Some Like It Scot (Crescent Cove Book 1)

by Marlie May

  “And what?” Paisley asked.

  “Bonus points if he’s a hero.”

  “Like Spiderman?” Paisley grimaced. “Not into spiders.”

  “All those webs.” I shuddered. “I was thinking about the heroes in my books.”

  “Oh, like the Highlander one you were just reading? Nothing like a man in a kilt.”

  “Men like that don’t exist.” A lifetime of longing weighed down my sigh.

  “I still think you should’ve kicked Ted’s loser ass to the curb long ago. And made him pay. It’s not like you owed the money. He’s the one who used your card for those sites.”

  What a way to convince a woman she wasn’t fun enough between the sheets. I’d tried not to translate his porn addiction into a lack of appeal on my part. Told myself that turning down an invitation to join me under the covers to jerk off instead was his problem, not mine. But it hadn’t been easy. It still hurt.

  “It’s been three months,” Paisley said.

  “It’ll take longer than that to put it behind me.” I forced a grin. “But let’s not talk about me anymore. It’s your birthday, which means we need to indulge your every desire.”

  “Since this night is about fulfilling all my wishes, we should start by sampling each brew on tap.” Paisley lifted the menu. “They have some new ones. Apricot jalapeño, chocolate stout, a peach IPA—”

  “Hello. Apricot jalapeño?” I squinted over Paisley’s shoulder. Sweet, fruity flavors that lull you into a mid-summer night’s dream, only to shove you out of bed with a fiery kick in the morning. This place used the best descriptions for beer. “How about we order a couple sampler flights?”

  “Can we get some curly fries, too?” Paisley asked. “I’m famished.”

  “Deal.” The Brew House’s fries were better than sex. Any sex I’d ever experienced.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the men stand.

  Mr. Smoldering, Dark, and Too-Cute spoke to his friend before moving around the end of the bar. He was tall, like six-two or three, and he moved like a panther on the prowl.

  Oh, my.

  When his gaze locked onto mine, my heart flipped.

  Dag

  “Dude, you chat up the blonde,” my friend, Roan, said. “I’ll talk to the brunette.” He flagged the bartender for another beer.

  I turned and squinted through the dim light. The blonde sitting at the other end of the bar was hot, but the brunette…I didn’t usually go for women like her. Too short, for one thing. And her eyes were sharp as if she measured each man in the place and found them all lacking. Even from twenty feet away, it messed with my mind. When I went out with anyone, I enjoyed the no-strings, fluffy type, like the blonde who kept tipping her head back and laughing.

  Something about the brunette told me she was one of those women who expected a guy to pull out flowers and hearts and maybe even romantic poetry, which scared the hell out of me. I…Okay, love scared the hell out of me, despite the big role it played in my work life.

  There was something appealing about her, though. If I could just figure out what made her different.

  But we hadn’t come here to pick up women.

  A couple of brewskies, Roan had said. Then you can get your beauty sleep.

  Beauty sleep? Screw that. A pile of work waited for me at home, not Zs. With my deadline looming, I’d be lucky to crash by dawn. If tomorrow was like today, I’d wake up after one. Make that one in the afternoon.

  “Okay, the blonde,” I said, playing along. No reason I couldn’t go over with Roan, say hi, and then check out.

  Be friendly, why don’t you? Roan said whenever he got on my case about my nonexistent social life. Not that Roan should talk. My friend was still mourning a woman he’d grown up with who was no longer a part of his life. Best friends that took a sudden turn at the end of college, they’d slept together, but it hadn’t worked out. Since Roan and I had only been friends a few years, I’d never met her.

  Six feet out, the woman at the bar looked up. Her eyes—a shocking tropical blue—met mine. They dove inside me as if she planned to spend the rest of her life ferreting out my secrets. My chest tightened. The hell…? I lost the use of my feet, and my drink sloshed over the rim of my glass and onto the floor.

  I grabbed the back of Roan’s shirt, bringing him to a halt. “Dibs on the brunette.”

  “What?”

  A growl rumbled through my chest. “The brunette. You talk up the blonde instead.”

  “What difference does hair color make?” Roan’s eyes grew to epic proportions. “Oh, I get it. About time you took an interest in the opposite sex.”

  The glare I shot him could’ve drilled him to the wall. “I like women.”

  “That you do. But ever since Victoria…”

  “Forget Victoria.” Damn gold digger. “The brunette’s not right for you.”

  Roan cocked an eyebrow. “And you can tell that from here?”

  Frustration surged through me—no idea why—and I scowled.

  “Oh! Possessive.” Roan slapped my back and grinned. “I get it. You go, dude.” He strolled up to the women, and I followed. “Buy you, ladies, a drink?”

  The brunette cringed. “Oh, thank you, but—”

  “Sure.” The blonde elbowed her friend. “Birthday, Lark, remember? You need to play along.”

  Lark. The hot brunette had a name. My lungs swelled like I’d carried the football across the field to score the winning touchdown. Just knowing her name made me feel…giddy. Now, there was a word I’d never associated with myself. Why did I feel giddy just because I knew a woman’s name?

  Must be heartburn. By the time I’d rolled out of bed this morning—afternoon—I’d been hungry enough to lick the sugar dust off the bottom of an empty cereal box. I’d gone to the Corner Mart and picked up the lumberjack special. A loaded stomach would explain the tightness in my chest. I should go home and take an antacid.

  “I’m Roan.” My friend took the stool next to the blonde and offered his hand. “Either of you married or seeing anyone?”

  I stared at Lark, needing her answer.

  “We’re single,” the other woman said with a smile. “And I’m Paisley.”

  “That’s a cool name.” The quick tilt of Roan’s head encouraged me to talk to Lark before she took off. Not that she looked ready to flee, but you never could tell with women.

  Moving around them, I thrust my hand toward her. “Dag Ross.”

  “Lark Harpswell. I’m Paisley’s sister.” Her eyes sparkled. “Is Dag a nickname? Short for Daggett? Dagny? Dagger?”

  “Dag means daylight.”

  “Daylight?” She chuckled, drawing my attention to her lips. Her full, pink lips.

  I studied her mouth, wondering how it would taste. How it would feel underneath mine. Forcing my own lips into something resembling a smile, I shifted my suddenly tight jeans and took the seat beside her. If I was lucky, she wouldn’t notice my reaction to her. The last thing I wanted to do was scare her off.

  Jesus. It was anyone’s guess why I was worried about scaring her off. Women either liked me or they didn’t. No reason to dwell on the ones who weren’t interested.

  Find your voice, dude. “Dag, the son of night, brought daylight as he rode his horse around the world.” Way to come across perfumey. If I kept at it, she’d think I was a florist.

  “That’s interesting. In fact, I was just thinking about a horse.” Her gaze flicked away before coming back to mine.

  “A horse?”

  “And a sheik.” Her hand slapped over her mouth. “Shit.”

  “Why shit?”

  She scrunched her face, making the freckles on her nose stand out like gold dust on a sandy beach. “Forget I said that.”

  Up close, she definitely had killer eyes. They held more colors than a Caribbean sea.

  Great. Now I was comparing her eyes to the sea. And calling her gold-flecked nose cute. Next thing I knew, I’d be thinking her hair resembled chestnuts. Whi
ch it did.

  Roan leaned around Paisley. The fool had the nerve to wink at me. “Now, Dag, don’t cheat on the introductions. You need to fill Lark in on your real name.” He threw a sly smile Lark’s way. “It’s Dagwood.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding me. Dagwood?”

  “It’s Norse.” The squeak in my voice made me cringe.

  “That’s a nice name.” She coughed, and her eyes gleamed. “What do you, ah, do for a living, Dagwood?”

  “Dag. Please. And I work in construction?” Weird that I put a question mark on my answer. But I couldn’t exactly come out and tell her what I really did for a living. Only my family and Roan knew about that.

  “Run your own company?” she asked.

  I scratched the back of my neck. My hair hung beyond my collar and I’d need to get a cut soon, or the curls I hated would spring up. “No.”

  “Actually, he does a little of this, a little of that,” Roan said, his hazel eyes narrowing with glee. My friend loved to tease. “When he can haul himself out of bed, that is. In fact, he works for me as a part-time handyman out at Spicy Concoctions.”

  His manufacturing plant.

  Roan grinned. “From what I’ve heard around town, Dag, you’re pretty handy in a variety ways.”

  Just because Roan was my best friend didn’t mean I couldn’t get even with him later. He knew my part-time handyman job was something I did on the side.

  “You’re really a handyman?” Lark asked. “At the place where they make salsa and hot sauces?”

  “Yup.” I must be wowing her with my expansive vocabulary. Not that I wanted to wow her. In fact, I didn’t want to do anything with her. Did I?

  Aw, hell. Maybe I did.

  Past time to bail. Warning signs were flashing in my mind.

  Get up and go.

  “Construction gives a guy a good workout,” I said.

  Those beautiful eyes slid down my body again, making my chest swell. Other parts, too. What was wrong with me? I shifted on my stool, trying to relieve…the pressure.

  “You enjoy working out?” she asked.

  Focus on the conversation. What had she asked? Oh, yeah, about me working out. Actually, I only helped Roan when he was short. Getting exercise was a bonus. “Yeah.”

  Roan and Paisley left for the dance floor. I stared after them for a moment, wishing my legs would move. No, wishing they’d help me flee.

  “What do you do, Lark?” I asked, my attention drawn back to her like a bee to a flower.

  “I just finished college. I’m looking for a full-time job.”

  A college chick. Perfect. She was sweet and cute, but I’d be thirty soon, which meant she was too young for my taste. Our age difference put her well out of bounds, making this easier. I could play nice and hit the road. Then I could get away from my scrutiny of her mouth. Stop imagining all the things I’d like her to do with it.

  Muffling my groan, I yanked on my collar. Being near this woman screwed with my shit.

  “What did you study in college?” I asked.

  “Business.” She stared toward where Roan and Paisley danced under the muted lights. “Roan seems nice.”

  “He’s a decent guy.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Her face tightened. “I watch out for my sister. She was sick for a long time.”

  “No need to worry.” Roan would never take advantage of someone. “He’s single. I am, too. Single, that is.”

  “Okay. That’s…” Her long, dark lashes brushed her cheekbones.

  Now I was checking out her lashes. It was past time to leave. I stood. “I, uh…” Tongue, meet brain. Please?

  “You’re going?” Lark slipped off her stool.

  The top of her head only came to my shoulder, which should’ve been off-putting, because I always dated tall women. Instead, her tininess made me feel protective. Like I could scoop her up. Carry her through dangerous territory. Slay dragons for her. “You’re short.”

  Her pink lips twitched. “You noticed that, huh?”

  “Just how old are you, anyway?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  Hell. Not out of bounds, after all.

  If I was wise, I’d go home. Not give in to the urge to talk with her for the rest of the night.

  I opened my mouth, prepared to tell her goodbye…

  But sat back down on the bar stool instead.

  Lark

  On the dance floor, my sister laughed like she hadn’t been dying of cancer just five short years ago.

  Today, she’d turned twenty-three. If I could give Paisley anything for her birthday, I’d give her good health, someone who loved her, and a lifetime of happiness. She’d come too close to dying. Acute lymphocytic leukemia. We’d barely caught it in time. But after chemo and a bone marrow transplant, she was in remission. Feeling good. Going to college.

  She’d been given a second chance.

  Dag followed my gaze. “You and Paisley don’t look like sisters.”

  “We’re cousins, but we grew up together, so we’re just like sisters.” Closer than twins, as my mom always said.

  Paisley’s parents had been more into heroin than raising a kid, and my mom had adopted her when I was seven to Paisley’s three. History that was Paisley’s to share or reveal, not mine.

  “You have brothers or sisters?” I asked.

  “Just Gunner, my younger brother. Decent name. I wish Mom had chosen a more normal name for me than Dag.” He rubbed his chin.

  Stubble dusted his face, which some women would say made him look scruffy. Facial hair shouldn’t make him look sexy, but, hell, did it ever. I needed to remember I wasn’t getting involved with anyone for a very long time.

  “Dagwood is a peculiar name.” Unable to hold it in, I laughed.

  He scowled, but I could tell by the soft light in his eyes he was pretending. “Better watch out. As the oldest of two boys, I know how to get even.”

  “I believe I can handle anything you care to dish out.” Challenging words, considering I had no intention of following them up with action.

  His voice whispered by my ear, low and husky. “You think so, do you?”

  “I know so.” A heady feeling tripped down my spine. “Look at it this way. Your mother could’ve chosen Daffodil or Daisy. They’re decent names, too.”

  “Don’t even think about calling me Daffodil.”

  “Why not?” I couldn’t hold back my grin. “Don’t you think it has a nice ring to it? It’s sweet. Flowery.”

  Dag was sweet, but he was anything but flowery. Everything about him screamed danger to my self-imposed celibacy. Not to my heart, because I was determined never to give it away again.

  “When you put it like that, Dagwood sounds okay, after all.” He sipped his beer. “What do you do when you’re not enjoying a night out at the Brew House?”

  “You think there’s more to do around town than come here for beer? As far as I know, this is it.”

  “You’re forgetting the Corner Mart.”

  “For what?” There must be a joke in here somewhere. “A soda? A tank of gas?”

  “Calzones.” He cocked his head like he’d concluded I didn’t get out much, which was sadly true. “Don’t forget the calzones.”

  I scrunched my nose, because, yuk. “You don’t actually eat those things, do you?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they taste good.”

  “They’re so processed, I doubt they remember the ingredients they were created from. They’re essentially salt and fat, wrapped in bread dough.”

  “And there’s something wrong with that?” He studied my face. “You know, when you wrinkle your cute nose like that, you look just like my kindergarten teacher.”

  “You thought your kindergarten teacher had a cute nose?”

  He gulped. “Hell, no. I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Didn’t.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Then w
hat did you say?”

  “That you, ah, have a cute nose. I guess.”

  “You don’t sound certain about that.” It was all I could do to hold back my grin. Teasing Dag was better than fun. For the first time in what felt like forever, my body hummed. The feeling must be from the beer. Or from the music. It couldn’t be because of Dag.

  He took a deep breath and released it. “Let me start over.”

  “I think we should continue with noses.” I leaned forward. “You were saying you don’t think mine’s as cute as your teacher’s.”

  “I’m not saying that, either.” He lowered his head, and his raspy voice sent heat bolting through me. “Your nose is perfect the way it is.”

  “Maybe I’d rather have a cute nose. Like your teacher’s.”

  “Back to my story,” he said. “About my kindergarten teacher.”

  “The one with the cute nose.”

  He groaned. “I meant to say that when you wrinkle your nose, you look exactly like she did when I told her I’d let a jar full of crickets loose in the school hall.”

  Goosebumps sprung up on my arms. “Tell me you didn’t do that.”

  “Did.”

  I shook my head.

  In my mind, I stood in the school hall, watching while that dark-haired boy—who I hated, because it fit my daydream—dumped out the bugs. Hands slapping my cheeks, I shuddered as they scrambled along the dingy floor tiles, coming my way.

  “Lark?”

  Focus. Bugs. School. His teacher who has a cuter nose than mine. “What happened after you opened the lid?” I asked. “Did the crickets scurry through the building? Make everyone scream? Bet you got in trouble.” I sang the words.

  “My teacher called my mom, who smacked my butt and sent me to my room.”

  I giggled. “And so ends your teacher-with-the-cuter-nose-than-mine story.”

  “You know what? You’re right. You do give back better than you get.”

  “Make sure you remember that.”

  “I’ll be more careful in the future.”