He’d moved to Los Angeles five years ago to become a household name. He couldn’t stand college, couldn’t stomach watching his father’s health decline. Wanting to help his parents, but also needing to be himself, his sights were currently set on becoming an actor. A big one, if he could manage it.
He’d managed to get secondary roles in a dozen low-budget comedies, but the lead job in action always went to someone else. Someone taller. Someone with darker hair. Someone with more muscles. Someone who wasn’t Mont.
Apparently, action producers didn’t want men who had only done comedies.
Apparently, funny wasn’t sexy.
Because he was in between projects, Mont had decided he couldn’t spend another summer in LA, alone with himself and his intermittent air conditioning. He’d considered getting a dog, but his landlady had vetoed that idea pretty fast.
He’d gotten in his car with a couple of suitcases—pathetic that he could pack his whole life into two bags—and drove until he saw something interesting enough to make him stop. And that something had been the Redwood Bay Lighthouse, about twelve hours north of the City of Angels.
He’d seen the lighthouse long before he reached it. With night already settled over the ocean there had been something magical about it, beckoning him to stop and stay a while.
So he had. He’d camped for a couple of nights until he managed to find an available room behind the health foods store. He’d been working every weekend since, making balloon animals and hats for children. The money wasn’t much, but it was enough. For now. He’d never finished his pre-law degree, though he only had a couple of semesters left. If he couldn’t get an acting gig, he didn’t have much more than his balloon artistry—and he wanted that career less than he wanted to be a lawyer.
But he couldn’t go back to Kansas. He wouldn’t.
“Monty,” Sophie said, interrupting his thoughts. One look at her face confirmed she’d said his name several times before getting his attention.
A tiny line appeared between her eyebrows and he quickly smiled. “Sorry. Got lost for a second.”
“This woman would like the pork carnitas.”
“Pork carnitas!” he boomed, glancing at the menu to find the code. He ripped the paper off the pad with a flourish and stuck it in the holder above Sophie’s line. He returned to the cash drawer, smiling like there was nowhere he’d rather be than in this sweltering taco stand.
The grin slipped from his face when he met the eye of the woman handing over her money. Her eyes were tinted violet. He’d only known one other woman with eyes that color.
He stood frozen, and she stilled too. “Warren?”
Mont’s insides turned cold. “I go by Mont now,” he said, very aware that behind him, Sophie had paused in her cooking. “How are you, Michelle?” He plucked the twenty-dollar bill from her still-inert fingers.
“Fine,” she said. “Amber—”
Mont growled, and that was enough to make Michelle shut up.
He handed her the change and picked up his pencil to take the next order, a clear indication that he was not interested in continuing the conversation. Michelle had the sense to move away from the window with her son, someone Mont had met only once. He’d always respected Michelle, who had more sense than her sister, Amber.
Amber, who had believed in Mont when no one else did.
Amber, who Mont had loved more than any other woman in his thirty years of life.
Amber, who had refused his engagement ring last summer.
He took a gulp of the water Sophie had provided. The liquid felt like stone as it moved down his throat.
Amber, who was engaged to his former roommate and once best friend only three weeks after breaking up with Mont.
Amber, who he never thought he’d have to see again.
And he hadn’t seen her. But running into Michelle brought the same pain, the same gut-wrenching memory of betrayal and self-loathing.
“Pork carnitas,” Sophie called, and Mont turned away from Michelle as she came forward to claim her order.
“Hey, you OK?” Sophie’s hand came down on Mont’s arm, and he shrugged it off. He wasn’t sure what she’d heard, and he didn’t want to explain his sudden mood shift. She turned back to the grill, but not before he saw the look of concern in her eye. “I can handle the line now,” she said. “Thanks for your help. You can work my line anytime. I’m open for lunch from about eleven to two. Re-open for dinner at five.”
Mont turned and noticed that the line outside the stand had dissipated. The beach remained busy, but Sophie could take an order and make it by herself.
“Thanks.” He buckled on his balloon tool belt, accepted the money Sophie offered, and left the beach.
His route home took him past the lighthouse, but for the first time since he’d arrived in Redwood Bay, it didn’t seem so magical.
Chapter Three
Sophie collapsed on her pleather couch just as the sky beyond her ocean-view windows sank into darkness. Even after closing the stand a half an hour early, she still had food supply orders to call in for the next morning, the books to update, and the whole Harley-broke-her-leg thing wasn’t going to solve itself.
And she still hadn’t found someone to fill in for Jenna. She texted Blaine to see if he could work this weekend. A longtime friend, he usually came home from nearby Arcata to make sure his mom hadn’t died yet. His words, not hers. He worked as the marketing director at the playhouse, having graduated in business.
“If people haven’t heard about the show by Friday night, there’s nothing else I can do,” he always said to justify driving the hour and a half each weekend.
Blaine had helped her open The Sandy Tortilla nearly a decade ago, just after they’d graduated from high school. He was the only one who’d believed she could be successful without a culinary degree. Sophie secretly knew he’d had his eye on her friend Lucy, the owner of the local diner—still did—so nothing romantic had ever happened between them. She’d always thought of Blaine as a brother from another mother, and she hoped he could make things work with Lucy.
I’m in, his text said, just as a call came in.
Yuri.
Sophie declined the call, knowing her friend would want her to come to brunch on Sunday. Without Clint, she felt like the third wheel, or the fifth wheel, or some other odd-man-out wheel. They’d dated for so long she’d forgotten how uncomfortable it was to do everything alone. She’d stopped going to Yuri’s brunches after the breakup, throwing herself into her business instead.
With that handled, she heaved herself off the couch and went into the kitchen. A glass of wine went down easily after her microwaved fettuccini Alfredo. Clint used to give her the stink eye when she finally made it home at nine p.m. only to eat mac and cheese or a can of soup.
“Why couldn’t you have made a few extra tacos before closing down?” he’d ask. Or, “Didn’t you have any leftover shrimp?”
She didn’t want to argue with him about why she didn’t want to eat what she’d been cooking all day. Or how she didn’t want to play chef for him after spending twelve hours prepping, grilling, and serving customers. The conversation always ended with him shaking his head and taking his beer into his office, where he’d work on the computer, studying his clients’ cases until well past midnight.
Sophie glanced down the hall to the three darkened bedrooms. One was hers, now just hers; the guest room had an inch of dust on all the surfaces as Sophie didn’t exactly entertain out-of-town guests; Clint’s office sat empty and silent, another reminder she hadn’t been good enough for him.
Despite closing early and paying Monty, she had made enough to cover her food costs for the next week. The rest would go into savings so she could pay her mortgage and buy groceries during the winter months.
She still needed to hire someone to replace Harley—and she had less than twenty-four hours to do it. She thought immediately of Monty but quickly dismissed him. Just because he was the best-looking m
an she’d ever met didn’t mean he was fit for The Sandy Tortilla. Or her.
But he had handled the customers with ease. Quickly filled the chips-and-salsa orders. She’d noticed his muscles, the power he radiated, and his oh-so-dangerous smile.
No, she definitely couldn’t have him taking up all the space in her tiny taco stand. She’d call her cousin Polly in the morning. Polly owned a flower shop on Main Street, half a block down from the diner. Maybe she’d be interested in working the evenings with Sophie.
A plan in place, she flipped on the TV, bypassing her DVR in favor of QVC. They had a Christmas in July special going, and Sophie set her worries aside. She couldn’t think about the taco stand every second of every day. Clint had been right about that, and in the nine months since he’d left, Sophie had been trying to find more balance.
Her mind wandered from the massage chair that would “make the perfect gift!” back to Monty. Or was it Warren? She’d been sure the woman who’d ordered the pork carnitas had called him Warren.
She hadn’t been able to see his face, but the way he’d frozen spoke volumes. When she tried to ask him about it, he’d appeared angry, and she’d never seen someone leave The Sandy Tortilla so fast.
Amber. The name ran through her head and she wondered who she was, though Sophie didn’t know why she cared. Still, Amber had obviously meant something to Monty/Warren, because the haunted look she’d seen in his eyes didn’t come from nothing.
Sophie knew that look. She saw it in her own eyes every morning before she left for another day at the taco stand.
“Hey, Pols,” Sophie greeted when her cousin picked up the phone the next morning.
“What do you want?” Polly asked, but the words were filled with humor.
“Who says I want something?”
“It’s the summer season,” Polly said. Her voice sounded hollow and far away.
“Am I on speaker?”
“Yes.” Her voice came closer. “It’s my summer season, too, Soph. The Hamilton wedding is this weekend. I’m doing all the floral for the rehearsal dinner tonight, not to mention everything going on tomorrow.”
Sophie had helped in Polly’s shop from time to time over the years. Her cousin was masterful with lilies and irises. And a wedding meant eternal hours in the shop; she’d have no time to help at the taco stand.
“I’d forgotten about Tammy’s wedding,” Sophie said instead of asking Polly for help. She didn’t know how she’d forgotten—such events in Redwood Bay were front-page news. “Is there something I can do to help?”
Polly scoffed. “When would you do that? I know how busy you are right now.”
“I have a couple of hours between two and five,” Sophie said.
Polly laughed, carefree and happy. “Oh, Soph, don’t be ridiculous. Just bring me one of your burritos tonight. I’ll be here late, and could use something good to eat.”
Sophie smiled. “Deal. Good luck, Polly.” She hung up and immediately opened her contacts. She needed help, and surely someone needed a job for a few days until she figured out a more permanent solution.
Half an hour later, and despite knowing nearly every teenager in town, she couldn’t find anyone who wanted to fill in at The Sandy Tortilla for the dinner shift. They already had jobs, or they’d be gone to San Francisco for the weekend, same as Jenna.
In a town the size of Redwood Bay, a tourist staying for the summer didn’t fly under the radar. She sent a text to Lucy, and a few minutes later, learned that Monty was staying in a studio behind the whole foods grocer.
She pulled in behind the store, glad it didn’t open until ten and she wouldn’t have any witnesses to her pleading. She didn’t need him making balloon hats for her customers as they waited in line. She desperately needed him to take her orders—every evening for the rest of her life. What? No, just for the summer.
Sophie pressed her palm over her chest. “Stop it,” she whispered, though her stupid heart continued to sprint. She just needed him because he’d proven himself capable of taking her orders. Not because she wanted to spend every night with him in her tiny taco shack. Definitely not because of that.
She steeled herself, pulled down her tank top so it lay tight against her skin, and ran her hand through her hair. Her stomach fluttered, and she felt like her body was in open rebellion against her. He’d probably say no anyway. Monty had looked so upset when he’d left last night.
She knocked on the door—a little too hard by the way it shook. She jerked her fist back so she didn’t accidentally bash the place to the ground. All the ideas she’d had since admitting defeat this morning ran through her mind, but when Monty pulled the door open wearing only a pair of athletic shorts, her practiced words fled.
He lifted a water bottle to his lips and drank. She didn’t make eye contact, because she was too busy taking in the tanned muscle that was his shoulders, chest, and legs.
“Hey.” He finished drinking and leaned in the doorway. “Sorry, I just got back from my run.”
“You run?” The words scratched her dry throat. Of course he runs, her mind screamed. Look at that body!
She tore her gaze from his abs and took a deep breath to center herself. No amount of deep breathing would work against the sight of his body. It would cause hyperventilation in a nun.
She blinked as his amused expression met her wavering gaze. “I was hoping you’d consider working for me again tonight.” The scent of strong coffee hit her, and she wished she hadn’t given up her morning elixir after Clint left. But they’d met in a Starbucks, and the smell reminded her of him.
Now, though, she was sure every time she smelled coffee in the future, she’d have a flashback to Monty’s bronzed body. Not a bad trade.
“I mean,” she continued, despite the frown etching itself between Monty’s eyebrows. “You know, you and I together—I mean, not that we’re together, we were just working together, and well, I thought we—it—went pretty well.” She wanted to disappear into the sky. Especially since he didn’t offer her a way out of her foot-in-mouth conundrum. “Look, I’m hoping you might be interested in taking on the dinner shift for a few days. Or weeks. Just until I can find someone else.” Her words sounded breathless, even to her. Why couldn’t he put on a shirt?
As if reading her mind, he turned and retreated into his apartment, calling over his shoulder, “Come on in and we can talk about it.” He plucked a sweatshirt from the floor and pulled it on.
The inside of the studio apartment looked exactly how Sophie imagined single men lived. A pizza box sat on the small dining room table; shoes and socks littered the floor near the door; a blanket lay on the couch, which sported a very Monty-shaped impression in its cushions. An oscillating fan stood in the corner, providing the only source of air conditioning.
“Nice place,” Sophie commented, following him toward the kitchen nook where he got down two mugs and held them up to her with his eyebrows raised.
“Sure,” she said before she could think. She frowned at herself but turned away before Monty could see. “How far do you run?”
“Only about five miles today,” he said. “But I ran distance in college.” He placed her mug on the table in front of one chair and sat in the other.
She joined him at the table, though her arms felt cold. She cast the fan a glare, but she knew it wasn’t to blame. No, the absence of Monty’s bare upper half had cooled her considerably. She cupped her hands around her mug and took a sip of coffee—her first in nine months.
A sigh escaped her lips. She relaxed into the chair, surprised at how comfortable it was. “You run everyday?”
“I can’t seem to stop myself,” he said. “What about you?”
“Run?” She shook her head. “No. These clumsy feet can barely walk.” She flashed him a smile she hoped made his insides gooey and hid behind her coffee mug again.
Something felt strangely right about being here in Monty’s studio, and she reminded herself that she didn’t know him—not even wheth
er Monty was his real name. Yet watching him sip his coffee stirred something inside her. She wanted to get to know him, and she was suddenly anxious for him to accept her job offer.
“What’s your real name?” she asked at the same time he said, “You’ll pay me two hundred for dinner service again tonight?”
The end of his question hung in the silence between them. He deliberately set his mug down. “My name is Montgomery Winters,” he said, the definite chill of his last name in his tone.
“Oh, I just thought I heard—” Sophie clamped her mouth shut at the cold glare that made his dark-blue eyes look three shades lighter. A thread of desperation iced her resolve.
She needed him, and though paying him two hundred dollars per shift meant she’d have to waitress in the winter, she was willing to pay whatever it took to get him to show up every evening. She’d clear her expenses; she just wouldn’t be able to save as much as she’d hoped.
“We can do a trial run for the weekend to see how it works out. I’ll pay you three hundred for tonight, Saturday, and Sunday. It’s a little crazier.” And by a little crazier, she actually meant, it’s so insane you’ll barely have time to breathe, but she kept that part to herself. Monty would definitely be earning his money tonight.
“I guess I did tell a little fib,” he said, sliding her a look she could’ve sworn was flirty. “Do I really look like a Monty to you?”
Sophie didn’t know how to respond, so she simply blinked. “Um—”
“You can call me Mont.” Monty-without-a-Y stood and put his coffee mug in the sink. He returned to the table, where he stuck out his hand for her to shake. “You have a deal, Sophie Newton. I’ll work your dinner shifts for the weekend.”
She took it, his warm fingers dwarfing her cold ones. A thrill spread through her arm and into her stomach. When he pulled his hand away, she realized she’d been holding her breath.
Until Summer Ends Page 2