Falling for You

by Travis, Stacy

  She looked at me. “You’re a good guy, Owen. You don’t need to be sorry. He should be sorry and he’s not. He somehow turned cheating into some sort of romantic test of his devotion to me. But he’s an idiot. So thank you.”

  She picked up her pace, if that was even possible.

  A moment later, she was gesturing and explaining some more. “The thing that kills me is that it’s really my own fault. I’m the one who dated him for a year. After dating two other guys just like him—alpha males who think they want to be with me because they’ve seen my picture in some fancy magazine, but then they don’t want anything serious, they don’t want a real relationship even when they say they do. It’s just a line. And I keep falling for it, thinking I’d matter enough for there to be some kind of future.”

  “You belong in someone’s future. That’s a given,” I said.

  She halted and turned to me. Her eyes suddenly misted with such touched gratitude that I feared I’d gone too far. Then she threw her arms around me and hugged me so tightly I may have briefly lost consciousness.

  “Thank you. See, not all guys are assholes. I just have to keep reminding myself of that,” she said.

  I was feeling pretty good that I’d distinguished myself from her former bad boyfriends by merely stating fact. Then she threw me for a loop.

  “I remember you saying you worked at a hotel. I love that. It’s so normal. Like, just get up in the morning and stand at the desk and welcome guests or cart around luggage—a normal job. It says a lot about you that you’re happy being a cog in someone else’s wheel. Not everyone has to be a titan. I think there’s something about those captain of industry guys that’s like empty carbs for me.”

  I’m still back on ‘carting around luggage.’

  Somewhere along the way, I’d given her the wrong impression of my job. I thought back to our conversation that morning when she’d asked about work. I’d been intentionally vague because I didn’t feel like going into a whole discussion about it.

  Call it morning apathy or laziness or whatever, but I only recall being vague.

  I didn’t recall telling her I was a bellhop.

  She’d drawn that conclusion on her own.

  Isla didn’t wait for the light to change before walking boldly into the intersection. I darted a look around and fortunately there was no oncoming traffic. Shielding her from cars and trucks was clearly a part of my responsibilities that evening.

  But first, I wanted her to clarify that bit about not liking business owners.

  “You don’t like people who own businesses? You own a business. Isn’t that hypocritical?”

  “I don’t mean it like that. It’s the millionaire corporate types that I seem to fall for, and they end up breaking my heart. Those are the ones I’m done with.”

  “Got it.” I decided it was not a good time to tell her I was a millionaire corporate type who’d grown my boutique hotel business into something somewhat big.

  I was pretty sure I wasn’t an asshole like Tom Stone, so it seemed like a fair decision to let the issue lie.

  For now.

  Then she stopped walking and put her hands on her hips, legs shoulder width apart, and I expected her to don some sort of cape and cold cock a criminal. “Okay. I’m done. You heard me say it first. I’m done with the asshole alphas with their big companies and their giant egos. Done. From now on, it’s true love or bust.”

  She exhaled a deep breath and her shoulders dropped for the first time. Tilting her head from side to side and rolling out her neck, she seemed to be willing herself to relax. I still wasn’t sure if she had more to say, so I waited.

  “Okay, I feel better. Thank you,” she said, picking up her pace again. “Where should we eat?”

  I hoofed it to keep up. “Do you like Indian food? Pub food? Dumplings? There are lots of choices in this direction,” I said, trying to remember if it was worth walking all the way to Castro Street. Although at the rate we were going, we’d be there in a span of minutes.

  She kept up the crazy fast pace even though she was no longer talking. Maybe she just liked getting places as quickly as possible. Isla was tall, but my legs were longer, and I was still having trouble keeping up.

  “Do you always walk this fast?” I asked, hoping it didn’t sound critical.

  She slowed her pace a tiny bit and gave me the side eye. “Yeah, mostly. Why, is it not working for you?”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I just didn’t bring my stopwatch, so I have no way of knowing if we’re actually breaking a land speed record. In case you’re in competition for that.”

  That earned me a partial smile, and she slowed a bit more. Thank God.

  “Are you one of those people who likes to stroll?” She may as well have tasted a bitter apple for the disdain she showed for the word. It made me laugh.

  “Okay, I see what we have here. You’re a force of nature who can’t be slowed by mere mortals who need to take it easy for the sake of our knees,” I said, marveling at her intensity.

  She looked down at my legs. “Sorry. Do you have bad knees?”

  “My knees are fine. I just didn’t bring the right shoes for track and field.”

  She slowed way down. Now we were almost walking at a normal pace for two people enjoying an evening in the city. Almost.

  “Is that better?” she asked, her tone impatient. She was taking smaller halting steps. I noticed it was almost a struggle for her to slow her pace and it amused me.

  “Does anyone ever describe you as being . . . passionate?” I asked.

  She barked out a laugh. “Is that a euphemism for Type A or intense or annoying? Because I’ve been called all of those.” She turned her head all the way to the side to look at me. I returned her gaze so she’d know that I was absolutely not making fun of her or accusing her of something negative.

  “Nope. It’s a compliment. I just wondered if you’d heard that before.”

  “Never.” She tried to glare at me but there was a hint of a smile there. Then it morphed into a full smile and I felt like I’d won the Mega Millions Jackpot. “But I like passionate. So thank you for being the first.”

  Down the block, the marquee sign of a microbrewery flickered behind the leaves of tall trees that lined the street. I’d been there all of two times, but at least I could vouch for the beer and quality of the food.

  I also feared that if we didn’t choose a place quickly, I’d wear out the soles of my shoes. And I happened to like these shoes.

  I pointed at the place as we approached. “This good? Beer and a burger, something like that?”

  She nodded. “Perfect. My feet were starting to hurt.” I looked down and noticed she was wearing boots with a two-inch heel. They didn’t look comfortable.

  Yet she’d kept going without complaint and with no idea of our destination.

  It told me more about her than a year’s worth of conversations.

  Chapter 7

  Isla

  The brew pub was a great pick. I’d been walking down Market like a freight train bound for nowhere because Owen asking me to dinner and me agreeing to dinner was freaking me out.

  After the very public end to my relationship with Tom, the last thing I needed was anything that could be mistaken for a date.

  And apparently, I was the type of person who used kissing as a way to spell that out. If Owen had any clue what to make of my absolute muddled clarity, I’d be shocked.

  Fortunately, after a few sips from a pint of lager, I felt much better about my life and the world around me, so I decided not to dwell on the kiss.

  I could always chalk it up to post-breakup insanity.

  We were sitting at a high-top wooden table with coasters from pubs around the world secured under a piece of glass on the tabletop. We’d spent the first couple minutes looking at all of them to figure out where the most far-flung coaster acquisition had occurred. It looked like an Amsterdam pub was the winner.

  “Have you always been a bakery lurker?”
I asked, figuring we could start with common interests and go from there.

  “Do you really find me to be lurking? That sounds creepy. I think I may have to take my bakery appreciation somewhere else,” he said.

  “Don’t you dare. I was kidding. You aren’t creepy, but you are devoted. I kind of love that.” His eyes brightened when I said that, and I realized I needed to be careful about doling out effusive sentiments. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

  He was a customer and sort of a friend. I wasn’t even sure I saw him as a potential hookup. It would be too weird to see him every day after that.

  “Anyway, my question was more about what made you stumble into my bread place and start hanging out?” I asked.

  “That’s easy. And obvious. The smell. Anyone within a four-block radius would be insane to wake up to that bread smell and not wander over. I live slightly farther away, but I walk all over the city and one day I got a good whiff, and the rest is history. So I’m sorry. Unless I move away or you kick me out, you’re stuck with me in the mornings.”

  “I’m not going to kick you out.”

  We talked and ordered our food and both dug into a basket of fries when they came before our burgers. It was easy and for a while I forgot I didn’t know him that well. I didn’t need to know him in order to have a good time with him.

  I wondered if he was going to bring up the kiss. If I were a guy, I probably would, if for no other reason than to know if I was going to be getting some more.

  Owen said nothing.

  Instead he asked me about two hundred questions about other things, mostly in the form of a statement instead of an actual question.

  The pub was semi-busy, which made it noisy enough to feel comfortable but not so loud that we couldn’t hear each other. Owen ordered a bacon cheeseburger but substituted a veggie patty for the meat. I planned to quiz him about that, but for the moment, I was taking note of the design of the place.

  “I like the chalkboards on the walls,” I said, pointing to the large boards mounted in between the exposed wood beams. “Someone’s an artist. Are you required to have at least one person on staff who knows how to draw if you put up chalkboards at your business?”

  He nodded. “I always wondered that. It seems like at every Trader Joe’s someone knows how to do artistic lettering on their chalkboards. Maybe they ask about it on the job application.”

  “I should start doing that. Baking skills can be taught, but artistic ability is genetic. And sadly for me, my sister got all those genes. I’ve been taking a watercolor painting class to try and encourage my inner artist, but it’s kind of a losing battle. Fun to make a mess with the paint though.”

  I watched Owen pick up his burger and arrange the bacon strips and the tomato slice so he’d get a bit of each in the bite he was about to take. I approved of his technique.

  He chewed and washed the bite down with a swig of the dark beer he’d ordered before putting the burger back on his plate. “You don’t consider baking to be creative,” he said.

  “It’s not. It’s science. And it can go very wrong if you try to be creative. Trust me, been there.”

  “Yes, but you try new things out all the time. They may not all work, but you’re doing that seed loaf no one else bakes. There’s artistry there.”

  The way he talked about it caused a swell of pride and affection for him. “Thanks.” I couldn’t articulate a better response.

  “So who’s the real ‘artist’ in the family?” He made air quotes and rolled his eyes like I was being overly modest.

  He was so nice, so easy to talk to, and so . . . freaking attractive.

  How had I breezed past him day after day without taking time to notice the waves in his dark brown hair and the way he casually raked a hand through it when he was trying to think of what to say?

  The blue eyes had already done me in several times over since we’d sat down for dinner and when he spoke, I caught myself watching the curve of his lips and wanting to kiss them again.

  I grabbed a fry from the basket we were sharing and tried to satisfy my mouth with that instead. They had seasoned salt on them and I had no doubt I could polish them off by myself, but I had my eye on an apple pie that sat under a glass dome at the corner of the bar, so I was saving room.

  “There are three. My sister, Cherry, is really creative with fashion, and my other sister Becca sews and makes stuff for her house. Then, there’s my youngest sister, Tatum. She’s crazy smart, like rocket scientist smart, and she doodles stuff on napkins that could be professional book illustrations. And she has no interest in ever doing anything with it.”

  “Sounds like you’re all creative, but hang on . . . You have three sisters?” He looked at me agog.

  “Four. Sarah’s like me, not super artistic, so I left her out. And I have a brother. How about you?”

  He shook his head. “I’m still trying to get my brain around a family of six kids. I have one sister. And most of the time, she’s a lot, and she doesn’t even live nearby.”

  It made me laugh. “Yeah, I could probably say that about any one of my sisters at a given time, but I love them. I guess if you don’t grow up around a big family, it seems overwhelming, but it’s all I know so it seems normal. And crazy to say, but we all pretty much get along. My dad died of brain cancer when we were young, but my mom still lives locally and we see her a ton too.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry about your dad. That’s tough.” He looked sympathetic. And curious.

  “It was awful. We were close, but I was in college for the last few months of his life and I think I’ll always regret not being there. But he insisted I stay in school, wanted me to live my life… I named the bakery after him—Victor was his name—I figured if I could make it work, I’d be a sort of victor. It felt like a good omen when the place started thriving.”

  He smiled. “That’s a great story. You should share that with your customers on the back of the menu or something. People love it when there’s a personal reason for things. But I get that you might want to keep it personal.”

  “Yeah, I feel protective of him, I guess. I’m that way with my siblings too.”

  A tiny flicker of something passed over his face, but he quickly blinked it away. “Good that you all stayed close.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but instead he took another bite of his burger.

  “Are you and your family close?” I wanted to know more but I could see that as soon as he mentioned his sister, his smile was a little forced and he seemed slightly uncomfortable. Would it derail the easy banter if I pushed him on the family stuff?

  “My sister and I are, yeah. She doesn’t visit often but technology helps.” He held up his phone. I waited and watched him, assuming he’d finish up his thought or comment some more on the conversation with information about the rest of his family. But he changed the subject.

  “What got you interested in baking?” he asked, grabbing two fries and dipping them in barbecue sauce.

  I studied him for a moment, still trying to figure out what was going through his head. Baking was the one thing we had talked about a lot over a year’s worth of morning visits to the bakery. He knew the answer to his question, so he’d asked it in a quick attempt to ditch the conversation we were having. I didn’t want to pry, but I kind of did.

  He picked up another fry but didn’t eat it. He gazed at it like it was fascinating.

  “Hey,” I said, reaching for the hand holding the fry and wrapping my hand around it. He met my eyes, and I noticed their deep blue color again. They looked like a sea that could carry me away if I let it. I wasn’t planning to.

  He put the fry down and brought his hand to the table, turning it so he was holding my hand instead.

  I couldn’t have said what made me reach for him. It was instinctive. My rational side would have told me to keep my hands to myself. But something in the way he’d shut down made me want to bring him back out.

  “Can you tell me more about your siste
r? Or the rest of your family? Do you mind?” I wanted to tread lightly in case they didn’t get along or on the chance that there was some sort of trauma that he wanted to avoid discussing.

  But he shook his head. “Well . . . my sister lives in Vermont. She met her husband in college and they moved there to be closer to his family, so I lost the draw on that one. And I don’t have any other family.”

  With nothing else to go on, I wasn’t sure how to interpret that information. “You don’t . . . or didn’t—?”

  He took a deep breath and blinked a few times. I could tell it wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have and I felt bad about pressing him on it just for the sake of my curiosity. “Actually, you know, we don’t have to talk about that,” I said.

  I picked up my beer and waved my other hand dismissively. “This is supposed to be a fun night of not thinking about stressful things. We should probably order another round of beer and just not—”

  He quieted my apologetic stream by leaning across the table and claiming my mouth in a kiss that was not apologetic at all.

  It was heaven.

  As he deepened the kiss, all my words evaporated.

  I was confused, because nothing about our conversation was romantic, but then, nothing had been earlier when I’d done it.

  He scooted his chair around to the side of the table so we were closer and his lips found mine again. We kissed. For a long time.

  I forgot we were in a restaurant.

  I forgot about the well-seasoned fries that before now had been the best thing I’d ever tasted.

  Now I had him to compare them with and the fries fell flat like useless cardboard.

  This was the kind of kiss I’d write about in my diary if I kept a diary.

  Since I didn’t, I closed my eyes and tried to commit it to memory because I was certain this was something I'd want to remember. Owen’s lips were sweet and tasted faintly of barbecue sauce and beer, but the way they moved over mine felt like delicious sin.