Suddenly Dating (A Lake Haven Novel Book 2)

by Julia London

  “Mallory?” Lola said, glaring at her so-called boyfriend. “Harry is dying to meet your dad.”

  “He is?” Mallory asked, surprised.

  “I am,” Harry said, his gaze similarly locked on Lola’s.

  “I haven’t seen him. Stay right here. I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  Harry waited until she was out of earshot before he frowned and asked, “Why are you looking at me like you’d like to claw my eyes out?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I’m like two seconds away from doing it?” she snapped. “What were you doing?” she cried, gesturing behind her.

  “With Birta?”

  “Yes, with Birta Hoffman! Famous, famous author! Are you attracted to her?”

  Harry laughed in disbelief. “Of course not! What the hell is the matter with you, Lola? Didn’t you notice that she was totally into me?”

  Lola gaped at him. No, it couldn’t be . . . Good God, of course it could! Birta had kept her gaze on Harry and had practically licked her lips. Lola could be so stupidly blind at times.

  “What I was doing was helping you out, because you turned into a zombie.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, slapping her hand to her forehead.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I don’t know!” Lola moaned, bending backward with the weight of her folly. “I was nervous and flustered, and I couldn’t think.”

  “Well, that was obvious,” Harry said. He slung his arm around her shoulder and gave her a collegial shake. “You’re going to have to buck up, you little lunatic. Birta Hoffman is going to take a look at your book and invite you into her inner circle, just like you wanted. And now, if all goes well, I am going to meet Albert Cantrell, and then we can really enjoy ourselves at this party.”

  Lola waved him off. “I need a drink. I’m a wreck!”

  “Harry!”

  They glanced up. Mallory was standing on the deck, gesturing for Harry to come.

  Lola sighed. “I suppose you need me to come with you in case you forget what it is you want to say, right?” she asked drily.

  “I think I can handle it. Get yourself a drink and I’ll find you.” He started to walk away but paused and looked back at her. “My advice? If you see Birta again, walk the other way. I’m afraid of what might happen if I’m not around to talk for you.” He grinned.

  “Ha ha,” Lola said, and shooed him off. Then, feeling like an idiot, she went in search of the bar and her new favorite drink, the martini, so that she could properly drown her humiliation.

  She walked down to the dock with that goal, but the line at the bar was really long. Lola carried on, wondering if there might be another bar, but the dock turned a corner, and with the exception of a bench overlooking the water, there was nothing.

  A woman with sleek, dark hair was sitting on the bench. Lola glanced back at the crowded dock and the line at the bar, then at the bench. She took a few steps forward. “Would you mind if I joined you?” she asked.

  The woman looked up. Her blue eyes popped in the heavy makeup she wore. She smiled. “Not at all.” She scooted over.

  Lola sat down. “This party is insane,” she said.

  “A zoo,” the woman agreed, and sipped daintily from a flute of champagne.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” Lola asked.

  “No. I’m hiding,” she said, and smiled a little. “I’m here with some people from work.” She leaned forward and squinted around Lola, as if looking for them. “One of them is a little too interested in me, if you know what I mean. I’m avoiding him.”

  “Ah.” Lola nodded.

  “What about you?” the woman asked. “Hiding? Or waiting?”

  “I’m taking a break,” Lola said. From herself, if possible. She couldn’t believe she might have blown her big chance. “This house belongs to my friend’s parents, and when she invited me, she didn’t mention how many people were coming. I thought it was going to be a much smaller affair. I’m trying to get my crowd face on.”

  The woman laughed. “If you figure out how to do it, let me know. It’s a mob scene—I’ll bet there are two hundred people here. I’m Melissa, by the way.”

  “Hi,” Lola said. “I’m Lola.”

  “Lola!” Melissa said. “My sister has a dog named Lola. A little pug.”

  Lola suppressed a sigh.

  “Oh God, there’s Andy,” Melissa said, and leaned back, so that Lola’s body shielded any view of her. Lola looked around; there were several people gathering at the bar.

  “Is anyone looking at us?” Melissa asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Lola said uncertainly.

  Melissa sighed. “I’m being silly. He’s really not so bad—I’m just not in a partying mood.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Melissa said, nodding. “It’s . . .” She looked off a moment. “I broke up with my boyfriend a couple of months ago. It was all my doing . . . but nights like tonight make me realize how much I miss him.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Lola said sympathetically. “I know how that is.”

  “You do?”

  “Well . . . the breaking up was done to me,” Lola said. “But yeah . . . every party, every cocktail hour, every dinner with friends, I was reminded of him and how much I missed him. Sometimes, I still am.”

  “Exactly,” Melissa said.

  “Why’d you break up?” Lola asked curiously.

  “I don’t really even know anymore. We wanted different things. Classic story of it’s not you, it’s me,” she said, in a mockingly high voice. She rolled her eyes. “Can you believe I actually said that? But lately I’ve been thinking it really was all me. He was a great guy. Really great,” she said with a wince of sadness. “And I was impatient.” Melissa shook her head. “God, look at me, the proverbial wet blanket.”

  “No you’re not,” Lola said, laughing.

  “I am! I’m awful.” She smiled again, and Lola thought she was really pretty when she smiled. Maybelline pretty.

  “I love your dress,” Melissa said. “Where’d you get it?”

  “This? A little dress shop in Black Springs.”

  “Do you ever get to the city? Because there is this great shop on Lex, in the fifties, I forget which . . . but they have designer clothes for more than half off.”

  “Really?” Lola asked. Not that she could afford designer clothes even at more than fifty percent off. But she wouldn’t mind having a look.

  Melissa told her about the shop, and had moved onto shoes when a man walked up to them. “There you are,” he said, and smiled at the two of them.

  “Oh. Hi, Andy,” Melissa said. “This is Lola.”

  “Hi, Lola.” He looked at Melissa. “Ready to get out of here? I need to get back to the city.”

  “Sure,” Melissa said. She stood up and smiled at Lola. “Really great talking to you, Lola.”

  “You, too, Melissa.”

  “Too bad you’re not in the city,” Melissa said. “We could check out that dress shop.”

  “Rain check,” Lola said, pointing at her, then waved as Melissa walked away with Andy in super-high heels and a super-short dress. When they had disappeared into the crowd, Lola noticed the line at the bar had eased somewhat. Time for that martini.

  Sixteen

  Albert Cantrell was not where Mallory had left him, which was with her mother on a terrace at the back of the house. As Harry stood by awkwardly, the two women argued about when, exactly, Mr. Cantrell had wandered off to look at a friend’s boat. In the course of the argument, Mrs. Cantrell glared up at Harry and said, “Will you please sit. I don’t like people towering over me.”

  Startled, Harry sat in the chair next to her.

  Lillian Cantrell was the opposite of her daughter—tiny and perfectly put together. Her face had been surgically enhanced, so she looked much younger than she could possibly be. Harry guessed she had to be around sixty.

  Mrs. Cantrell held out her hand with an empty glass in
it; a waiter appeared from nowhere to take it as Mallory and her mother argued. Harry sat, caught like a bunny rabbit in this dysfunctional family trap.

  Just as the waiter returned with the drink, Mallory huffed away, incensed by something her mother had said, leaving Harry there. “Well,” he said. “I should—”

  “Stay right there,” Mrs. Cantrell commanded, then paused to sip her drink. “Too sweet,” she said, and held it out to the waiter.

  It was forty-five minutes before Harry could extract himself from Mrs. Cantrell, who was determined to relate her recent experience at bridge club, at which Debra Pressley had condescended to the entire group by explaining how to play. To women who had been playing for forty years. Mrs. Cantrell had emphasized that more than once. Harry was desperately trying to think of a polite way out of this, but fortunately, the little dog beside her was apparently real, because it suddenly leapt up, barking and racing for something in the woods, and in the course of doing so, knocked Mrs. Cantrell’s glass from the arm of her throne, which resulted in a flurry of activity that gave him the means of escape.

  He headed down the decks two steps at a time, looking for Lola and a drink, but not finding her anywhere in the crowd. He must have wandered around for another quarter of an hour before he spotted a flash of green and silky strawberry blonde hair on the dock. She was dancing with the man Harry had met in his pool. Roland? Nolan? They were holding each other loosely, sort of swaying this way and that. Lola’s shoes had come off, and she was still slightly taller than her partner.

  Harry strolled along the edge of the dock, stepping over her shoes, and pausing only a few feet from her. Her dance partner was laughing, and suddenly twirled her around so that Lola spotted him.

  “Oh, hey,” she said. She tapped her partner on the shoulder.

  “What?” he said, and looked in the direction Lola was looking. Nolan’s gaze did a quick up and down over Harry’s body, and he smiled.

  Harry frowned.

  Lola dislodged herself from his grip. “You remember Nolan—the guy who took me to the party?”

  Harry looked at the itsy-bitsy man again. “I remember,” he said curtly. He didn’t like this guy, especially after what had happened to Lola that night.

  “Girl, wherever did you meet this man?” Nolan cooed, and dipped Lola backward.

  “Tinder,” Harry said. “I swiped right.”

  “What?” Lola said, her eyes wide as Nolan lifted her up. “No, no, that’s not how it went. I swiped right.” She laughed nervously, as if that were some great joke between the three of them.

  “I’m pretty sure it was the other way around,” Harry said, for no other reason than she was so adamant that she had done the choosing. He leaned down and picked up her shoes.

  “Well I’m definitely going to have to give Tinder another try if this is the selection,” Nolan said saucily as he brazenly looked Harry up and down again.

  “All right, that’s enough of that,” Harry said, and held out Lola’s shoes to her on one finger.

  Lola patted her partner on the chest and dislodged herself from his arms. “Great to see you again, Nolan.” She took her shoes from Harry, then grabbed onto his arm for balance as she leaned down and bent one leg at a time to slip her shoes back on her feet.

  “Wait—that’s it?” Nolan exclaimed. “What about our dance?”

  “She’s dancing with me now,” Harry said.

  “Well,” Nolan sniffed. “Lucky for me you’re not the only beard at this party, Lola. Now where is Mallory when I need her?” he asked petulantly, and toddled off . . . but not before giving Harry one last smug little smile.

  Harry was yanked off balance by a strong tug on his sleeve. “We have to get this Tinder story straight, pal,” Lola said.

  “We just did.”

  “Oh no,” she said, shaking her head. “You pinged me. Anyone who knows me knows I would never ping you.”

  Harry snorted. “Because men fall at your feet?”

  “No!” she said, swatting his arm. “Because you’re too good-looking.”

  That surprised him, and Harry smiled with delight. “Ms. Dunne, did you just say what I think you said?”

  “Deflate that ginormous head of yours and don’t take it so literally,” she said, her cheeks blooming. “I’m talking about the psychology of dating apps.”

  “I don’t know anything about the psychology of dating apps. But now I know that you think I’m hot.” He was suddenly feeling jovial and pulled her to his side.

  “I didn’t say hot,” she said into his chest.

  “Yeah, baby, you did,” he said.

  “Don’t call me that,” she said, lifting her head. “I’m not your baby, I’m not your boo, I’m just your roommate.”

  Harry grinned into the pale-blue eyes glittering up at him under the party lights strung along the edge of the dock. “Call it whatever you want,” he said, pulling her into a full embrace and settling his hands on her hips.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “I’m dancing. And it would be a lot easier if you put your arms around my neck.”

  “If you read my Tinder profile before you swiped right,” she said with mock sarcasm, “you’d know that I’m a horrible dancer.”

  “I had an inkling when I saw you dancing with Nolan. Put your arms around my neck.”

  Lola groaned as if he was pestering her, but she put her arms around his neck. “Well you’re in a fine mood. I guess it went really well for you with Mr. Cantrell, huh?”

  “It didn’t go at all. He left to go look at a boat before I could meet him.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I wish I was.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Harry shrugged. He’d been so desperate to escape Mrs. Cantrell that he hadn’t really thought about it. “Not sure. Maybe talk to Mallory about it. In the meantime, I’ll focus on turning things around for you. With some coaching, I think I can get you ready for Birta in a week.”

  Lola snorted. “There’s not enough time in the world.”

  “Yes there is,” Harry said, and teased a strand of her hair from draping over her eye. “With my expert people skills, Birta might actually learn to like you. And if that doesn’t work, there’s always me.”

  “Shut up,” Lola said, trying not to laugh.

  “Impossible,” Harry said, and pulled Lola’s hand free and twirled her out of his embrace, and then back again, and anchored his arm around her waist. Tightly.

  Lola frowned at him. “I can’t breathe.”

  Harry bent his head and murmured into her ear, “Are you afraid to be close to handsome me?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m afraid your ego will suck up all the oxygen in the area and I’ll suffocate.”

  She smelled so fresh. She reminded him of the way the air smelled in spring—crisp and fragrant. “If you’re going to date me, baby, you have to be close. A man likes to know his sex appeal is appreciated by the opposite sex.”

  Lola smiled, lifted their clasped hands to her mouth, and bit him. “Stop calling me baby,” she said as he yelped. “You don’t need me to appreciate your sex appeal—you seem to be doing a fine job for everyone.”

  “Your dating skills are awful, you know that?”

  “That’s no surprise,” she said cheerfully. “I don’t really date.”

  “What do you mean you don’t date? You’ve been divorced more than a year.”

  “And your point?”

  “Surely you’ve dated in the last year.”

  Lola sniffed and shifted her gaze away from him. “Why is everyone always so concerned about who is dating who?”

  Harry stopped their gentle swaying. “Lola, no way,” he said incredulously. “You’re not dating?” A dancing couple bumped into them at that moment, pushing Lola into him. He steadied her and cupped her face. “Seriously?” he asked.

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that it’s a very long t
ime to go without . . . having your, uh . . .” He tried to think of how to say it. “Your needs met.”

  Lola’s brows dipped into a vee. “My needs met?”

  “You know. Needs,” he said. Harry didn’t trust himself to say more. But he was fascinated by the idea Lola hadn’t had sex in a year, and glanced down without meaning to. His gaze landed on her breasts.

  Lola punched him on the arm. “Well that’s kind of personal.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said instantly. “I’m just surprised. I can’t imagine going a year without it.”

  She clucked her tongue at him. “Who said I was without?”

  Harry arched a brow.

  Lola managed to worm her way out of his embrace. “So I guess you just jumped right into the sack the minute you cut your ex loose, is that it?”

  “First of all, I didn’t cut Lissa loose. She dumped me. And second, it hasn’t been that long. I can go a couple of months before I start climbing the walls.”

  “Well that’s just great,” she said, and tugged at her earlobe before folding her arms across her body.

  They stared at each other. Harry’s gaze inadvertently drifted to her mouth. Those were lush lips, and he was reminded of that surprisingly sexy little kiss in the kitchen of the lake house. “You know,” he said, lifting his gaze to hers, “we could consider—”

  “Don’t even say it,” she interjected, pointing at him.

  “What?”

  She gave him a withering look. “I know exactly where you are going with this. You are going to suggest we become friends with benefits.”

  That was absolutely what Harry had been about to suggest, but he wouldn’t admit it now. “I was going to say maybe we could consider putting you on Tinder for real. I could help you find the right guy. But if you’d rather just jump straight to friends with benefits, I’m okay with that, too.”

  “I didn’t say that! Seriously, isn’t it time to go?” she asked, looking around.

  Harry caught her hand, pulling her toward him.

  “Leave me alone, Harry Westbrook,” she said, but she didn’t resist him pulling her into his embrace once more. He caught her face between his hands and touched his lips to hers. Gently. Sweetly. It was amazing how such a small and simple kiss could set him on fire, but it did—another conflagration, courtesy of Lola Dunne. Maybe because he felt her soften into him. Maybe because she tasted sweet. Maybe because he really liked this girl with her strange novel and messy cooking.