by Anne Harper
Chapter Twelve
Internet fame brought out a few new faces Friday night. A few old friends of Sloane’s, who surrounded her while she was there, and two former regulars who admitted they’d seen her drink post. Santana might not have been new, but her excitement was. She buzzed around him before and after Sloane left like a very determined bee. It was only after the ten thousandth question that Brady caved.
He took her to the office and told her about the deal. To his abundant surprise, that had made her go quiet. Even when it was time to talk shop about the party and the parade during a particularly long lull in patrons, she was more thoughtful than vocal.
Finally, Brady couldn’t take it anymore. He had to say something.
“You once talked about the possibility of a reboot of Veronica Mars, never mind the actual reboot, for a solid shift. From open to close, that’s all us poor bartenders heard. Veronica and Logan and dad/daughter crime-solving. And then some guy named Schmidt from New Girl? I don’t know. I don’t remember the specifics because you just kept talking. So you being quiet now? I’m actually worried.”
Santana tilted her head to the side like she was trying to come up with a calculated response. The movement made her curls shift right before her eyebrows pulled in and she finally gave him something.
“It’s just that, well, you’re doing things the hard way. The two of you, I mean.” She lowered her voice after giving a quick look around to make sure no one could hear. “I get the deal is to cover her secret while helping the bar, but you two are just kind of going all out. You could easily drum up more business and convince her new followers you two are an item just by posting a picture or two and then lying low.”
Brady was ready to defend himself but paused. She had a point there.
“But they agreed to do all the festival crap when they went to eat at the Robertson estate,” Dixon slid in. “It’ll look bad if they back out now.”
“True, but why go to the lunch in the first place? Seems like that could have been avoided.”
At that, Dixon shrugged. He gave Brady a smug look.
“Carol is harder to dodge than you think,” Brady said on the tail of a sigh. “After running into her at the café, everything just kind of spiraled. One minute, I was about to enjoy my coffee, and then there I was, bitching about the cheap painter’s tape Roger Norman bought.”
Santana gave him another odd look, like she was trying to puzzle something out.
“What?” he prodded. “Out with it.”
“I’ve known you a long time, and it just kind of seems like you’re going the extra mile after already going an extra mile.” She shrugged. “I have to figure that Sloane must be okay to be around because, even to us, you haven’t complained about her at all. Just Ms. Peggy, Roger, and cheap painter’s tape. She must be something special, is all I’m saying.”
Brady neither confirmed nor denied that sentiment. “She’s a means to an end and vice versa,” he said. “It’s nothing but business between us.”
Well, and the brief but hot make-out session you had with her a few hours ago. In private. Which was in no way a part of your plan.
Santana didn’t look convinced. Brady waved the pad of paper in his hand at her.
“You’re borrowing trouble when we should be focusing on the task at hand.” He thumped the pad back onto the bar top, then made a show of looking out at the main room. “We’re about to go from under capacity to over at this party. If we’re lucky. That means we need to make sure we have everything stocked, ordered, and problem-solved by then. No more focusing on how I’m, apparently, usually a dick to women in need.”
Dixon laughed, but Santana raised her eyebrow at him.
“Everything you just said was a deflection. I hope you realize that.”
Brady rolled his eyes. “Deflection or not, if Sloane and the Robertsons manage to deliver a crowd to us, we need to make sure we’re ready for them.”
No one argued that. They spent the rest of the night looking over supplies, checking on pending orders, and brainstorming what they might need that they hadn’t thought about yet. The pad of paper filled up, and by the time Brady and Dixon left for the apartment hours later, it felt like they had had a productive time of it. Even outside their front door, Dixon was still in planning mode.
“Toilet paper,” he said, leaning against the wall while Brady fished out the key. “We need to make sure we have a lot of it. And plungers. And…tampons?”
Brady passed him a questioning look. “Tampons? But we don’t have a tampon dispenser to fill.”
“Maybe we can get a little basket or something to put on the counter. We can buy different kinds and make it all look really nice. Give the ladies some options while they party if they need them. I bet The Drinking Spot doesn’t do that.”
“The Drinking Spot has brand-spanking-new bathrooms. ‘Modern chic’ is what Santana described it as. I don’t think an assortment of tampons in a wicker basket is going to really impress anyone.”
Dixon sighed. Experience had taught Brady that he was looking at a Dixon who was five, maybe ten, minutes away from being passed out on his bed. Despite a lax night, they’d spent an extra hour after closing cleaning in preparation.
Brady wasn’t far behind in the exhausted department. He’d had a hell of a day himself.
“Well, fancy tampon selection aside, we really need to nail this party. I’m glad Sloane hooked us up for it. Maybe we can win back some of our patrons.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Dixon headed to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and was asleep with his bedroom door open and lights still on before Brady could even drink half a glass of water. Some would think of him as a mess, but his cousin was really just a man who lived his life with tunnel-vision focus.
He loved Cassidy’s Place, just as his dad did, and just as their grandfather had before them. His day-to-day was spent much like Brady’s. He went to the bar, worked at the bar, and then worried about the bar. Everything else? Well, it fell by the wayside more often than not. It was one of the reasons Dixon moving in after the breakup hadn’t been the worst idea.
It was easier to feel reassured that he’d made all the right decisions when it came to his dedication to the bar by splitting the rent with someone who felt the same way.
Felicity hadn’t understood why Brady didn’t dream bigger, but Dixon? He knew that the bar was bigger than any dream.
It was family.
Brady smiled at his cousin now and turned the lights off and shut the door. He emptied his glass and did his nighttime routine in the bathroom on reflex. It wasn’t until he was lights out in his own bed that the highlights of the day played like a movie in his head.
Or really, just the one.
Sloane pressed against him. Warm, small, and absolutely delicious.
Being surprised by the woman was starting to become a normal occurrence. He hadn’t seen the kiss coming, and he hadn’t expected his body to react to her as quickly as it had.
There he was, ready to do whatever she would let him without a second thought.
But then, like almost all good moments, it was ruined by an interruption.
Callum.
As far as pains in the ass went, though, Callum rated low on the totem pole in Arbor Bay. Brady had seen him a few times at the bar, but they’d never really talked. In the kitchen, after Sloane had all but fled, he’d fallen into an easy and quick conversation with the man. It had been enough to make Brady like him—or, at least, not dislike him. There was a relaxed quality about him, even if Brady couldn’t quite grasp his and Sloane’s relationship.
They’d yelled at each other like Brady had seen Dixon and his sister do countless times, but then something had changed. Sloane came back in with a look of such intense something that Brady and Callum’s conversation had died down in an instant. Whateve
r feeling was there, it reflected in the man until, finally, Brady couldn’t take it anymore.
For once, he’d disliked the silence.
Brady blamed that odd non-conversation on why he wasn’t bothered by Sloane’s nearly nonstop babbling while they painted at Roger’s house. And she’d talked. A lot. Not even him mentioning her jumping him for a kiss in the kitchen had deterred her. After she’d laughed and turned beet red, she had deep-dived into the story of the last time she’d painted a room.
That story had stretched the length of the car ride and then segued into another story about how she and her last boyfriend—some idiot named Mayce, of all things—had spent an entire night arguing over how to stain a dresser.
Sloane babbling about one thing or the other had become the soundtrack accompanying the first coat of paint on Roger’s nursery.
It…hadn’t been horrible.
Truth be told, he’d laughed more than a few times.
But with all that talking, the one thing they never talked about? The same thing that was making the boxers he was wearing now a bit tight.
Sloane. In the kitchen. With his candlestick.
Being attracted to someone? Not a bad thing. Being attracted to the only other person who knew that their fake relationship had an expiration date? Probably not a good thing.
Yet, there Brady was, pushing off sleep long enough to think about her.
She was cute, sexy, and funny, too.
She was awkward, constantly worried, and also someone who needed to be liked.
She’d also once called Marcus Robertson her soul mate, and, no matter what she claimed, that feeling? Well, he couldn’t imagine it just simply went away.
Brady sighed into the darkness. She must be something special, is all I’m saying. Brady couldn’t argue that.
Sloane sure was something, all right.
…
The morning wasn’t hot.
It was a downright bitch.
Sloane stepped out onto the front porch and felt like she’d just walked into a steam shower. The temperature was hanging around 97, but the heat index said it felt like 102. Sloane could say a few words about what it felt like, but she was trying to hold on to a vestige of the classy, southern-belle image that was expected of young, southern ladies.
Especially since she was staring at a particularly good-looking young, southern man.
But what she needed? What she wanted?
Well, that was to go back inside and push some ice cubes down her drawers.
Instead, her gut was going cold while her body was beading sweat, thanks to how Brady greeted her.
“Cancel your plans for the day because we’re going out on the bay in a really weird double date with Felicity, Marcus, and, for some reason, Carol and Ruby.” Brady gave her two thumbs-up with mock enthusiasm.
Sloane made a noise that probably only dogs could hear. “Come again?” she managed.
Brady’s fake cheer disappeared as he went past her and into the house.
“Those damn Robertsons, I swear,” he muttered. “I went to the store so Dixon could look at tampons—don’t ask—and the next thing I know, your boy Marcus has me cornered in the shampoo aisle.”
Sloane was glad for the AC again but still felt hot hurrying after him into the kitchen. Callum was already out of the house doing something with Justus, so she didn’t have to remind him to keep his grumpiness down. If they wanted their shenanigans to work, he’d definitely need to stop saying stuff like “your boy Marcus.”
Brady threw his hands up and did a loud, long grumble.
“I used to be able to walk around town no problem, but now I step foot anywhere near Main, and everyone wants a piece of me.” He turned to face her. “Us, I mean. They want us to go hang out on their boat with them. Marcus said it would be nice to hang out before we get the life sucked out of us during the festival.”
“And you said yes. Before asking me. Again.”
The bartender had the good sense to look somewhat apologetic. “What can I say? I now officially believe in the Robertson charm. It and all its evil glory.”
Sloane felt her eyes narrow…and felt no humor whatsoever.
“I had things to do today. Important things. I don’t have time to go boating with Queen Bee and your ex on the bay. We don’t have the time. There’s still the last coat of paint at Roger’s, making a party plan for the bar, making a plan for the parade, and— Oh my God! The pageant! I keep forgetting that we’re in it! Did I tell you that the mayor wants to meet us tomorrow afternoon? Holy crapsticks!” Sloane dragged her hands down the sides of her face as panic rocketed through her. “We do not have time to socialize with the enemy!”
Brady sure had a set of brass ones on him. He actually chuckled.
“Listen, it’s not the end of the world,” he tried. “They’ll probably have fancy beer and snacks and want to leave after an hour because they don’t want their precious skin to burn. Before then? Why don’t we use the time to see if we can’t get the scoop on what they’re doing for the parade and pageant. See how over-the-top they’re planning on going so we can figure out how to beat them. Then you and I can talk strategy. What do you say?”
Sloane would have been nervous to go out with Marcus by herself. Add in Carol and her lackey Ruby, Felicity, and then Brady? Sloane definitely wasn’t inclined to say yes.
Brady must have seen that. He smirked. “Think about it this way, sweet cakes. Now it’s time for you to see me shirtless some more.”
Sloane didn’t say it then, but she decided that that definitely was a selling point.
Chapter Thirteen
“I lost my virginity on a boat.”
Brady put the truck in park and turned his head with a Scooby-Doo huh? sound. The fact that he was dressed like an undercover cop from the early nineties in L.A. only made the move even more comical. Sloane had barely kept a straight face when Brady had come back out of his apartment sporting a pair of swimming trunks striped neon orange, green, and purple and a short-sleeved button-up left unbuttoned. Still, she’d absolutely failed at keeping her mouth from watering at the sight of his visible toned chest and that doggone happy trail.
He might as well have had a tattoo on his stomach with an arrow pointing downward with text that said “Ride at Your Own Risk.”
Sloane had barely suppressed her thirst in the distance between his apartment and Live Oak Launch. It was only after she reminded herself that Brady had spent several hours alone with her and hadn’t tried to recreate their kiss or more—which was good considering that wasn’t the plan—that Sloane thought about the future.
Which, if Carol was around, probably would include an embarrassing story about Sloane’s past.
“I lost my virginity to this guy on his family’s boat when we were seventeen,” she kept on, not bothering to hold back. “We were your average horny teens and thought that we would just die if we didn’t do the deed. His family had this little speedboat and a dock where it was tied off at, and we decided that was where we could do it without being caught. So we waited until it was night, and I snuck out to meet him there.”
Brady did a little grin, clearly intrigued. If he was looking for a salacious story, she was about to disappoint him.
“He didn’t bring a blanket, and I was too nervous to bring anything other than, thankfully, the condom. Which meant all we had that wasn’t intensely uncomfortable to do anything on were the two cushions on the captain’s and passenger’s chairs. And they weren’t even next to each other. We ended up doing this awkward tangled-up thing sitting on the captain’s chair. It wasn’t pretty.” Sloane sighed, already internally cringing at the memory. “Well, at one point, the steering wheel thing, which was this weird U-shape, dug into my back and hurt like hell. I yelled out at it and, well, this guy thought I was yelling at other things, and that kind of made him�
�well, you know.”
Brady devolved into laughter. Sloane waited for him to finish before continuing.
“We realized after the fact that we just got swept up in that whole teenaged-lust thing and stopped dating. I never told him about how miserable my experience was, and he just assumed it was the best thing ever. I definitely didn’t tell him about the steering-wheel part, either.”
“Okay, so why are you telling me this now?”
Sloane closed her eyes for a moment and thumped her head back against the seat. When she spoke again, it was in her smallest I know mistakes were made voice.
“Because I wrote about it in my blog.”
Brady whistled long and low. “You wrote about it in your blog,” he repeated.
“Yes. But in my defense, that whole situation was a big deal for me, and the blog was absolutely private at the time. With no intention of it ever, ever going public. Though, just in case, I did change his name.” That being said, Sloane knew that anyone who had known her back then wouldn’t have a hard time guessing who “Rudy” was. She hadn’t been anywhere near prolific when it came to high-school dating. “I only bring it up now because I can’t imagine Carol not at least mentioning it today. In front of everyone. Because of the boat.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I’d imagine a story like that is catnip for her.”
Sloane groaned. “I should have deleted the whole blog years ago. I guarantee that I’d never have to deal with Carol on a boat if I did.”
“True, but then you’d also probably never have to deal with me on a boat.” Brady’s voice swung low. He delivered a devastatingly wonderful grin. “And I’m fucking magical on a boat.”
Sloane’s jaw went slack at the comment.
Her mind didn’t just slide into the gutter; it plummeted.
Before she could attempt to recover, movement outside the truck caught their eye. Carol and child-size sun hat 2.0 moved into view on the sidewalk that led from the parking lot to the boat ramp. She gave them a little trickle of a wave.
“Did we say her name three times already and accidentally summon her?” Sloane grumbled.
