Suddenly Dating (A Lake Haven Novel Book 2)

by Julia London

  “Huh,” Harry said.

  “This account is a big deal for me, Harry.”

  “Yeah, that’s great,” he said absently as he tried to collect himself. So she would be there tonight, at the barbecue that had been arranged for him. Great.

  “Will I see you at the barbecue? Birta said you’d be there.”

  Harry tried to think. He desperately needed time with Albert Cantrell, and he didn’t need the complication of Melissa interfering with that plan. Not only that, he was taking Lola. And he didn’t want Melissa interfering with that, either. “I guess,” he said.

  “Wow,” she said. “You don’t sound very excited.”

  Maybe because he wasn’t. “I wasn’t expecting this. Lissa . . . I’m taking Lola to the barbecue.”

  That was met with dead silence for a moment on the other end. “I guess I see where I stand,” Melissa said at last.

  “Please don’t do that,” he said wearily, and leaned back in his chair, scraping his hair back from his face. “You left me, remember? Did you think I’d sit around like a monk?”

  “You’re right,” she said, surprisingly contrite. “I know you’re right, Harry, but I’m just so hoping you will give me another chance. I have always loved you. Always. And I think you’ve always loved me.”

  This felt so dense on top of everything else on Harry’s mind. He didn’t want to have this conversation with Melissa right now. “I’ll see you tonight, all right?”

  Again, the long silence. “Okay,” she said, her voice soft. “Please remember that I love you.” She clicked off.

  Funny, wasn’t it, that a few weeks ago, Harry would have been thrilled to hear her say those words, but today they just muddied the waters that seemed to be creeping up to his neck. There had been a part of him that truly had wanted to go back to the way it was with Melissa. To hot nights and fine dining and life in the city. He’d thought he would marry her, would put down roots and grow a family. When exactly had that changed? When had she stopped feeling like a lifemate and had begun to feel like one more thing he had to handle? More than a couple of months ago, he realized.

  Harry didn’t have time to think of it now. His fledgling company was in dire straits, and he had to focus on what he’d say to Albert Cantrell tonight.

  He managed to block out the world for the afternoon until it was time to shower and dress for the evening.

  When he emerged from his room, Lola was waiting, sitting on one of the living room couches, her legs stretched before her and propped on the leather ottoman. “Hi, handsome,” she said, and stood up and smoothed out her dress. She was wearing the yellow halter dress he really liked. She turned her back to him, glanced over her shoulder and said, “Will you help me?”

  Harry remembered the first time he’d zipped her up in this dress, he’d been afraid to touch her. This time, he zipped her up, then impulsively put his hands on her shoulders, dipped his head, and kissed her neck.

  “Hello?” she said, and turned around, eyeing him suspiciously. “What was that for?” she asked as she slipped her feet into sandals.

  Harry smiled. “You’re not the only one who sometimes suffers from lack of impulse control.” He did it because she was beautiful and he missed her. Lola was undeniably sexy, but it was more than that—he was drawn like a moth to light by her spirit. “Ready?” he asked.

  “I am ready for some ribs, baby,” she said, and with a grin, picked up her purse. “I hope they have bibs.”

  It was another crowded affair at the Cantrells’. The first person Lola and Harry met inside the residence was Mrs. Cantrell, who saw them from across the room and started forward, her arms outstretched. “And here we have the first Handsome Harry admirer of the night,” Lola muttered under her breath.

  “Stop,” Harry warned her with a squeeze to her hand.

  “Harry!” Mrs. Cantrell said, and turned her face, presenting her cheek for his kiss, as if she was his aunt. She smelled of expensive perfume and powder.

  “Hello, Mrs. Cantrell.”

  “Is Mallory here?” Lola asked after greeting Mrs. Cantrell.

  “Oh, she’s here,” Mrs. Cantrell said, sounding perturbed. “She’s wearing denim shorts! I swear on my life I think she does it on purpose!”

  Lola glanced at Harry and mouthed the words, me too.

  Mrs. Cantrell gestured toward the French doors. “She’s out there somewhere.”

  They headed outside where dozens of guests were soaking up the late-afternoon sun.

  “There she is,” Lola said—Mallory’s frizzy hair could be seen two decks down. She waved; a moment later, Mallory was threading her way through the top deck to them.

  “Hello!” she said grandly. She threw her arms around Harry and kissed his cheek, then did the same to Lola.

  “I thought you said just a few people,” Lola said, looking around them.

  “Albert and Lillian never do anything small,” Mallory said cheerfully.

  “Is your dad here?” Lola asked.

  “Yes!” Mallory lightly punched Harry in the arm. “Dude, you must really like roads, like a lot. Lola has been after me to introduce you to the road king for two weeks. So let’s go meet him!”

  “I’m ready,” Harry said. He put his hand on Lola’s elbow.

  “You don’t need me,” she said, pulling back.

  “Well I do,” Mallory said, and linked her arm through Lola’s, then Harry’s. “This way, children,” she sang, and led them off the deck and back into the house, down a wide staircase to another level of the house. It was a rec room of sorts, and several men were gathered around a pool table.

  They followed Mallory to a pair of leather chairs where a man sat alone, chewing on the end of a cigar. “Albert, meet my friends.”

  “Huh?” He squinted up at her.

  Harry could see who Mallory resembled—Albert Cantrell was a barrel-chested man with a mass of gray hair on top of his head that looked a bit like overgrown turf.

  “This is my friend, Harry Westbrook. And my other friend, Lola Dunne.”

  “Lola Dunne,” he said, refusing to take the cigar from his mouth. “You’re the one who is doing the work Mallory here is supposed to be doing for herself, is that right?”

  “I’m helping her,” Lola said.

  “Don’t start, Albert,” Mallory said. “Anyway, I want you to meet Harry because he really likes roads.”

  “How are you, Mr. Cantrell?” Harry said, and extended his hand. “I’m a bridge builder.”

  “You don’t say,” the man said. “Have a seat, Harry.” He gestured to the empty leather chair. “You like cigars?”

  Harry hated cigars. “Sure,” he said.

  Mr. Cantrell pointed to a box on the table between the chairs. “They’re Cuban—knock your socks off. Butkiss! Fix this man a drink!” he shouted hoarsely at a waiter.

  “Stop calling him Butkiss,” Mallory complained. “His name is John, I’ve told you.”

  “Whatever,” Mr. Cantrell said and turned back to Harry. “Bridge builder, huh? What firm?”

  “A new one,” Harry said. “I have started my own. Westbrook Bridge Design and Construction.”

  “Just starting out,” Mr. Cantrell mused. “That’s a big gamble in today’s economy. You can’t do a half-assed job. That’s what I keep telling my girl here. Can’t do a half-assed job with your own company if you expect to get anywhere. You know what I’m saying? I built my company from scratch, and look what I’ve got.”

  “Okay, if you’re going to insult me, Lola and I are leaving,” Mallory said, clearly annoyed. She grabbed Lola’s hand and dragged her away; Lola shot Harry a look of helplessness over her shoulder.

  “See that?” Mr. Cantrell said, pointing his cigar stub at Mallory. “That’s the face of a coward running away from me right now. She knows what I’m saying is right.” He reinserted the soggy cigar into his mouth. “Not many bridge builders running around Lake Haven.”

  “True. I’ve wanted to meet you for a
while, Mr. Cantrell. I really admire how you’ve built your company,” Harry said. Because he was nothing if not thorough in his research of Albert Cantrell, he told him what he admired about his company. And then he told him about the vision he had for his own company. He told Mr. Cantrell about the four bridges he’d done now as a subcontractor to Ferrigan Industries, including the supports he’d done for a bridge job he’d just completed near Thorson.

  “I saw that bridge,” Mr. Cantrell said, nodding. “I told Lillian it would take six months to build that thing.”

  “It took four,” Harry said.

  He let the conversation meander around to some of Mr. Cantrell’s more memorable projects, until he saw the opening to broach the subject of the toll road job Mr. Cantrell had won.

  “Ah, so you want to do my bridges, eh?” Mr. Cantrell said.

  “I do, sir.”

  “Can’t do that on my own, you know. I’ve got people that are in charge of bidding out those things.”

  “I understand. I’m just asking for a shot.”

  Mr. Cantrell sighed. “You’re new, son. My team isn’t going to want to hire an untried company.”

  Harry’s pulse began to tick with anxiety. “I’m not untried. I’m good, Mr. Cantrell. Really good. I need the right opportunity to prove what I can do.”

  Mr. Cantrell shook his head. “Old Bill Nelson hates when I do this, but let me call him.” He withdrew his phone from his pocket and punched a button, then held it up to his ear. “Bill. You busy? Oh, your son’s birthday,” he said, and waggled his brows at Harry. “I got someone I want you to meet. Come down to East Beach Monday so I can introduce you.” He pointed at Harry and arched his brows in question. Harry nodded.

  “Lunch at the Lakeside Bistro. Yeah, okay, one o’clock. See you then.” He chatted for a moment about the birthday, then hung up.

  “Mr. Cantrell . . . thank you,” Harry said. “I appreciate this more than I can say.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Mr. Cantrell said. “Bill is a tough son of a bitch. He doesn’t like newbies, I’ll tell you that, so you best come with your game face.”

  Harry grinned. “Absolutely. Thank you.”

  Mr. Cantrell began to talk about fishing, as Harry’s mind raced ahead to Monday. He kept his seat, but all he wanted to do was run and find Lola to tell her the news.

  Twenty-five

  Mallory was hungry for barbecue and led Lola down to the lawn where three men were manning pits under a large white canopy. They helped themselves to ribs and potato salad, then sat at a picnic table under an oak tree, devouring the food.

  Lola had finished half her plate when she pushed it away. “I can’t eat another bite,” she said, and put her hand on her belly. “How did you pull off a barbecue this big? Where did those men come from?”

  “Girl, when you have money, anything is doable,” Mallory said, and licked her fingers one by one. “I’m going back for seconds.”

  “I’ll get us some drinks,” Lola offered.

  Lola went off in the opposite direction of Mallory to a bar set up on the dock and took her place in line. She looked around for Harry, and as she searched the crowd, she happened to see Birta. A distinguished-looking gentleman was helping her down the stairs. Lola knew immediately that he was Cyrus Bernstein, famed literary agent, and her heart leapt into her throat. He was actually here, so close that she would, in a matter of minutes, be able to reach out and touch him. She was so enthralled by the sighting of Cyrus Bernstein that she didn’t even see Melissa for several moments.

  Oh, but that was Melissa, all right, turning heads as she walked down the deck steps in heels about ten-feet high. “Shit,” Lola whispered to herself. What the hell was she doing here?

  Birta, Cyrus, and Melissa made their way onto the dock. Lola didn’t want to speak to Birta or Melissa, but she was not going to miss the opportunity to meet Mr. Bernstein. She awkwardly stepped into the trio’s path. “Hi!”

  “Oh!” Birta put a hand to her chest. “Good Lord, Lola, you scared me. You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “What have I told you about sorry?” Birta said. “Darling,” she said to her agent, “this is Lola. My assistant.”

  Mr. Bernstein had shining blue eyes, and the skin around them crinkled with his smile. “Your assistant is in New York, Birta. I know her, remember? She’s my daughter.”

  “And a wonderful assistant she is. This is my East Beach assistant,” Birta purred. “She’s very good at taking out the trash and what not. She’s also an aspiring writer.”

  “Is she?” Mr. Bernstein said, and looked at Lola with renewed interest.

  “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bernstein,” she said. She spared Melissa a quick glance. “Hello again,” she said.

  “Hello,” Melissa said, and her gaze moved over Lola, assessing her.

  “What do you write, Lola?” Mr. Bernstein asked, peering at her through stylish lenses.

  Birta laughed. “It will be a delight to hear her articulate it,” she said gaily.

  “Is that the bar?” Mr. Bernstein asked, now looking past Lola.

  She hadn’t had a chance to tell him yet! “Can I get you a drink?” she offered.

  “May you get him a drink,” Birta corrected her.

  “I’ll get it,” Mr. Bernstein said amicably, and moved to step around her.

  “My book is a tale of revenge,” Lola blurted, hopping to stay beside him.

  “Everyone likes a good revenge book,” he said absently, but he was moving quickly, homed in on the bar.

  Lola suffered a brief moment of crisis. Was it rude to persist? Or should she let the man get a drink? She realized she was letting the moment slip through her fingers, so she stepped around several people to keep up with Mr. Bernstein as he made his way to the bar. “It’s about a psychopathic girl who can’t stand it when men dump her. So she kills them.”

  “Hope that’s not autobiographical,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Not yet,” Lola said.

  “What?” he said, startled. And then he laughed. “It sounds unusual. Excuse me!” he called to the bartender.

  “But it’s not all dark,” Lola said desperately. “There is some humor in it. I know that sounds strange, but it works.”

  “Excuse me!” he said again, holding up his hand.

  Lola glanced around, saw Nolan behind the bar. “Nolan!” she cried, perhaps too sharply, but this was an emergency. She waved at him. “Nolan!”

  “Do I need to call a paramedic?” Nolan asked as he slid down the bar. He looked at Cyrus Bernstein. “What happened to the hunky hardhat?”

  “The what?” Mr. Bernstein asked.

  “He’s here somewhere,” Lola said quickly. “But this is Cyrus Bernstein! He is one of the top literary agents in New York, and he needs a drink.”

  “Actually, I need three,” Cyrus said, and gave Nolan his order. When Nolan went off to make the drinks, Mr. Bernstein smiled at Lola. “Thank you! Birta drove us, and she is a terrible driver. I’ve needed to drink for an hour. And there she is in Germany, not a stone’s throw from the autobahn. All right, this book with the psychopathic boyfriend killer—do I have that right?”

  “Yes!”

  “I read some of your pages this afternoon. You’re right, the humor works.”

  Now Lola’s heart stopped beating altogether. “You . . . you read some pages?”

  “I did. I saw them lying on Birta’s desk and picked them up. I read the part where Sherri is in Home Depot and can’t decide between the chain saw or the machete, and she is price-checking them, then arguing with the cashier about whether or not one of them is on sale.”

  “That’s it,” Lola said uncertainly.

  “Hilarious!” he said, grinning. “I love a good sense of humor. Do you have a full manuscript?”

  Was she breathing? Lola couldn’t tell if she was breathing. “Not yet. But I’m very close.”

  “Here you go
, doll,” Nolan said, setting three drinks before Mr. Bernstein.

  “Thanks,” said Mr. Bernstein. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to Lola. “When you finish the book, send it to me. Remind me that we met at East Beach, and I’ll give it a look.”

  “I can’t . . . I am speechless,” Lola said as he picked up his drinks. “Thank you so much!”

  “No promises, you understand, but one never knows.” He smiled and turned around, carrying the drinks back to Birta and Melissa.

  Lola’s heart was beating so hard now she could hardly make out his card. She couldn’t believe it! She had Cyrus Bernstein’s card and an invitation to send him the manuscript. This was actually happening to her!

  “Are you going to drink something or just block the bar all night?” Nolan asked.

  “Champagne!” she shouted at him. “Three of them!”

  Nolan shook his head, but moved to get the champagne. Lola stared at the card in her hand and began to worry she would lose it. Where was Harry with his pockets? She slipped the card into her barely-there bra and adjusted her dress with one hand just as Nolan returned with the champagne.

  “Keep your hands out of your dress, love,” he said. “That’s what your luscious boyfriend is for.”

  “Speaking of which,” she said gaily, and picked up her champagnes—one for her, one for Mallory, and one for Harry. She couldn’t wait to tell him that she’d done it, she’d actually done it—she hadn’t let fear keep her from pursuing the opportunity.

  She turned around and almost bumped into Mallory.

  “Where’d you go?” she asked, taking one of the champagnes from her hand. “I waited so long I ended up eating the rest of yours.”

  Lola laughed. She laughed too loudly, and too gaily, but she didn’t care. “I met Cyrus Bernstein,” she said. “He wants me to send my book when I finish.”

  Mallory’s jaw dropped. “That’s fantastic!”

  “I know! I did it, Mallory! I can’t believe it—none of this would have happened if I hadn’t come to stay in Zach Miller’s house!”