by Julia London
Harry’s opinion was solidified when she served the pie—warm, with ice cream, of course. It was incredible, the perfect complement to their discussion about the possibility of the Mets going all the way. Harry was sold. If he had to have a roommate, he wanted it to be Lola Dunne.
When he stood up to help with cleanup duty, he was fairly Zen about the mess in the kitchen. Tonight, it seemed amusing that there was dough stuck to the counter and more pots and pans in the sink than in the cabinets. “I’ll wash,” he offered.
“You know, you are turning out to be nicer than I thought,” Lola mused, peering up at him with that sparkle in her eye.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” he warned her. “I’m drunk.”
She laughed. “Then my nefarious plan has worked.” She cleaned up around him, but apparently she’d had enough wine to make her a little wobbly. She kept brushing against him or bumping into him. “Sorry,” she muttered when she’d done it a third time.
“Are you trying to get my attention?” he asked over his shoulder.
“No. It’s a very small kitchen.”
He looked around them; it was one of the biggest kitchens he’d ever seen. When he turned back to make that point, she was standing at his elbow, holding a butcher knife. Maybe Harry was a little too drunk, but he flinched.
“What?” she asked innocently, then dropped the knife into the sudsy water.
“How does someone as cute as you write a book like that?” he asked.
She smiled, clearly pleased. “I have a very vivid imagination.”
“I always heard writers were supposed to write what they know,” he said.
“I don’t think you have to worry . . . yet,” she said, and tilted her head back, looking up at him. “But if I were you, I’d keep up the good work just in case.” She slapped his butt like a coach, brushed past him again, and poured more wine into their glasses. Harry had lost track, but he thought maybe a second bottle had been opened.
“Seriously? From what little I read, that is some dark stuff,” he said, curious about her book.
“Well yeah, because she’s a cute psycho. Looks can be so deceiving, don’t you think?”
Harry stopped washing and looked at her. Lola burst out laughing. “I’m teasing you!” she said as he dried his hands on a towel and turned toward her. “It’s one hundred percent fiction. Haven’t you seen Gone Girl?”
“No,” he said.
“Well, don’t,” she said, frowning a little. “It might alarm you.” She laughed as she tossed down the dishtowel, then removed her superwoman apron. She put her hands on her hips, tilted her head to one side and smiled at him. “You know what, Hardhat Harry? This has been fun.”
“It has,” he agreed. “You’re an excellent cook.” He could see the pie tin behind her, and his hazy thoughts wandered toward a second piece.
Lola followed his gaze, then looked back at him. “And you’re the perfect dinner companion. You eat everything on your plate.”
“I have a long history of being a perfect dinner companion then. I’d have to say the same of you, Lola. Not every woman out there is into the Mets.” That reminded him—there was a game on tonight. He said, “I think I know the perfect end to this delightful evening.”
“Wait . . . are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I think so.”
Lola laughed. So did Harry. But he didn’t get it at first, didn’t see it coming until Lola put her hands on his chest and rose up on her toes and pressed her soft, warm lips against his. It shocked him—he was not used to women planting one on him, and in that moment, he froze, his head frantically trying to decide what to do while his heart was totally into it. The rest of his body got in line behind his heart when her tongue began to tease his stunned mouth, and then, somehow, his hand was on her breast. And then he was moving. He was lifting her up without any thought at all and putting her on the counter. He shoved his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head as he pulled her into his body, pressing against her. She had lit a flame in him, and desire was suddenly burning him up, turning his inside to ashes.
Lola drew her knees up around him; her skirt had slid down her thighs, baring them to him. He took hold of one, kneading her flesh as he kissed her. His body was reacting, powering up, ready to launch . . . but then something pierced his wine-fogged brain. What the hell was he doing? Where was he going with this?
Harry managed to corral the rest of himself and stopped what he was doing. He pressed his forehead to hers, wiped her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “That should not have happened,” he said roughly.
“Uh-huh,” she said dreamily.
“We’re roommates,” he reminded her.
Lola opened her eyes. “Temporary roommates at that,” she said and let go of his wrist, which he hadn’t realized she was holding until that moment. She pushed him back, then slid off the counter, straightening her skirt, shoving her fingers through the wild mess of her hair.
“I’m sorry—” he started.
“No, you can’t,” she said firmly, putting her hand over his mouth. “I can’t stand it when a guy apologizes for touching.”
He pulled her hand away from his mouth. “I’m damn sure not sorry for that,” he said. “I’m sorry for having crossed a boundary.”
“Well don’t be,” she said, and picked up the dishtowel. “I’m the one who crossed it.” She began to polish the countertop. “We’re grownups, Harry. We can kiss if we want.”
“Right,” he said uncertainly. Kissing was not a game to him. Kissing was a door that opened onto a whole other landscape.
“But I think we both agree the night got away from us,” she said as her polishing intensified.
Now she sounded like some middle school teacher. “Yes,” he said obediently.
“And I know you’re just really grateful because my apple pie kicks ass.”
He smiled. “It does.”
“Okay,” she said, and tossed the dishtowel across the kitchen to land near the sink. “I’m going to bed now.”
Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, unsure what to say.
Lola didn’t seem to need him to say anything. She started out of the kitchen but paused before she reached the hallway and glanced back. “Just out of curiosity, what were you thinking?”
“Just now?” he asked, confused.
“No—you said you knew the perfect end to this evening, and I asked if you were thinking what I was thinking, and you said yes. What were you thinking?”
He felt like an idiot now, a man with no game. “Ah . . . I was thinking we could watch the Met’s game.”
Lola’s eyes narrowed. “Huh,” she said, nodding a little as she looked him over. Probably assessing his sexual orientation.
“We still could,” he said clumsily, pointing to the television.
“You go ahead.” Her voice was full of that false politeness that women used when they were not happy. She disappeared into the hallway, and Harry shook his head, both confused and pissed at himself.
He turned on the Mets and fell into a slight funk, the result of having drunk too much wine and having played a moment so wrong. The game went extra innings, most of which Harry did not see, as he had fallen asleep on the couch. He wasn’t sure what time it was when he finally wandered off to bed, but he was very much aware that when he closed his eyes, his head was spinning with images of Lola.
She was dancing with a slice of apple pie.
Twelve
Usually, on the morning following an encounter with a member of the male species, Lola would call Casey and vent about her lack of finesse and understanding of men. But Lola wasn’t going to do that this morning because she didn’t need anyone agreeing that she was such an idiot.
Granted, she’d been a bit lit last night, but that didn’t excuse mishandling that moment in the kitchen as badly as she had. She’d made that bold move because she’d been taught by umpteen romantic movies that a highly charged moment ended wit
h an electrifying kiss. Apparently, it was only in the movies, because while she was thinking of kissing him, he was thinking of baseball.
Baseball.
It had been a huge hand-to-forehead moment for Lola, and she either needed to up her game or forget it. She was pissed about it. Furious with herself, of course, for reading him all wrong, but also furious with Harry for being so damn handsome and charming and engaging that she could even think of kissing him. Oh yeah, he definitely bore a big chunk of responsibility for her blunder.
She’d been so annoyed and mortified with herself that she hadn’t slept very well. She was up at six o’clock, wiping down the kitchen, polishing silverware, and rubbing water spots off the glasses that had come out of the dishwasher. Lola didn’t like to clean, but when she did, she was awesome.
By eight-thirty, she’d showered and dressed, and slipped out of the house. Handsome Harry was still in bed. She wasn’t surprised—she’d heard the TV blaring until sometime after one.
In town, Lola parked and locked her bike just outside the Green Bean and entered the coffee shop.
Mallory was there, an empty plate and enormous coffee cup before her, her hair a giant, untamed ball of frizz this morning.
Lola took off her sunglasses and fell into a chair across from her.
“You look like you got whacked by a whack-a-mole mallet,” Mallory said.
“I did. What happened to your hair?”
“Huh?” Mallory put her hand to her head then said, “Oh yeah. I tried to give myself a perm, but I forgot what I was doing and left it on too long. I’m going to see Christa at the salon a little later. You have to meet her! She’s great, and she can fix anything. So why do you look like that?” Mallory asked, nodding at her.
Lola looked down at her shorts and T-shirt and red Keds. “Like what?”
“Not your clothes, silly. Your face.”
“My face?” Lola asked, pressing her fingertips to her cheeks.
“You know what I mean. It looks like you were up way too late.”
“Oh, that,” Lola said. “I had a bit too much of that excellent organic wine you gave me.”
“Isn’t it good?” Mallory said sunnily. “But please don’t tell me you were drinking alone. You should have called me! Friends never let friends drink alone.”
“No, no,” Lola said, squirming a little. “I had drinks with my friend.”
“Your friend? What friend?” Mallory asked.
“My friend who is passing through?”
“Oh, right, right,” Mallory said, nodding. “So who is he?”
“No one. I’m starving,” Lola said. She was not starving, because she’d helped herself to a banana and a fistful of chocolates this morning. But she hastily picked up a menu and buried her blooming cheeks behind it in the hope she could change the subject.
“Oh, you should try the oatmeal. It’s fabulous,” Mallory said. “And you need some coffee. I’m going to get you a coffee.” Mallory stood up before Lola could even reach for her tote bag.
She returned with oatmeal and a latte for Lola, then chatted about the candy shop and some new items she wanted to stock as Lola ate.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Mallory said brightly as Lola finished the oatmeal. “Lillian and Albert are having a party tonight.” Mallory had a strange habit of referring to her parents by their first names. “You have to come!”
“A party?” Lola said.
“I forgot to tell you—it’s been on my list of things to do. Thank goodness I remembered! Anyway, it’s a cocktail party, with a buffet. Dancing on the lawn, too. Albert had a three-piece jazz band come in from the city.”
“That sounds like a big deal,” Lola said. “I don’t want to crash—”
“You’re not crashing! Albert reminded me this morning to invite you. Oh, and guess who’s coming?” Mallory asked, sitting up, her eyes sparkling now.
“Let me guess . . . Amy Schumer,” Lola said drily.
“No. But someone just as good as that.”
Lola was interested now. “Lena Dunham?”
“Lena Dunham!” Mallory repeated, laughing.
“Hello.”
The deep male voice startled Lola and Mallory, and they both jerked around at the sound of Harry’s voice. He had materialized right behind Lola, looking pretty darn fabulous. Again. He had on shorts that came to his knees, the Cornell T-shirt, and sandals. His hair was still damp from showering, bound at his nape, and his face rough with the shadow of a beard.
“Oh,” Lola said. “Hi.”
One of Harry’s brows quirked up.
“Hello? Excuse me?” Mallory demanded. She was practically levitating out of her seat as she feasted on Handsome Harry.
“I’m sorry. This . . . this is my friend,” Lola said carefully.
Mallory was listening with only one ear. “I’m Mallory Cantrell,” she said, offering up a hand, coming halfway out of her chair to reach him.
Harry shook it. “Nice to meet you, Mallory. Harry Westbrook.”
“Sit, sit, Harry! Want a coffee? Let me get you a coffee. Black coffee?”
“I can—” Harry tried, but Mallory was already halfway to the counter.
“Stephen, can we get a coffee?”
“You still haven’t paid for the oatmeal!” the barista said. “You know you’re supposed to come to the counter and pay up front.”
“Please, sit. I’ll go,” Harry tried.
But Mallory had already banged into the guy sitting at the table next to them in her haste to be a good hostess. “Don’t worry,” she said to Harry. “It’s just a lot of red tape you have to go through to get a coffee here, that’s all.” She shoved past the next table on her way to the counter.
“That makes no sense,” Harry muttered. Then he fixed his gaze on Lola. “Mind telling me why you’re acting like I’m the grim reaper all of a sudden?”
“I’m not!” Lola protested.
“Yes, you are. Look, Lola, don’t be embarrassed. It wasn’t a big deal.”
She gaped at him in disbelief. She couldn’t believe that one, that he would just confront it head on, and two, that he didn’t get what a big deal it was to her. “I am not embarrassed,” she blustered. But she could feel the heat of the truth rising up in her cheeks. She was mortified.
“Okay,” he said, shrugging, his amusement clearly evident in his eyes. “If you say so.”
“Stop looking so smug,” she muttered as Mallory reappeared with a cup of coffee.
Mallory handed the mug to Harry, then reviewed the full list of creamers and sugars and whatnot available to put in his coffee. It took some doing before Mallory would accept that he liked his coffee black, but she sat at last and smiled coyly at Lola. “So this is your friend,” she said. She planted her forearms on the table and leaned over them, locking her gaze on Harry. “Does Zach know about your friend?” she asked, making air quotes around the word friend.
“I don’t . . . probably,” Lola said quickly. “I mean, it’s no secret,” she said, and looked at Harry. God, she hoped he kept his mouth shut.
But Harry looked confused. “I—”
“We haven’t seen Zach in a while,” Lola said, and reached for Harry’s arm. She tried to squeeze it, but Harry was pretty solid.
Harry’s look of confusion turned into a frown. He glanced at her hand on his arm—which, she would have to admit, was fairly damp with anxiety—then lifted his gaze to hers again.
“Aha! I knew it!” Mallory cried triumphantly. “You’re more than friends!”
“Lola?” Harry said. “Don’t you want to tell—”
“You have to come to the party, Harry!” Mallory blurted. “I was just telling Lola about it. Everyone in East Beach is going to be there.”
“Oh, but he can’t!” Lola said cheerfully. “Thanks, but he has to go into the city today.”
“Don’t say no,” Mallory pleaded with Harry. “I live with my parents and it’s a really nice place, and if you don’t come, Albert
and Lillian will be very upset. They pretty much think they own East Beach, you know what I mean? And these things are a big deal to Albert especially. He fancies himself quite the host,” she said. “Not only that, he would love to meet Zach’s friends! He and Zach are like that,” she said, and held up two crossed fingers to indicate just how close.
Lola noticed that Harry was staring at Mallory just as intently as she was. He was probably trying to think of some excuse, too. “Thanks, Mallory, but we have plans—”
Mallory suddenly gasped. “Lola, I forgot to tell you! Guess who’s going to be there? Birta Hoffman. And she’s bringing her agent, too. What’s his name? I forget—”
“Cyrus Bernstein!” Lola all but shouted in her excitement. She knew all about Mr. Bernstein. He was one of the top literary agents in New York. To think that both Birta and her agent would be at this party was almost too much for her to bear. It felt a little like winning the literary lottery.
She made the mistake of looking at Harry, who was staring at Mallory as if he knew her from somewhere but couldn’t place her. “Still, I don’t think we can come,” Lola said apologetically, and felt herself deflate.
“Nooo,” Mallory moaned. “You have to come. What am I going to tell Albert and Lillian?”
“I’m sorry . . . Albert is your dad?” Harry asked. “Your dad is Albert Cantrell?”
“That’s him,” Mallory said. “Why, do you know him?”
“No,” Harry said, glancing at Lola. She tried to beg him with her gaze. Please don’t blow it, please don’t blow it, please don’t blow it.
He was going to blow it.
“But I’ve heard of him,” Harry said and shifted his gaze back to Mallory. “He builds roads, right?”
“That’s right! Wow, I never knew my dad was a celebrity. Would you like to meet him? Lola, say you will come and bring your delicious boyfriend.”
“Oh-ho, wait a minute,” Lola said, laughing nervously. “He is not my boyfriend.”
“Oh, please,” Mallory scoffed. “You have lovebug written all over you.”