“Natalie?” he breathed out.
Damn, chemistry was a funny thing . . .
CHAPTER 7
Natalie had seen the whole debacle.
Dr. Nerd’s latest date—who Paige had told her was dental assistant Lynne from Main Street Dental—had given him the classic Have-a-Friend-Call-You-Away brush-off. And had even managed to get his glasses trampled as she’d practically flown out the door.
Natalie had watched the whole thing over the rim of her pink glasses, between dart throws and sips of her gimlet. She’d had to look away at the end, trying to remember if she’d ever employed that ruse herself, and instantly felt bad when she realized she had. Although she’d done it because she’d thought she was in danger from a three-hundred-pound biker in LA. Not faced with a kind man like Dr. Sherman. And she certainly would have offered him a ride home after breaking his glasses. Sheesh. Sometimes her own kind embarrassed her.
“So who’s your matchmaker?” Natalie asked, leaning farther toward him and deciding she needed to get to the bottom of this issue with Dr. Sherman and his revolving door of dates.
“How can you tell I have a matchmaker?”
“These just don’t seem like women who suit you.”
“Ah.” He lifted the beer bottle to his lips and eyed her over the rim. “Thanks for not mentioning the alternate possibility.”
“What’s that?”
“That I don’t suit them.”
She took in his soulful eyes, his sexy-messy hair, his tanned wrists, his long fingers, and thought she might be able to think of a few women he’d suit just fine. But she shrugged the thought off and leaned more casually against the bar top.
“My sister is my matchmaker,” he finally answered. “She’s set me up on dates every night this week. I’m on date three, and zero for three, I think.”
Natalie cocked her head and leaned a little closer. The next song came on the jukebox—“Werewolves of London”—and she took her heart-shaped shades off so she could see him better. Dr. Sherman had really remarkable eyes—a sharp, crystalline blue, seeming to take in everything, with the most ridiculously long lashes. He kept inching away, which kind of hurt her feelings, so she backed off a little.
“Maybe I can help,” she blurted. As soon as the words left her mouth, Natalie questioned their wisdom. She didn’t even know where that idea had come from.
He turned more toward her, though, which made the comment feel like a success. At least she’d finally gotten his attention. “And how is that?” he asked.
“I can coach you.” As she said it, the idea began to take shape. It would be fun to spend time with him. She could still be on a mancation. And his matchmaker was obviously throwing him to the wolves. “How many dates do you have left this week?”
“Two.” He winced as if the very idea hurt.
“Where?”
“Tomorrow night’s is at the art walk downtown.”
“Oh, the Wednesday Art Walk. I’m going to that anyway. Where is the other one?”
“Thursday’s is at the new restaurant next to the pier—the tiki one?”
“The Wanderer?”
“That sounds right.”
“Maybe we’ll run into each other and you could secretly sign to me how things are going. I’ll see if I could lend you some tips.”
“Why would you do that?”
She took a sip of her drink. How much could she admit here? Could she say he sort of fascinated her and she just wanted to spend time with him? She didn’t want to act as though she were coming on to him.
“You seem like a nice guy,” she said instead.
He looked at her skeptically.
“You’re good with the sea lions. But I know women. And I know Lavender Island women in particular. And I know dating. Trust me, I’ve got this.”
B. J. Thomas came on the jukebox next with “(Hey Won’t You Play) Another Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Song,” and Dr. Sherman glanced into the mirror behind the bar, then stared into his beer. “I’m not a charity case.”
“You sort of are.”
He shot a look her way, his eyebrows raised, but then eventually laughed. He had a low, sexy laugh—deep and reluctant, as if it was a gift to anyone who cared to pull it out of him.
“Maybe you’re right.” He took a swig of his beer and looked at her sideways. “So, what are you doing here tonight, and who am I stealing you away from?”
“I’m here with my sister, but I’m sure she’s not missing me. We’re playing darts, and she brought me here to apologize.”
“Apologize for what?” He took another drink.
“For laughing at my mancation.”
He choked a little and brought his bottle down. “Is a ‘mancation’ what I think it is?”
“It depends on what you think it is.”
“Sounds like it could be either a vacation to find men or a vacation from men.”
“Which do you think?” she asked.
“Well, I doubt you need a vacation to find men, so I’ll guess the latter.”
“Yep.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one before,” he said. “How long does a mancation usually last?”
“I had planned three months, but my sister bet me that I couldn’t keep it going for three weeks.”
“And she was apologizing for . . . ?”
“For laughing that I couldn’t last for three weeks.”
“Ah. So you know dating, huh?” Dr. Sherman asked.
“I’m pretty good at it.”
“You like to date?”
“I used to.”
“What’s different now?”
“I’ve had some bad experiences.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Hence the mancation.”
“Nice hypothesis.”
He smiled at that. The dart crowd erupted into a cheer, and they both looked that way. But Natalie soon turned back to Dr. Sherman. She scooted a little closer—he smelled so good, like sandalwood and earnestness. And she liked the look of his sinewy forearms along the bar—it reminded her of the way he’d had them wrapped protectively around Alice last night.
But he casually sidled a little farther away. She sighed.
“Plus, my sister invited me here to play darts,” she added, her disappointment hopefully covered up by her voice.
“Ah. Yes. I noticed you earlier. You have good form.” He cleared his throat and pushed at his cocktail napkin with the beer bottle.
“Do you play?”
“I do.”
Somehow she’d guessed that. “Do you want to play with us?”
He studied her, then pushed a bill across the counter to the bartender with a wry smile. “I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one evening.”
He picked up his broken glasses, then gave her a quick nod as he tried to move out of the small gap she’d left between them. “But I’ll see you at the center Thursday, right? As Doris said, Larry, Curly, and Moe should be out of ICU then. You could bring your niece by.” A piece of his sandy hair flopped into his eyes in the cutest way, and he swiped at it.
“Oh! Yes!” She was surprised he was leaving so abruptly. Did she say something wrong? “You know I—” She tried to move away as he politely stepped around her. She wondered if he didn’t like her. Maybe she came off as too aggressive. She’d cultivated a long life of being aggressive when necessary, but she needed to learn to back off when faced with situations that didn’t warrant it. Or men who didn’t warrant it. “I um . . . I got a new job. And it might be at the center some of the time.”
He stopped and snapped a look back at her. “Where?”
“At Casas del Sur. I’ll be driving the seniors around—and sometimes to the center.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
A crowd right behind them let out another loud cheer and clattered bottles together in a toast as Dr. Sherman seemed to think over her news. “I might see you sooner then.”
“Yes. And maybe you’ll let me help you with your date tomorrow?” she asked.
He gave an embarrassed laugh. “Why don’t we talk about that if you come to the center tomorrow? I might’ve had one too many beers to agree to that right now.”
“How many have you had?”
“One.” He squinted toward the door, as if trying to figure out where it was, then headed toward the exit sign.
“Wait—you probably can’t drive with your glasses like that.” Natalie glanced at the mess in his hands. “Would you like me to drive you home?”
But he’d already shoved his glasses and his hands in his gabardine slacks and was making a beeline for the door.
Natalie sighed.
Maybe smart, kind men just would never be attracted to her.
Elliott pushed his way through the crowd, which was spilling out into the street.
It would be a pretty long walk home, but his glasses were a bit beyond hope right now, and his driving through the night, even in a golf cart, would be reckless at best.
But there was no way he was going to accept a ride from Natalie Grant.
He was just too nervous around her. Gorgeous women could do that to an introvert.
Best to get her out of his mind. Or at least out of his mind as someone he could date. She’d laid it out pretty clear with her mancation story.
Of course, she did seem to think of him as a charity case, so that was an option, he supposed, if he wanted to be fully pathetic. He could be her pet project and let her help him with his dates.
But no. As much as he liked being near her, he had to draw the line somewhere between his testosterone and his pride.
He shoved his hands deeper into his trouser pockets and squinted at the busy street, trying to remember where the back canyon road was on this little island. He knew there was a path leading the back way to his house—he’d even run it once—but now, in the dark, without being able to see clearly, he couldn’t quite locate it.
He walked another two blocks, following the sound of his beloved ocean, and then pulled his glasses out of his pocket and peered through the shattered left lens at the street sign. Ah, Oak Lane. That sounded right.
He glanced back over his shoulder to make sure no one from the bar could see his goofy self, then shed his shoes and socks, shoved the lens back into his pocket, and took off in a cross-country-style gait toward the trail he was pretty sure would lead back home.
He’d forget about Natalie. He’d just get through these next two dates for Nell, then refocus his life on the sea lions. He would probably leave Lavender Island as soon as he could.
He was striking out here.
Story of his life.
CHAPTER 8
Natalie awoke the next morning to a hangover and a general feeling of sadness she couldn’t quite identify. She slammed the alarm clock until it bounced off the nightstand, then groaned, caught the ringing cacophony, and snapped it off with more force than necessary. Rolling over, she sighed and drifted back into consciousness. Vignettes of the previous evening floated before her—laughing at Paige’s wig, winning the dart tournament, meeting a huge guy with cartoonish muscles named John-O who’d flirted with her the second half of the evening, and then . . . Dr. Sherman . . . hightailing it out of the bar, seemingly wanting to get away from her.
The source of her vague sadness was identified.
She rolled off the bed as her head throbbed in protest, and instantly wondered if she could talk Paige into taking Lily to school. Natalie definitely needed another hour of sleep, not to mention an aspirin and a few glasses of water.
But then she remembered the new leaf she was turning and forced herself into a standing position. This was her job. Lily was counting on her. And so was Olivia. Plus, she was starting her second job today. And she might get to see Dr. Sherman. And maybe she’d help him on his date tonight, if he didn’t keep running away from her.
She steadied herself against the nightstand. She’d just have to cut her nights shorter, and drink less, if she was going to do this early-rising thing. As she snatched up her clothes to head down the hall to her shower, a wave of admiration swept through her that Olivia did this every day.
The shower and some coffee did her well. By the time Lily was swinging her legs under the table and humming into her Froot Loops, Natalie felt 75 percent prepared to face the day. She even made Olivia some plain toast and coffee and brought it to her in bed, telling her not to get up this morning—she and Lily would be fine, and she’d do Lily’s hair. By ten minutes to seven, Lily had on her fireman costume and a flashlight in her backpack, and Natalie cheered up the last 25 percent.
Or maybe 23 percent.
There was still a 2 percent tug of sadness every time she thought of Dr. Sherman and the way he’d kept sliding away from her at the bar.
By nine thirty, she was taking her second, more detailed, tour of Casas del Sur, her new name tag secured to her blouse underneath her braid and her new pink “Casas” cap pulled low over her eyes.
“And this is the movie theater,” Steve Stegner said, sweeping open a heavy metal door to a dimly lit room with sixty red-velvet seats in six rows and a small aisle down the center. Like the library, dining room, computer room, and exercise room, the space was rich and luxurious, with flashes of gold in the curtain tassels and carved chair handles.
It also was not empty.
“Colonel!” Steve said. “What are you doing in here?”
A small, hunched man—not much more than five feet tall—sidestepped slowly from the front of the stage to face them. He had an ocean-blue three-piece suit on, neatly trimmed white hair along the base of his skull, and a rose stem in his hand.
“Ah, Stegner, my favorite person,” he said in a gravelly voice. “I’ll bet you graduated least likely to smile.”
“Colonel, you shouldn’t be in here when no one is—”
“Balderdash!” he barked. “I’m just setting up a little surprise for Marie. Leave me be. I’ll be out of here in a minute. And excuse my language, young lady.” He bowed at Natalie. “Stegner, you’re dismissed.” The man shuffled back toward the stage and resumed his bony-fingered arrangement of the rose with a card and envelope near the stage steps.
To Natalie’s surprise, Steve backed out of the room, motioning for Natalie to follow, and closed the door behind them.
“The Colonel is one of our tough customers,” he said. “Pretty much always gets his way.”
Natalie bit her cheek and nodded.
“Let me show you the second-floor dining room and ballroom. Then I’ll take you outside and show you the activities shuttle cart. You’ll be driving one, and John-O will be driving the other.”
“John-O?”
“John O’Donnell. He’s the other assistant activities director.”
“Big guy?” She held her hands out from her shoulders to indicate the Popeye-looking muscles she recalled from her flirter last night.
“Yes. You’ve met already?”
“I believe so. Socially. Unless there are two John-Os on Lavender Island built like tanks.”
“He’s the one.” Steve hit the elevator button. “He’ll be driving the volunteer crew today, and you’ll be driving the ladies to their harbor walk.”
The elevator doors closed as Natalie tried to remember John-O more clearly. He’d seemed nice enough. But as she frowned and tried for better recall, her mind drifted instead to Dr. Sherman, sitting with his knee up at the edge of the bar, his sexy, tanned forearms on the edge, twisting his beer bottle . . . She quickly pushed the new image out of her mind and stepped off the elevator with Steve.
The ballroom was gorgeous. Parquet flooring sho
ne across a fifty-foot expanse, taking up almost the entire second floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran the length of one side, showcasing a palm-tree-and-ocean view, with a row of round tables set all the way around. Five crystal chandeliers ran down the center, their beads reflecting the sunlight as it came through the windows.
“It’s lovely!” she said, a little breathless.
“We just finished it,” Steve said proudly. “One of the things we need help with is planning the Senior Prom for the last day of spring. It’ll be our first event here. Our last part-time activities assistant left abruptly, with many of the plans undone, as well as with half the ticket money.” Steve shook his head. “But we can recover. Our seniors are excited about it, and we have a volunteer prom-planning committee, but they need someone to help them with some of the particulars. Are you up for that?”
“Yes, sure.”
“We’ll need you to stick around.” He turned to face her. “I don’t want them to be disappointed again. Can I count on you?”
An instinctual panic began to set in at being asked to commit to a time period, but Steve’s face was full of so much entreaty. She could do this. Steve wanted to count on her. And Natalie wanted to be the type of person who could be counted on. And it was only three months.
“I promise,” she said.
Steve broke into a relieved grin that made her heart do a funny flip. It felt like something she hadn’t experienced in a long time—something along the lines of pride.
As they walked back through the ballroom between the sun’s pretty rays across the parquet, she straightened her spine and felt a lift in her chest. It was the best she’d felt in eons.
At ten thirty, just as her tour with Steve was ending and she’d seen the pool, the pool house, and one of the apartment rooms, Natalie ran into her first snafu.
“Where is he?” Steve asked the front desk.
“He left with the harbor-walk ladies,” the young woman there said. “Hi, I’m June Lee.” She held out her hand toward Natalie. She also wore one of the Casas del Sur name tags and collared shirts.
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