Cupcakes Series
Always Room for Cupcakes
Cupcake Overload
Lei’d with Cupcakes
Cupcake Explosion
Lei’d in Paradise: A Cupcakes Series Novella
Women’s Fiction:
More than Exist
Unwoven Ties - Newsletter Exclusive
Short Stories:
Contemporary:
Christmas Come Early
Harem Night
Reunion Fling
An Inconvenient Dare
Fantasy:
Leap of Faith
Beau and the Beastess
Cookbook:
Love & Recipes
Love & Cupcakes
Children’s:
Katie and the North Star
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
About the Author
Also by Sunniva Dee
Hallmark Reality
* * *
“Luxury problem, Naomi!” my cousin Chloe yells on the phone. “You’re spoiled is what you are. If I were you and lived in the hottest spring-break vacay spot in the U.S., I’d be delirious. I definitely wouldn’t be whining about it every damn time.”
I thump my back against a shelf and groan. A small stack of greeting cards flutters off the shelf and lands on the floor, which causes Mrs. Monaldo to freeze by the register. I swear she’s psychic when it comes to my mishaps in here.
An-n-n-d there she goes, right on cue, turning slowly. She fixes me with a pointed glare. I smile, give my boss a thumbs-up, and grind out a subtle string of curses as I start tidying up.
“Hun, stop that,” Chloe says like she’s my mother. (She calls me in the most inopportune of moments, but she’s my best friend, so I always pick up.) “Think about it: my mom married a salmon-boat captain in Anchorage. Your mom fell in love with a bar owner in Laguna Sands.”
Chloe leaves a loaded silence between us. Or she’s trying to make it feel loaded. In reality, I’m just staring out the window, past all the crap we’re selling, over everyone’s heads, and to the backside of the stadium.
“My view, though,” I finally groan out.
“Oh yeah, what is it again? Tons of festive college boys crowding Stadium Alley with their hot bods and nice tans? You’re twenty, baby. Live a little. I so would if I were there with you.”
I burst out laughing. Mrs. Monaldo sends me another glare. God knows why, really; we have no customers. Hallmark stores aren’t exactly the biggest draw during spring break in Vacation Land. I give her another thumbs-up.
“What’re you laughing at?” Chloe says in the grumbly tone she gets sometimes.
“Well, the street is full of college kids all right, but the tan you speak of is… how do I put it? Varied.”
Seriously. We’re talking everything from paler than the sand on Beach Silverado through shades of pink to the deepest red. Nowhere do I see the shiny, nutty brown my cousin probably pictures.
“Ouch, that one looks painful,” I add. The bright red, overly meaty backside of one partier brushes against the windowsill, leaving a white mark on his skin. It’s eleven in the morning, and he’s already too sloshed to notice.
“It turns to a real tan eventually,” Chloe, the sudden expert on tans, tells me.
“Of course,” I reply.
“Anything good at the stadium?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says what she always says.
“I see two big black tour buses with gold lettering that reads ‘Clown Irruption.’ People pouring out of them and starting to unload gear.”
“Ho-o-ly cray-cray, you’re kidding me. You didn’t tell me Clown Irruption is playing Laguna Sands!”
“As I said, I didn’t know.”
“You’re going, right? Please, please Snapchat the crap out of the entire show.” She ends the last word on a squeal. “When I get rich, I’ll be going down there all the time, girl. All the time. Can you get me autographs too?”
“Not a chance. I’m not going.”
“But the entire band is delicious! Oh, and talented,” she adds as an afterthought.
“Teeny-bopper music.” I’ve heard the name, of course, but I have no idea what they play.
“No, it’s not! It’s seriously cool music, like hard rock that’s funky and sometimes it’s jazz, and—you know Queen, right? Classical.”
“What? Come on.”
“Nothing like them, but way awesome. You know what I mean?”
I snort out loud.
Judging by Mrs. Monaldo’s laser stare, she’s had it with private phone convos for the day. I usually try to direct Chloe toward a time when my manager is busy elsewhere, like the five freaking minutes she spends on lunch.
If someone needs to live a little, it’s Mrs. Monaldo. She treats this store like it’s her baby. Wait, it is her baby. Her only baby. It’s all coming together, now.
I get out of work late-ish. It’s dark outside, the street is even busier than it was this morning, and I wind my way through all of Chloe’s “tanned” college boys—and girls too. Interesting fact: college girls squeal a lot after a few rum-infested slushies. They also shake their boobs like they’re going out of style. Maybe they are.
I take Stadium Alley back to my house. The thing about high season in Laguna Sands is that it’s never quiet anywhere, not even in streets without bars. I walk along the wall of the stadium to keep from getting jostled on both sides. It rounds to the left from the Hallmark-store side, its curve lasting and lasting until the road broadens and leads toward the beach.
“Hey, gorgeous,” a guy says. “You want to party? Wooh!”
“No thanks.” I give a polite smile, because who knows, maybe tomorrow Hell freezes over and a spring-breaker dude comes in to buy some Hallmark cards.
“Oh, come on. I know this killer place. It’s a tiki bar with a giant terrace, and they have sick cocktails!” Party Boy is flanked by a few slurry friends. They all grin big.
“I like long hair,” one friend says, pointing at mine. “And black hair.”
Yep, mine is black.
“You mean Londyn’s Gap?” I can’t help asking about the tiki bar.
“Yeah, man! You been there?”
“It’s my father’s.” As soon as I say it, I realize my gigantic mistake. Ugh, I’ve grown up here. I’ve been a teenager in this town. You never mention you’re a shoe-in with one of the hottest hot-spots around.
The guys start explaining how this is perfect, how I can take them there, we can get free cocktails—me included because I’m the daughter, they assure me—and also what luck that they met me. It’s all very jovial.
Step by step, I manage to inch in the direction of home. I’m not fast enough, though. The guy who likes black hair now wants to touch mine (“is it as soft as it looks?”). Another thinks I have pretty lips (“totally puckerish”), and I also possess amazing eyes (“very big and shit”).
I find myself pressed harder against the wall than I’m comfortable with. Two dumpsters stand in the loading area where the tour buses were earlier today, and a few roadies lumber in and out, carrying equipment from a van.
“I have to go,” I finally say, less friendly than I’ve been for the last minutes. I’m tired. I really want to go home. “See you around.”
“No-o, not yet! Let’s go do something. You like skinny-dipping?” One guy grabs my arm.
“No, I don’t. I work in this town,” I say, jerking myself free.
“But it’s too late to work!” another guy exclaims, trying to take my hand. “Partay, baby. Partay, partay. Wooh!”
I’m starting to feel a sliver of panic when someone says, “Mindy, are you coming? The boss needs you inside.” A roadie holds open one of the big metal doors of the stadium. His hat i
s pulled over his forehead, and I can barely see his eyes under what look like unnaturally white bangs.
“Nu-huh, she’s gonna go party with us,” a party-boy buddy says. “She can’t work now. This is important.”
“Sure it is.” The roadie has a small smirk on his lips as he nudges me toward the door. “It’ll have to wait ’til Mindy’s off the clock, though.”
“Wai-i-t, where’re you going?” Party Boy exclaims drunkenly, but as the roadie steps in front of me, his determination fizzles in a haze of inebriation. “Whatever, geez.”
“By-y-ye, pretty girl!” his friends cry. They zig-zag into the crowd and follow the current toward the beach.
When I turn back, Roadie hasn’t moved.
Never show fear when you’re alone with a stranger in the bowels of a stadium.
He seems to be assessing me, so I cross my arms and stare him down.
“What?” I say defensively.
“What ‘what?’” he replies, crossing his arms too. They’re incredibly pale. Vampire-pale, I feel. He has black tattoos and wears a black t-shirt as well, which is a bizarre choice for him. Then again, what if he’d chosen white?
“I live here and know how to take care of myself. I don’t usually get hassled like that,” I add, effectively undermining my reassurance.
“You’re welcome,” he replies dryly, that smirk reappearing on his face.
I really want to go home. I have a date with my kitty-boy and the last episode of Bachelor’s Creek. Then I’m going to stuff my ears full of earplugs and sleep through the Mardi-Gras vibes running amok.
I live on the beach in my great-grandpa’s cottage. In case you’re wondering, it’s so outdated it’s not even seventies-style. It’s a miracle I have running water at the Lemon House, but I can’t afford to rent from anyone but my parents. Hence the earplugs.
I peer out the door and find Stadium Alley still full of people. At least my “admirers” are gone. I spot a group of girls. Sometimes, slipping into a clique of girlfriends is the way to escape unnoticed.
“You okay?” the roadie asks, his tone more serious.
“Sure.” I toss him a last look over my shoulder. “I’m gonna get going, though. Bye, Roadie.”
In lieu of a reply, he lets out a throaty chuckle.
Sunrise Fun
* * *
You know what sucks? Alarm clocks. I freaking hate alarm clocks. I always scratch my earplugs out while I’m sleeping, so there’s no snoozing through its shrieks of agony, and yet I still slap it off automatically.
Gmork, my big black kitty-boy, is a much better waker-upper. He’s insistent, purring and rubbing his soft self against me. Next, he drags his belly over my face, walking back and forth, back and forth, until I’ve got no choice but to open my eyes and pet him. Heck, I’d probably be unemployed without him.
Talking about employment. I’ve got nothing against my job, but I don’t see the point in getting there at seven thirty when we open at eight thirty. Mrs. Monaldo is anal. That’s all I have to say about that. She’ll find tiny, unimportant things to keep me busy until I have the honor of unlocking the front door.
Today, I’m a few minutes late when I grab my coffee and shuffle out onto my rickety little front porch. This I enjoy, sitting like this and watching the early morning sun play with the ocean as I down the first java of the day.
During spring-break season, I try to ignore the bodies who never made it home, beer bottles and shiny red sunburns included. I spot just a few of them in the dunes this morning. One is a bit too close, though, zzz-ing off the alcohol by the north corner of the porch.
I don’t even call Marty at the sheriff’s office anymore. I just message him to come pick people up. My property is my property, and with a foot slung up on my floorboards, this morning’s partier has breached my privacy. A few hours in the can should teach him not to fall asleep in other people’s yards.
Gmork sits in the windowsill when I trot off to another slow day at the store. I want to tell him that one of us has to make money. Instead, I step off my porch and start my short walk to work.
I was lying yesterday when I said no hours are dead in spring-break season. This is the dead hour, right here, when it feels like only the sheriff, Mrs. Monaldo, and I are up. It’s completely quiet as I trot up Evergreen Avenue and hit Stadium Alley.
Rounding the corner of the stadium, I see a guy with a hat and a black t-shirt. He sucks on an e-cigarette, blowing puffs of fast-disappearing vapor into the morning air. The closer I get, the more he looks like the roadie from last night, and it’s funny, because in hindsight, I feel a little guilty. The guy helped me, even gave me a playful “you’re welcome,” and I still didn’t thank him for saving my ass.
I mean, I would have been fine. I’d have gotten out of the situation on my own. But thanks to him, the panic I felt disappeared quickly. I even had time to prepare dinner before Bachelor’s Creek started. That wouldn’t have happened if I’d been stuck there with Spring-break Stan and his buddies for much longer.
His platinum-blond hair sticks out in soft chunks from beneath his hat. He lifts his head and focuses on me as I approach.
In the light of day, I notice the sharp outline of a strong jaw, an indentation in his chin that could be the beginning of a cleft. His face is as pale as it seemed last night, and a smattering of fine white stubble makes his face even more inviting.
His lips quiver with the need to smile. Then, he does, and it’s wider than what feels decent. “If it isn’t the damsel in distress from yesterday,” he murmurs.
“I would’ve been fine, but yeah, thanks for helping me.”
“You’re welcome.” Is it me, or does his smirk look a little insolent? I really can’t stand insolence.
I furrow my brows, examining him. “You know what I think?”
“I do not.”
“I think you’re proud of the twenty seconds you spent helping me. And you know why?”
“Tell me why.” He bites his lip.
“Because you never do that stuff. You’re too busy following the band.”
“I’m… what?” The question is just an intro to his impromptu amusement. His body tenses, chest inflating with air before he breaks into a guffaw.
I should get going. He’s laughing at my expense, though, and I’m not a fan. I stop completely and give him my hardest look. “You done yet?”
“You’re funny,” he says, and for the first time, I notice his accent.
“You’re not from here, are you?” I ask, frowning deeper.
“I’m not. Swedish.” He shrugs like it’s an apology.
“Aww, it’s okay,” I say. “So what brings you to America, except the band?”
“Just the band. Gotta make a living, you know, and the salary is decent. What’s your name, sassy girl?”
I let out a derisive huff. “Oh my god, I’m not sassy. Naomi,” I still tell him. “You look like a Vlad. What is Vlad in Swedish?”
“No idea,” he laughs, folding his arms. “But you can call me Peter.”
“Peter Pan?” I joke.
His eyes widen. “Wow, how did you know?”
“Very funny.”
“No, I’m serious. ‘Pan’ is a common last name in Swedish. My parents have a sense of humor, so Peter, another Swedish first name, was an unanimous choice of theirs.”
“Wow, that is— That’s…” I don’t have a good word for it. “Messed up” comes to mind.
“Well, then, Peter. Nice to meet you.” I hike my thumb over my shoulder toward Hallmark. “I gotta get to work, but thanks again.” I feel better for each time I thank him, like I don’t owe him anything anymore.
“My pleasure. Are you coming to the concert tomorrow?”
“The Clown Irruption one?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“It’s tonight,” I remind him. Not that I’ll be going.
“Clown Irruption just plays one song for the fundraiser tonight. It’s a nine-band event.”
“I could hook you up with a couple of tickets,” he says.
I peek at his abs. Pretty sure I see the outline of them under the thin fabric of his shirt.
“That’s sweet of you,” I reply. “I’m busy, though”—cough, rerun of Bachelor’s Creek, cough—“or I’d have considered it.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Something tells me you wouldn’t have accepted either way. Don’t you like music?”
“Of course I like music. I just don’t believe in having to leave the comfort of my home to listen to it live when the recordings are better.”
“Really?” Under the shadow of his hat brim, I see his eyes narrow with incredulity. “You’ve been to concerts before, right?”
“Duh,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Who did you see last?” He asks it so quickly, I end up opening and closing my mouth without an answer coming out. “Anyone?” he adds. There’s his smirk again, making another appearance. Oh, he thinks he’s so clever.
“I don’t remember right now.” I jut my finger at the store again. “I have to go, or I’ll be late.”
“Right. Well, let me know if you change your mind. I’ll hook you up. You’d be amazed at how good it feels to listen live. You know photos versus the real deal?”
I’ve started walking, but this stops me. “You mean photos versus life happening?”
“Exactly. It’s like that.”
I tip my lips into an annoyed smile. “I know what it’s like. I told you I’ve seen concerts before. It’s just not for me. I appreciate the music over my own speakers so I can turn the volume up and down at will and even stop it to go to the bathroom.”
Okay. TMI.
Spring Fling Page 35