh surge of embarrassment.

  “You mean, besides saving your ass?” Bodie pulls the guy’s hands behind his back and drags him toward the door.

  The crowd circles around to watch him handle the pissed-off patron. And Bodie does so as if he’s a mere kitten.

  “Out ya go, dude. Don’t wanna see your drunk ass ’round here anytime soon.” He gives the guy a sharp shove. And that’s all it takes.

  “What the fuck?” The roar of the crowd is loud—nobody hears my murmured question.

  Bodie returns from the doorway to plant himself in front of me. He tips back his Stetson enough to allow an auburn curl to drop onto his forehead. “Saw that asshole backhand you. Was coming through the door but couldn’t make it over here fast enough. My apologies, Ollie. Won’t happen again.” His callused palm brushes across one of my burning cheeks.

  “What…what are you talking about? What about your job?” I’m flustered. “You’re supposed to be at work.”

  Bodie stands close enough for me to smell the lavender of my own shampoo from the outdoor shower. Until Jack shoves his way into the narrow crevice between us, knocking Bodie’s hand away. My ex’s eyes light up when he catches a glimpse of the handsome cowboy. “You must be Nick Bowden!”

  Nicholas Bowden—Bodie. Of course. My mouth fall
s open. I cover it with my hand as it’s not a good look.

  “Sure am, and I’d say I got here just in time.” Bodie winks at me and shakes Jack’s extended hand.

  “I’m Jack Wheeler, and let me tell you, I’m excited to meet you, Nick.” The eyebrow waggling is totally uncalled for. But nobody asked for my opinion.

  “I go by Bodie.” His full lips turn down in the corners. “Nick—he was the sperm donor. End of story.”

  An odd morsel of info to offer a near stranger, but who am I to judge?

  “Then Bodie it is,” Jack says with a grin. After an extended handshake, Jack throws his arm around Bodie’s shoulder. Bodie shrinks away and twirls out of his grasp. “And yes, you’ve got perfect timing.” He doesn’t even spare me a glance. “Now, come to the office with me. I’ll fill you in on the workings of the bar.”

  I’m certain that’s not all Jack wants to fill in Bodie, yet this is so not my business.

  “I’m gonna head back to the bar,” I utter. I don’t need to witness my new housemate steal the heart of my ex-lover. But then, no, not his heart—all Bodie can steal from someone like Jack is his fleeting attention.

  Jack shrugs at me, now drooling with unbridled lust for the cowboy. A new challenge. Another hot ass to get naked on the employee lounge couch.

  “You aren’t working nowhere ’til you ice them cheeks,” says the man who is not wearing gray sweats today, but faded boot cut Levi’s. Not too snug. Just right. If I don’t say so myself.

  “Don’t worry about Oliver. He’s tough; he can take it.” Jack actually bends to peek up at Bodie’s face beneath his hat’s brim. “Come on. You and me, Bodie…to the office.”

  Yet another ruckus breaks out: three too-young women all trying to ram themselves through the front door at the very same time. “Know what, Jack? Think I’m gonna take care of some business around here first. Or the shit’ll surely hit the fan.” He glances at the door. “We can have that little chat when things calm down.”

  “Which won’t happen until after Labor Day,” I mumble, more or less to myself. And I turn toward the bar. In the distance, Mika’s face is pink; she needs help now.

  “Ice, Ollie,” shouts Bodie as I push through the crowd.

  “Ollie?” Jack asks. “He is so not an ‘Ollie,’” is the last thing I hear from behind me.

  Between filling drink orders, I watch Bodie gradually but steadily eliminate the chaos within the walls of Surf’s Up. First, he closes the bar to new patrons with nothing but a glare sent in the direction of the doorway. He then wades through the crowd, checking IDs and generally just appearing intimidating enough to encourage good behavior. Diffusing a sentiment of I’d-better-behave-or-the-Lone-Ranger-is-gonna-squash-me.

  Jack is clearly enthralled with the dominant cowboy. He has actually left the comfort of his office to arrange himself casually on a bar stool and gawk. His bright blue eyes follow Bodie as he strides through the bar and then to the door to control the flow of patrons. “Mmmm…a fine specimen of manhood.”

  “Christ.” I don’t think Jack even realizes that he spoke his lust aloud.

  “I’d like to get me some of that,” he adds and licks his lips.

  I expect the kick-in-the-gut feeling I became accustomed to while dating Jack, as he has never been much of a one-man kind of guy. For a while I thought he was, despite his constant drooling over other men. But I came to realize that either he fooled me, or I fooled myself into believing he could be monogamous. Jack is a born philanderer. And a successful flirt—his charms worked quite well on me.

  Instead of the kick-in-the-gut sensation, I experience distinct irritation. It prickles beneath my collar. “Go find another guy to play around with. Nick Bowden is my housemate this summer. The last thing I want is for your face to pop up at my cottage door on the way to his bedroom.”

  “Your housemate? How interesting.” Jack turns to study me as I sprinkle my special coconut concoction in the blender of piña coladas I just whipped up. “You sound jealous.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Don’t worry, Ollie.” Bodie’s nickname for me sounds even more absurd when Jack says it. “I promise not to leave you out of the fun. You told me you had a big bed, though you never invited me over to share it. I’m sure there’s room for three.”

  I spin around to face the cash register, refusing to indulge him when he’s toying with me.

  But Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “Stop pouting, babe. I’ll let you be in the middle.”

  “You’ll let Oliver be in the middle of what?” Mika asks, stepping up beside me to grab a bottle of bourbon.

  “Don’t you dare open your mouth,” I warn Jack through gritted teeth, but still I don’t turn around to stab him with a glare. And I have no plan to stick around to see if he respects me enough to zip it. “I need a minute. Can you cover the bar for a few, Mika?”

  “Of course. But try not to be too long.” She fills a shot glass and slaps my shoulder. “I mean, like, pee fast!”

  I shouldn’t leave her alone, but technically the bar’s owner is right in front of her, ogling his new doorman. If Mika gets in trouble, in theory he can help her, although I’m not convinced he’d even notice her distress. Still, I slip out from behind the bar and head to the employee lounge. Once safely inside, I grab a bottle of water from the pack on the floor and drop onto the couch to collect myself. I’m immediately reminded of my agitation when Jack was leering at Bodie.

  Am I threatened by Jack’s attention to Bodie? Or is it the possibility that Jack’s interest will be reciprocated that has me so off kilter?

  “First of all, he isn’t my cowboy,” I tell myself, feeling idiotic for thinking this, let alone speaking it aloud. “And Jack Wheeler is a free agent.” In truth, he’s nothing but a mistake—a weakness to which I succumbed. A brief dream I latched on to, ignoring my extremely reliable inner voice that warns me against building interpersonal bonds. I wouldn’t take him back, even if he begged. And Nick Bowden—he’s just a means to easy money.

  Steadily sucking down water, I reestablish the detachment necessary for me to interact with other human beings. I certainly picked the wrong line of work if I hoped to avoid people. But being a bartender wasn’t exactly my goal.

  As a trained mixologist, I’m all about the drink, not the person drinking it. Somehow, though, despite Jack’s promises, I’ve turned into a bar room jack-of-all-trades. This was never my intention, but it seems to be my job. I shift on the couch, a sigh escaping my lips.

  “You owe big bucks on the cottage, dumbass,” I tell myself, once again aloud. I need to hear the words as much as I need to speak them. “And now you’re in the market for a car. You need this job, despite the inconveniences.”

  “What kind of car?”

  Once again, my precious privacy has been shattered. I glance at Bodie, whose huge frame fills the open doorway, relieved he didn’t ask about the inconveniences. Seeing as he’s one of them. “Um…I’m looking at a VW bug.”

  “Cool.” He extends his arm, and I somehow know he wants a water. “Though I never fit too good in cars that small.”

  I reach out with a bottle in my hand and he snatches it rather fiercely, almost in warning not to brush my fingertips against his. “Yeah. It’s nice—a convertible.” I’m not sure why I volunteer this unnecessary information.

  Bodie nods but doesn’t meet my eyes. He places his hat on the antique trunk between us and swallows nearly all the water in several long gulps. “The wind. It feels good in your hair.”

  “That’s the idea.” I want him to look at me.

  He’s quiet for a moment. And finally, his elusive gaze shifts my way. As usual, it stirs me far more than I like to admit. It also pokes at my secrets. “You doin’ okay tonight, Ollie?”

  What does he see in my eyes? Shades of truth, perhaps.

  “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” I reply curtly.

  Mom once complained that I always answer a question with another
question when I’m trying to avoid the truth. I feel naked beneath his continued examination. I fight not to fidget but fail. It’s time to take to my feet and flee to the bar.

  “How about I…give you a ride home?” he asks. A friendly offer, though not issued in a particularly friendly tone.

  “On your bike?” I stand and take a single step toward him to see what he’ll do. It’s a test that he fails. He retreats two steps.

  And again, he nods. A single nod as is his habit. “Wind in your hair—it’s good for the soul.”

  I have to agree. “I’ve never been on a bike before.”

  Now he squirms. “Guess you’re gonna have to hang on to me.”

  “Okay, I’ll take the ride. And thanks. You know, in advance,” I blurt. Bodie—another man in whose presence I’m totally off-kilter. I head for the door. “I’d better get back to the bar.”

  “Right.” His scrutiny weighs like a yoke on my shoulders as I walk away.

  Bodie literally shrivels beneath my hands when I place them on his sides.

  “If you’re not okay with this, I can walk home. Seriously, it’s no big deal.” I can’t help but wonder why he offered to give me a ride home if he has such a huge problem with being touched by another man.

  He starts up the bike, the roar nearly bursting my eardrums. Instinctively, I press the side of my head against his back.

  “Nah. It’s cool.” He pats my hands that are now clinging tenaciously to his belly. “Hang on.”

  My cottage is only a couple miles down the beach from Surf’s Up. Brief as it is, the motorcycle ride is terrifyingly thrilling. Unfortunately, I don’t have the presence of mind to enjoy the rippling abdomen beneath my fingers, as I’m so far out of my element. Never having ridden on a huge beast like this Harley, I’m acutely aware of my vulnerability to the road and to other late-night travelers who whiz past too close for any comfort whatsoever. And then there’s the brutal wind that whips through my hair. But Bodie’s right—it blows my troubles away.