Weekend Fling

by Claire Kingsley

  “That’s what you get for being so successful,” Lucas says. “Who knows, maybe the journalist will be a gorgeous woman.”

  “I’m not sure how that would make it better,” Gabe says.

  “Gabe, you’re divorced, not dead,” Lucas says. “You need some hot ass once in a while.”

  “Piss off,” Gabe says.

  Lucas laughs and takes a drink.

  “Speaking of,” I say to Lucas, “what’s up with Angela? You haven’t said anything about her for a while.”

  “Oh, that ended weeks ago,” he says, his voice nonchalant.

  “Is anyone here surprised by that?” Gabe asks.

  Lucas shrugs. “Whatever. You guys know I’m waiting for the perfect woman. If I have a little fun in the meantime, what’s the harm in that?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Perfect woman? Is that your excuse?”

  Lucas just smiles, and I don’t press the issue. I know why he bounces around from girl to girl the way he does. I can’t say that I blame him.

  “You’re a bullshitter,” Gabe says.

  “Well, your sister broke my heart by marrying someone else, so what can I do?” Lucas says.

  Gabe glowers at him. “It’s a good thing I always kept Emma well away from your sorry ass.”

  Lucas laughs. “I’m just pitching you shit. Emma’s awesome, and I’m happy for her. Hunter’s a lucky dude.”

  “That he is,” Gabe says.

  “What about you, Finn?” Lucas asks.

  “Am I also waiting for the perfect woman?” I ask, my voice laced with sarcasm.

  “No, I know you’re sad and alone,” Lucas says. “Anything else going on with you?”

  “I’m not sad and alone. And no, not much. Just working a lot.”

  Lucas turns to Gabe and jerks his thumb at me. “See, sad and alone. Works too much. But why am I saying that to you? You’re worse than he is.”

  Gabe takes another drink. “I’d argue with you, but you’re probably right.”

  I shoot the shit with Lucas and Gabe for a while. Another customer walks in—a guy named Mike who comes in once in a while. He wants a couple shots of tequila. By the look of him, I’m guessing he had a shitty day at work. Sure enough, he starts to spill his guts to me not long after he takes his first shot. He’s frustrated with his job. I listen, nodding as he talks, and offer him a few words of encouragement.

  People talk to me. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s because I’m the bartender. They sit at my bar, hunched over their drinks, and the words start to spill. The funny thing is, I actually have a master’s in psychology—but most people who come in here don’t know that. They just know they want a drink to soothe the frustrations of a bad day, and when they come to Donal’s Irish Pub they get a friendly ear out of the deal too.

  But it isn’t just the locals who do it. Visitors too—people I’ve never seen before. My friends say there’s something about me that makes people open up. And I don’t mind. Hell, sometimes I feel like I do a better job as a therapist standing here, wiping down the shiny wood surface of the bar top, than I could in an office. And I don’t have to dress as nice to bartend, so that’s a bonus.

  Lucas and Gabe hang out for a while, finishing their beers, then both head out. I say goodbye, and start to clean up. I doubt I’ll get any more customers tonight, but it’s still a while before closing. You never know who else might wander in here on a rainy night.

  4

  Juliet

  After getting a bite to eat—at a restaurant I wasn’t sure about, but they insisted was fine—we drive to the vacation house. It’s cute, with three bedrooms, each with its own bath, and a nice porch with a lovely ocean view. The sound of the waves carries through the walls. The kitchen is well stocked and there’s a comfy seating area with a big TV.

  I finally get access to my luggage, and take it to my room to unpack. I have to admit (grudgingly), they did a good job. The outfits they chose are coordinated, there’s a cute black dress that packs nicely, and they even chose matching sets of bras and panties. The process of pulling things out of my suitcase and arranging them in the closet and small dresser is so relaxing. Between the photo shoot, the champagne, and spending half an hour organizing my room, I feel good.

  Madison and Becca are lounging on the couch when I finish. “Did you guys unpack already?”

  “Unpack?” Madison asks. “We’re not here that long.”

  “Madison, we almost forgot the t-shirts!” Becca says.

  “Shouldn’t we save those for tomorrow?” Madison asks.

  “No, let’s try them on,” she says. “Then we can wear them when we go out tomorrow.”

  Madison shrugs and goes into her room. She brings out a shopping bag and pulls out three t-shirts, tossing one to me.

  I hold it up. It’s white, with a cartoonish pink cupcake topped with multicolored sprinkles.

  “Really?” I ask with a laugh.

  “Aren’t they so cute!” Becca says. She holds up a matching one. “They’re for your birthday. We can be matchy!”

  Madison puts hers on over her other t-shirt. “Yeah, this was Becca’s idea. But they’re kinda cute.”

  I pull off my shirt and tug the cupcake t-shirt on.

  Becca claps her hands. “Perfect!”

  I plop down on the couch next to her. “Okay, what’s next?”

  “Well, we planned to go back into town to do a little shopping,” Madison says. “But I think it’s starting to rain. We can still do that, or we can save it for tomorrow and hope the weather gets better. It’s really up to you.”

  I glance out the window. Drops of rain roll down the windows, obscuring the view. I try to keep the disappointment off my face. It’s not Madison and Becca’s fault that the weather sucks. “No, let’s hang out here.”

  “How about I make us some drinks,” Madison says. “We can cozy up and watch a movie.”

  “Sure,” I say. “My champagne buzz wore off already.”

  “I can help with that.” Madison gets up and goes into the kitchen.

  Becca tucks her legs up beneath her and pulls a pillow into her lap. She looks pale.

  “Are you okay, Becca?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I think so,” she says. “I’m just a little tired.”

  “I guess the rain is good timing, then,” I say.

  My phone rings and I pick it up to check. “Oh my god.”

  “What?” Becca asks.

  “It’s Jacob.” It rings again. “Should I answer it?”

  “No,” Madison says. “Do not answer that.”

  “But what does he want?” I ask. “He hasn’t called me once since he broke up with me.”

  Ring.

  “Maybe you should see what he wants,” Becca says.

  “Becca!” Madison says. “You’re not helping. Don’t answer it, Jules.”

  Ring.

  Madison is probably right, but my thoughts tumble down the overthinking spiral. Why is he calling? What if he doesn’t leave a message? Then I still won’t know what he wants. What if he does leave a message, but doesn’t say why he’s calling? Then I’ll have to decide whether or not to call him back.

  I answer. “Hello?”

  Madison groans. I get up and go back to my room, shutting the door behind me.

  “Juliet?” Jacob asks.

  “Yeah, obviously,” I say. “You called my phone.”

  “Right,” he says.

  I wait, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “So, did you call for a reason?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I did. A couple reasons, actually. I was hoping we could get together. Maybe tonight.”

  I sink down on the edge of the bed. “I’m not sure why we would do that.”

  “I need to talk to you,” he says.

  “Well, you’re talking to me now,” I say. “So talk.”

  “In person,” he says. “Plus, I wanted to ask you about tomorrow. Do you have plans for your birthday?”r />
  I sigh. “Please don’t tell me you’re calling because you’re afraid I’ll be alone on my birthday and you feel guilty or something.”

  “No, not exactly,” he says. “Sort of. Listen, Jules, I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  “I’m fine. And yes, I have plans for my birthday.”

  “Oh, okay,” he says. “That’s good, I guess.”

  A part of me wants to tell him I have plans with another man, but I figure I shouldn’t stoop to lying to him. “I went out of town with Madison and Becca.”

  “Oh,” he says, his voice a little brighter. “That’s great. Well, call me when you get back, okay? I’d really like to see you.”

  I roll my eyes. Why is he doing this? “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I have to go.”

  I hang up and toss my phone on the bed next to me. What an asshole. He breaks up with me, and now he wants to get together? Is he having second thoughts?

  What if he is having second thoughts? What would I say? When he first told me he wanted to break up, I was so upset. I thought we had a future together, and I was blindsided by his decision to call it quits. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that I’m not sad about losing Jacob—I’m sad about starting over now. I thought I’d be getting married by twenty-eight, not suddenly single again. I figured I’d marry Jacob, simply because we were together at this point in our lives. But now I’m realizing what a colossal mistake that would have been. I’m a practical person, and I don’t believe in things like soulmates and true love. But there wasn’t enough between Jacob and me—not enough heat, not enough passion.

  No, if Jacob wants to get back together, he’s barking up the wrong tree. I’m not interested.

  I come out of the room and Madison and Becca both stare me down.

  “Well?” Madison asks. “What did he want?”

  “He wanted to see me,” I say. “Tonight. And he wanted to know if I had plans for tomorrow. I think he was worried I’d be alone on my birthday.”

  “Fuck that guy,” Madison says. “As if you’d be alone on your birthday. What kind of bullshit assumption is that? Obviously you’d be with us.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what his problem is,” I say. “Based on what he said, I wonder if he’s having second thoughts about breaking up.”

  “Don’t even, Jules,” Madison says.

  “No, I’m not even considering it,” I say. “Even if he asks, which he didn’t.”

  “I’m glad he’s never going to see those hot photos of you,” Becca says. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

  “Speaking of, where’s your bag, Becca?” I ask.

  “Over by the door.”

  I grab Becca’s messenger bag and open it up. I want to take another look at my photos. I root through it, but don’t see the folder.

  “Where did you put my pictures?” I ask. “I don’t see them in here.”

  “I thought you had them,” Becca says.

  “No, I gave them to you to put in your bag,” I say.

  I look in the bag again, but they’re definitely not in there.

  “Um, you guys, where are my photos?” I ask.

  Madison comes out of the kitchen and we start looking around, picking things up and looking underneath them. Becca stays on the couch.

  “You okay, Becca?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry, you guys, I feel kind of dizzy all of a sudden,” Becca says. “Give me a second.”

  “It’s fine, take your time,” I say, looking in the grocery bag on the counter. Again. I go into my room and look through all my stuff—in the drawers, in the closet, in my suitcase. No sign of the folder.

  “Any luck?” I ask when I come out of my room.

  Madison shakes her head. “Nope. I looked in both our rooms.”

  “Fuck, you guys,” I say. “I can’t lose those.”

  “Stay calm,” Madison says. “They’re probably in the car.”

  I grab Madison’s keys and head out to her car. I tear through the whole thing, my level of panic rising. Oh god, what if I left them in the restaurant? That waiter guy was so creepy. What if he saw them? What if he’s looking at them right now?

  I search through the entire car a second time, including the trunk and beneath the seats. There’s no sign of the folder.

  I go back into the house and find Madison sprawled out on the couch, her arm draped over her head. “What are you doing? My photos are missing.”

  “I don’t feel so good,” she says.

  I go around to the side of the couch and crouch down next to her. “Are you okay? Where’s Becca?”

  “I don’t know, she got up and ran into the other room really fast,” Madison says. Her eyes widen and she sits up suddenly. “Oh god.”

  She clamps a hand to her mouth and bolts for her bedroom. I hear the door slam.

  What the hell?

  I follow Madison into her room. Her bathroom door is closed. “Madison? Are you okay in there?”

  I hear a noise that sounds like… Oh, no. She’s getting sick.

  “Oh sweetie, do you need anything?”

  Her reply is muffled. “No.”

  I run across the house to check on Becca. I’m pretty sure she’s doing the same thing. “Becca, are you okay?”

  “Not really,” she says. Her voice sounds miserable. “I think I’m going to be in here a while.”

  I wander back out to the couch, wondering what I should do. I told them not to order the shellfish, but they both insisted. We’re at the beach, of course we’re eating seafood. I had chicken, which seemed like a much safer choice. I have a feeling I was right. Poor things.

  I try not to stress about my photos, but it’s hard not to worry. I must have left them at the restaurant. Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have brought them in. What was I thinking? The guy who worked there was staring at us the whole time. I bet he found the folder on the table, and of course he’d look. God, how embarrassing. I wonder if there’s any chance he didn’t look inside, and just kept it behind the counter in case I come back. That’s certainly the ideal situation. Although I guess the main thing is to get them back, even if that means looking that weird dude in the eye, knowing he might have seen me half-naked. Fuck, this sucks.

  Madison and Becca are in their respective bathrooms for a long time. As much as I want to find my pictures, I don’t want to leave them until I’m sure they’ll be okay for a while. I check on them a few times, asking if they need anything, but they both assure me in miserable voices that there’s nothing I can do.

  Becca comes out first, just to let me know she’s going to bed. Her face is so pale it’s almost green. I get her some water and set it on the nightstand next to her. When Madison comes out, she looks just as bad as Becca. I make sure she has water to sip and tuck her in bed.

  “I need to run out just for a little while,” I say. “I’m going to walk back to that restaurant and see if my photos are there.”

  “You should have gone earlier,” Madison says.

  “I wanted to make sure you guys were okay,” I say.

  She groans. “I’m so sorry, Jules. This sucks. Go out and get a drink or something.”

  “No, I’ll be right back.”

  “Seriously,” she says. “I’ll feel awful if you sit around all night while we’re sick in bed.”

  I pat her on the shoulder. “We’ll see. First, I need to find those pictures. I’ll be back, okay?”

  “Okay,” she says.

  I grab my coat and head outside. The rain has turned into a fine mist, but I’m not sure that’s better. I consider driving, but it’s not much of a walk, so I put up my hood and head back toward town.

  When I get to the restaurant, my heart sinks. Closed. I glance at the time on my phone. It’s almost ten, so of course it’s closed. Fuck. All I can think about is that creeper dude with my pictures. So gross.

  Number of times I knock on the door, hoping there’s someone still in the back: six.

  I glance down the st
reet and see an Open sign. Donal’s Irish Pub. Hunkering down in my coat, I cross the street. Maybe I will take Madison’s advice and get myself a drink. God knows I could use one.

  5

  Juliet

  I push open the door and walk inside the pub. It’s about what you’d expect for a place like this. Wood walls, tables with bench seats, a bunch of Irish flags and soccer posters. There’s a lit-up Guinness sign over the bar.

  There’s no one else inside, and at first I wonder if it’s really open. But the sign was on and the door unlocked, so I make my way to the bar. I pick a stool and sit. I can already tell my straightened hair is frizzing from the hellish mist outside. The tiny droplets cling to everything.

  “What can I get you?”

  I shrug off my coat and put it on the stool next to me. “I don’t know. All of it?”

  I look up and barely manage to suppress what was sure to be a very unflattering squeak. The bartender has slightly disheveled dark hair, a chiseled stubbly jaw, and these crazy blue eyes that I am sure can see right through me. I usually go for the clean-cut, smooth jaw type, but the stubble on this guy is making me question all my life choices. He smiles and I almost die. Dimples.

  “Rough night?” he asks.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Ah,” he says with a nod. “I have just what you need.”

  Wow, you sure do. He turns around and gives me a very enjoyable view of his ass. His t-shirt tugs against his broad back as he reaches up to a shelf and pulls down a couple of different bottles. He pours something into a glass, and I’m so distracted by his hands, I almost forget that I’m dripping wet and seriously bummed out.

  It’s possible I have a thing for a man’s hands. And his are exquisite. They’re a little rough, with thick fingers. They look strong and dexterous. I love it when they look strong, like they could grab me and—

  Where did that come from? Slow down there, Juliet.

  “Here,” he says with an easy smile, and passes me my drink. “This should help.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “What is it?”