Waterfront Café

by Mia Malone

  She blinked, and Brody wanted to kiss her.

  Later, he told himself.

  “I’ve never done anything like this,” she said.

  “I've seen tons of these proposals over the years, and very few of them has been this good. Good structure. Pretty detailed, but flexible in a lot of places. And you didn't touch my kitchen.”

  “You’ve seen interior design proposals?”

  “Sure. The head chef is part of the management team, so when the owner redecorates, which they do on an annoyingly frequent basis, they bring these proposals for the management team to comment on.”

  Her eyes widened, but then she started laughing.

  “God, Brody. I’m glad I didn’t know that. Okay then, I’ll do my best. I guess I can find the art in some of the galleries in –”

  “No.” Brody leaned forward and snagged a paper from a pile of her sketches. “You don't get it. I want stuff like this. Ink drawings of the town. The harbor and the beaches. I want you to draw them.”

  Her eyes sharpened, and she moved through the papers until she found the one showing the driftwood wall.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “Simple black frames, different sizes. Lots of them, and I’d mix them up with black and white photos, both old and new. You’re right. It would look fantastic.”

  “Photos?”

  “Jools. You. If you have something of the two of you from when you were a kid. And a few of the town, both then and now.”

  “Mom has a lot of photos, talk to her, and one of the Misses Clarks is a decent photographer. You’ll need to tell her what you want because she’s got tons of shit she sells to the tourists and you don’t want that.”

  “The Misses Clarks?”

  “Two of them are old as dirt, one owns the pottery and art store. The other one sells clothes and honey. The third is their grand-niece, and she runs the bookstore. All three shops are right opposite to the Café.”

  “Okay. Yes, I've seen the stores, and I planned to ask if the lady in the art store would be willing to try to sell some of my paintings as soon as I got around to actually painting them.”

  “I’m sure Cora would be happy to do that.”

  “Okay. Good.” She bit her lower lip and glanced down on the papers in front of them. “But first I have a café to sort out. Will you change the menu?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “Slowly, though. I’ll replace the dishes as I feel like it.”

  “Sounds like a good way to do it. And if you ask me, you should start with the fish tacos. You know I loved them, and I'm sure you realize I've kicked myself around some for promising to cook tonight.”

  “Babe.” Brody grinned and grabbed her hand as she got up. “Do you know what I eat the most at home?”

  “No?”

  “Mac’n Cheese. From a box.”

  “You like Mac’n Cheese?”

  “Fuck no. But it's easy. I don't have to think, and I don't have to make an effort after spending a lot of hours doing what I do.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh. And I’m also not picky. Not too fond of liver, but I eat it.” He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it gently. “Almost anything else works for me.”

  She moved her palm over his whiskers in a soft caress, and murmured, “No liver. Got it. You’ll get a simple pasta thing, it’ll only take a few minutes.” She smiled at him and added, “Not Mac’n Cheese. I’ll also make an extremely uncomplicated salad while the water boils.”

  “Can I look at what you’ve been drawing?” Brody asked and reached for the pile of papers.

  “Sure,” she said over her shoulder as she walked over to the kitchen corner.

  While she cut up a salad and moved pots around behind him, he looked at the sketches she’d done. He would have thought she’d keep them in her sketch pad, but she apparently tore them out once she was done and put them in the pile he was holding.

  She was more than good, he realized. The lines were clear and confident, and she managed to convey the mood of the small town with only her black pens, or something which looked like it might be the same kind of charcoal his mother sometimes used.

  Then he suddenly held a piece of paper with scribbles on it. On the top, it said “Bucket list.” She had divided the piece of paper into four sections and labeled each section neatly. Brody smiled and wondered how this woman could even think that she had it in her to be a hippie. Who the hell segmented a bucket list?

  The first section was about places she wanted to visit, and he smiled when he read through the short list. Rome, Jakarta, and Oslo were on it, and she'd added Tallahassee at the end with a question mark. The leisure section shared that she wanted to learn how to knit, play poker, make pottery, and to his surprise also how to make sushi. The physical activity section shared that Marie apparently felt a need to lose a few pounds which were ridiculous if you asked him. She also wanted to run a marathon, or a half-marathon, or five kilometers although she’d added to google how far 5K was.

  Brody knew he should put the paper away, or at least tell her that he’d found it, but then his eyes hit the last section which was labeled social activity, and he thought his eyes would pop out of his head.

  Have fantastic sex.

  The word fantastic was underlined twice, and beneath it she'd added: “From behind?” With a goddamned question mark.

  His whole being froze and breathing evenly was suddenly a chore. A bucket list was for things you had yet to do; surely she knew that? Apparently, she hadn't had any fantastic sex, and for fuck's sake... She hadn’t had it from behind. Really?

  Jumping her immediately to show her what fantastic sex was all about was what he wanted to do, but seducing her slowly would be better. If she hadn't even done it doggystyle, then he was pretty sure a whole bunch of other positions would be new to her. He adjusted his loose shirt to cover a crotch which suddenly showed clearly how parts of him disagreed with the slow part of his plan and tried to focus on the dark sky outside in an attempt to lose his hard-on.

  “Where’s Boone?”

  Brody coughed out air and pushed the paper back into the pile.

  “What?” he asked casually albeit a little hoarsely.

  “Boone?”

  “At home.”

  “All alone?”

  “He’s okay.”

  She put the salad on the table and looked at him.

  “Okay,” she murmured. “I guess he’s used to it. Someone like you would –”

  She cut herself off, and her cheeks slowly turned pink.

  “Someone like me?”

  “Dinner is ready in fifty-four seconds,” Marie said and looked at what he assumed was a timer.

  “Babe. I take good care of Boone.”

  “I know,” she said, bit her lip and added, “I meant that someone like you would date a lot, so he’s used to it.”

  “Someone like me would date a lot?” Brody echoed.

  What the hell? Did he look that desperate?

  He was horny and yeah, a little bit desperate to get her naked, but he didn’t want it to show.

  Marie

  What was it about Brody Baker? I'd ended up in another absurd situation, all of my own doing. I'd almost blurted out how smoking hot he was, which he'd know, so he didn't need to hear it from me.

  “Sure,” I said breezily, stared at the timer, and tried to force the seconds to move faster.

  “What does that mean?”

  Oh, for Christ’s sake. I turned toward the pasta and started stirring it, which only made him come up behind me and put a hand on top of mine to keep my hand still.

  “Don’t destroy it,” he murmured. “Why don’t you just explain instead?”

  “Will you go and get Boone if I do,” I stalled.

  “Marie.”

  “You're good-looking, so of course you date a lot. I get it,” I said, hoping it sounded casual and nonchalant and not as if I wanted to rip h
is shirt off.

  Which I wanted but wasn't going to do, unless perhaps if he asked me to.

  “I’m good-looking?”

  “Don’t,” I said. “Pasta’s done.”

  He pushed my hands away and moved the pot over to the sink where I’d already place a colander.

  “Don’t what?” he asked casually.

  “Brody, don't be an ass,” I snapped. “We both know you're hot, so there's no need to fish for praise and adulation.”

  He froze and then his head turned slowly toward me. I saw a flash of surprise in his eyes, which was ridiculous, but it was quickly replaced by humor. Then he barked out a quick laugh.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “You’ve seen Patrick, right?”

  I blinked and wondered if he’d accidentally had a minor stroke. Yes, I’d seen his brother on more than one occasion, and he knew it.

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “Patrick looks very nice too.”

  “Babe,” he snorted and shook his head. “You’re probably the first to ever label him as nice-looking. Let’s eat.”

  Since I didn’t want to argue about his brother’s level of handsomeness, I moved the sauce to the table and sat down. Dinner was relaxed, and we talked about casual things like my job and places he’d lived, but there was something in Brody’s eyes I didn’t recognize. He seemed to be his usual calm self, but I caught him watching me again as I got up to make coffee. I chose to ignore it and indicated that we would take the two steps over to the couch. This seemed like a better place to spend the rest of the evening since the chairs at the table were only marginally newer than the ones in his café, although they were at least not made out of faded green plastic.

  “I was going to wait,” he murmured suddenly and leaned in closer. “But I won’t.”

  I was about to ask him but then our eyes met, and I knew what he was about to do. I leaned forward and expected a soft brush against my lips like the one he’d given me once before.

  What I got was a hard, deep kiss. A wash of heat rushed through me when his tongue slid over mine and then a strong hand moved around to my back and in under my tee. I wasn't sure how it happened, but we were suddenly down on the couch, me on my back with Brody half on top of me. I felt his crotch against my hip, and his hand moved lazily along my ribs. I would have been more than happy to continue what we were doing, but he pulled back a few inches.

  “Jesus,” he murmured. “That went a little further than I’d planned. Not gonna do you on the couch like this.”

  I felt my brows go up and breathed out a surprised, “People actually do it on the couch?”

  His eyes lit up and he started laughing.

  “Yeah, babe. People do it on the couch.”

  I could have kicked myself for sounding like a naïve fool. I read a lot, and a lot of it was rather steamy, but I’d thought it was fiction in the same way people in books could turn into vampires or move through time. I hadn’t realized that people had sex on couches, or did any of the other things I’d read about. Or, if they did indeed do all of that, it wouldn’t be at our age. We’d both passed fifty so surely any deed would be done in a bed and under the cover?

  Before I got a chance to recover from my latest idiocy, he straightened and pulled me up with him.

  “Let’s drink our coffee.”

  “Okay,” I murmured, but added, “I didn’t mind, Brody.”

  “I know,” he said and slid his index finger over my cheek in a soft caress which I assumed was meant to be sweet but mostly sent shivers through my core to settle between my legs. “We'll get there, Marie. There's no rush.”

  I took a sip of my barely lukewarm coffee and wondered if I should perhaps inform him that I felt like rushing, preferably straight into my bedroom.

  ***

  Punching Brody Baker in his ridiculously flat belly might be appropriate, I thought.

  We were in the Café, he was preparing to open for the day and papers were spread out over one of the rickety, old tables.

  Planning, he called it, and it was the third planning session we'd had, and I'd gotten more inclined to kiss him and less inclined to create a timeline for renovation activities with each meeting. And I'd started out wanting to jump him pretty badly.

  I wasn’t sure what it was about him that made me blurt out stupid things and think about putting my hand down his pants. Or on his behind.

  It could be the way his eyes lit up with soft humor when he laughed, which was often. Or perhaps the way he moved. I loved watching him cook, and it wasn't just because of the way his tight tees stretched over his broad chest when he reached for something. The way he moved around his kitchen with confidence and absolute focus did something to me, and when he tilted his head to the side to grin at me, my insides melted.

  He’d said that we’d get there, which I’d assumed meant that he wanted to sleep with me. I was totally on board with that but had started to worry that he changed his mind.

  “Why haven’t you kissed me again?” I heard myself ask.

  “I have kissed you.”

  Yeah, okay, he had. Soft, sweet brushes against my lips and cheek.

  “Not like on my couch,” I clarified. “It’s been more in a middle-aged way.”

  Well, shit. We were middle-aged.

  “You want me to be less middle-aged?” he asked.

  Well, double-shit. When he put it like that, I sounded like an idiot.

  “Um,” I mumbled and watched him shuffle papers around on the table.

  “Dinner at my place tonight?” he asked suddenly.

  I blinked.

  Dinner?

  “Okay,” I agreed. “Should I bring something?”

  He was busy scrutinizing what we agreed would be the final plan for the remodel of the café.

  “Brody,” I prompted and added when he looked at me, “Should I bring something?”

  “Where?”

  “You don’t have to invite me over for dinner.”

  “Babe. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. I’m sorry, I just wanted to get this out of the way.” He flashed a crooked grin, and added, “So I can focus on kissing you.”

  Oh.

  Dinner apparently meant that he'd totally kiss me and not in a middle-aged way at all.

  A rush of warmth settled between my legs, but I suddenly wondered if I'd made a mistake. I had slept with five men in my life, and I had a sneaky suspicion that neither of them was the kind of man Brody Baker was. I was also fifty and in reasonable shape, more or less, but still. Whatever they said; Fifty was not the new thirty. Or, perhaps it was?

  “Marie?”

  “Yuh-eah,” I said in an unfortunate squeak.

  I swallowed, and our eyes met. His were full of soft humor, and I felt my lips twitch in a smile. Then he took a few steps toward me, turned the high chair around and leaned in.

  “You asked for it,” he mumbled against my lips.

  The countertop pressed into my back, and he nudged my legs apart to move closer. He held one of his hands around my neck, but the other was sliding lower until is settled in the small of my back. The way he kissed me made me forget that I wasn't twenty and perky-boobed anymore.

  I was about to move my hands from his ribs and down toward his behind when a loud knock on the backdoor made him raise his head.

  “Deliveries,” he murmured. “I could kill him and come right back.”

  “Probably not a good idea,” I said.

  “Probably not,” Brody agreed and moved away.

  I sat in stunned silence and heard him laugh with the delivery guy, and how they carted boxes of supplies into the storage room at the back.

  Dinner tonight.

  Oh my God, I had absolutely nothing to wear except boring jeans and tops in fifty shades of blue. I needed help and whipped out my phone to enlist someone who would know what to do.

  “Shelly,” I whispered, hoping that Brody was still bus
y unloading lobsters or celery or whatever. “I need help.”

  “Printouts?”

  “Clothes.”

  “Yay!” she squealed. “Shopping!”

  Chapter Six

  Frozen

  Brody

  Jesus fucking Christ. Marie asked if she should bring something and he almost blurted out that a toothbrush would be good. First of all; he should pick one up when he went grocery shopping because only a douche asked a woman to bring one. Second; he wanted her to stay the night, but she might not be ready for it or even want it, which was her choice but not an option he looked forward to accepting.

  The day passed slowly, and the usual trickle of customers didn’t keep his mind fully occupied, which meant he had plenty of time to think about what he wanted to upgrade in the kitchen. The layout was perfect, he realized after going through every possible option he could think of. The equipment would have to go, though, and subway tiles would look nice, but they would have to be set with as little grout as possible or else he’d scrub them like a maniac on a daily basis, and they’d still look dirty. He could put a sheet of glass in front of them, but then he might as well let the wooden wall continue straight into the kitchen. Unless that would look weird. Or else –

  “I hear you’re planning to spruce up the place.”

  Shit. Uncle Jools had walked in, and he did not sound jovial which would have been a fucking miracle, but he didn’t sound like his usual grouchy self either.

  “Yup.”

  “High time.”

  Brody’s brows went up before he could stop them, and Jools saw it.

  “Boy. It's your business now. If you want to make it into one of them fancy places you're used to then go ahead. Waste of money if you were to ask me, which I don't think you will.”

  Jools had that right. Brody had in no way planned to ask, but then he remembered how perfect the layout had turned out to be in the kitchen area, and his mother’s words. He’s not half as stupid as you think, she’d said.

  “I could use your eyes on a few things if you have the time,” Brody said, suspecting that he was setting himself up for an afternoon of yelling. He reached for the blue binder anyway and braced as he stretched it out toward his uncle. “Take a look at this and let me know what you think.”