Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Author
Chapter 1
The guys on my softball team liked to talk a big story, but Krista and I were the ones who hung out the longest after our games. Thursday night at O’Brien’s meant happy hour until nine and Irish music until closing. Well before eight o’clock, the last of the ballplayers left us alone at a debris-covered table, with the band in the corner playing a reel.
“They bailed on us again,” Krista said, raising her voice to be heard over the pipes and fiddle. Friends since college, we’d gone through the same music ed program. Now I taught grade school kids while she had a job in a middle school. It gave her a hipper aura, which I often envied. Like right now, for instance.
I stacked empty pint glasses, and the hurricane candle on our rickety table flickered. “We’re the only ones who don’t have to go to work in the morning.”
“We do too, Maggie Jeanne.” She snorted like I’d insulted her dignity and raised her glass in toast. “To choir camp.”
“Geez, don’t call it choir camp.” I clinked my pint glass against hers with a laugh threaded with sarcasm. “And don’t call me Maggie Jeanne.”
“Oh, pardon me. To a successful, um, Western Washington Choral Directors Annual Retreat.”
I let my glass tip forward, coming close to pouring beer in her lap. “Whatever.”
“I could have said … what would it be? W-W-C-D-A-R? DubDub-Cee-Dar?”
“Give it up.” I shrugged, rocking my head in time with the drum’s bass beat. I knew the musicians in this band and planned to join in if anyone started step-dancing. Or elbow my way on stage and grab the harp. Or take a turn on the bodhrán. “I can’t imagine anything happening this time that hasn’t happened the last two or three years.”
“What are you talking about?” Krista whipped out her phone, which may or may not have buzzed with a text message. She maintained a man-harem big enough to make my eyes cross.
“The weather is gorgeous and we’re going to be out of town for three nights.” She waved her empty glass at the crowd. “There is no end to the adventure we could have.”
“Adventure? With a bunch of music teachers?” I topped the empty nacho tray with used snack plates.
She half stood and leaned over the table to point in the direction of my belly. “Sit up straight and lift your shirt.”
“No way.” I clutched at my grubby softball jersey, the soft yellow hem smudged with red clay from a head-first dive into second base.
“You’ve got bricks under there, girlfriend. I’ve seen them.”
“So?”
“You’re too cute to be single. Half the men in this bar would do you right now.” She sat down with a smug grin, like she’d just nailed me with a killer argument.
“Yeah, the drunk ones,” I muttered into my beer. Whenever Krista played her “Maggie needs a man” rap, it blasted my ego—and my heart—like a storm of irritated bees.
She brushed off my rebuttal with a whatever eye roll.
“Anyway,” I said, hoping to put this conversation to bed, “all the guys at the retreat will all be married or gay or both.”
Those conversations didn’t usually end well.
The waitress slipped through the clot of grown up frat boys surrounding our table to see if we wanted another pitcher of beer. I said no. Krista said yes. I glared. She caved.
At least the debate saved me from Krista’s enthusiasm for a couple of minutes.
“You know what I love?” Krista started yapping as soon as the waitress left. “The feeling when a guy first slides himself in, you know?” She faked a shiver. “You might not remember this, but the first long thrust, when everything is tight and you have to work it in. It’s so … yum.”
Aw, now she’s playing the sexy card. I blinked once. Twice. I fought to keep my eyes from widening and bit down on the tip of my tongue. Hard. She did the fake shiver thing again, her chin jittering on the inhale. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, coming very close to snorting beer out my nose.
“You are so full of shit.”
“And you so need to get laid.” Satisfied with making her point, Krista adjusted her purple-framed glasses and took a hit from her beer. Between the blocky frames and the hard edge of her bangs, she should have a pocket protector and a compass in her pocket instead of lipstick and an iPhone. Next to her edgy style, my wispy blond hair and twice-broken nose said sidekick. Jock. Tomboy.
“You’re not denying it,” she said, tapping the table with a blunt fingernail.
If we dug into all the reasons I preferred to limit guys to friendship, we’d have to take this little discussion to a therapist’s couch.
“Maggie …” She dragged out the word.
“What? You’re right. I need to get laid.” I raised my glass to nearly eye level as if inspecting the amber color for flaws. “Is that what you want to hear?”
“Only if you mean it.”
I sipped some beer. Did I mean it this time? It had been a while. Five years, three months, and four days, actually.
Not that I’d been keeping track.
The band swung into a hornpipe, the bodhrán laying down an easy rhythm. A girl started step-dancing near the stage, and then another joined in. If I got up and danced, I could avoid the conversation entirely.
On the other hand, she was right. I needed to get laid.
Because five years, three months, and four days ago, I’d been wearing a white lace dress when my groom called to say he was on his way to Los Angeles.
Alone.
Krista made kissy-lips, which meant she had an idea. “The Blues Revivalists are playing in Langley on Sunday night. If the music teachers strike out, we could head over so you can try with the rock ’n’ rollers.”
I chewed a pinky nail, delaying my answer. Maybe I finally felt strong enough.
A tall man with shaggy brown hair sat down at the table next to ours. Krista tipped her nose in his direction and let her gaze drift significantly. I ignored her, studying the Lord of the Rings posters on the wall.
“Sometimes you gotta open yourself up a little, you know. Try something new to get what you want,” she said.
“Okay. Fine. I have a goal for the weekend.”
Krista clapped her hands like a little girl. “Goodie!”
A burble of giddiness broke free from somewhere deep. I was going to get laid. Didn’t know with whom, and didn’t know when, but I was going to do it.
Chapter 2
The next morning, it took a little while to shake off the crusty edges from a night of beer and music. My first waking thought was, Krista dared me to get laid and I said I’d do it. Alrighty, then. I’d also volunteered to drive, because between the two of us, I was the one most likely to be starting from her own bed.
After a quick exchange of texts to confirm her location, Krista climbed into my CRV clutching a travel mug, her face wrapped in a pair of black Ray-Bans. She smelled like apples and sex, and though I couldn’t see her eyes, she could see me and had no qualms about sharing her opinion.
“Your shirt,” she said, flicking a finger in my direction. “It’s baggy.”
Something about her tone made me nervous. “It’s clean.”
“It’s boring. How are you going to get laid if you hide the goodies under a sack?”
Apparently she hadn’t forgotten my goal either. I pulled out onto Lake City Way, cert
ain Krista’s present mood wasn’t going to help my hangover. At. All.
We drove in silence until Alderwood Mall came into sight. “Don’t miss the exit,” she said.
“We’ve got a ways to go to get to Mukilteo.”
She glared at me over top of her Ray-Bans. “We’re stopping at Target first. If you packed for comfort instead of cute, you’ll never get any action.” She used her bossy-teacher voice, oblivious to my eye-rolling and halfhearted harrumph.
Okay, quick decision. I could hold tight to my values and keep driving north, or I could concede defeat and let her help me choose an outfit that might get me laid. The throbbing in my head was somehow echoed by something further south, and I could see the big red logo from the freeway. “I do need some moisturizer.”
As soon as we hit Target, she dragged me toward the women’s clothing.
“The moisturizer’s over there,” I said, pointing in what I hoped was the right direction.
“We can go get some as soon as you try this on,” she shoved a cobalt blue sleeveless dress in my hands—“and this”—a paisley print peasant blouse in greens and lavender—“and this.”
The last item was stretchy and black and short enough to be a skirt, because as a dress it would let way too much Maggie hang out the back end. Krista turned to another rack, and just as quickly I hung up the black thing. And then I picked it up again. I was a tomboy, not an idiot. Maybe something short, black, and stretchy would change things for me.
The shopping frenzy didn’t take long. Despite the low odds of actually breaking my drought, I had a moment of maturity and wheeled our cart through the contraception aisle on our way to the checkout. After all, low was not the same as zero, and Lord knew any condoms I owned would be well past their shelf life. The Cosmo magazine Krista tossed in my basket, however, almost broke my resolve. Grown-ups didn’t read Cosmo. Right?
Of course, her rah-rah enthusiasm did a better job than coffee to clear my head.
We pulled onto the freeway toward the ferry dock at Mukilteo and she twisted in her seat, giving me a smile that would have flustered the Cheshire Cat.
“You’re wearing a dress. You’re seriously wearing a dress, and you look hot.”
I plucked at my dark green hoodie, a sure sign of embarrassment. It didn’t quite match my brand-new topaz flowered sun dress, but the late August morning was too cool for a halter top.
Krista lifted her sunglasses. “Blue is a good color with your eyes.” She leaned forward to peer at my feet. “Wish we had time to go for pedicures.”
“No way.” My feet were so calloused from daily trail runs, I’d never let anyone near them with nail polish.
We cruised north on the freeway and she reclined her seat, the coffee mug near her cheek, all but purring with satisfaction. “Soon as I wake up a bit more,” she said, “we’re going to have a little strategy session.”
Wake up more?
An hour later I parked on the ferry ramp and we climbed the corrugated steel steps to the passenger deck. At just after ten on a Friday morning, the ferry wasn’t crowded, even though we were still in vacation season. Rows of orange vinyl booths sat perpendicular to long windows, overlooking sapphire water, the surface sparkling like mica as small waves danced in the breeze.
I picked a spot where the sun turned the seat’s vinyl a warm tangerine. Krista plunked down next to me and tossed the Cosmo in my lap. “Read,” she said.
My morals were being tested, but the splashy pink dress worn by the cover model was kind of cute. Her smile dared me to—do something, and the headline in the upper left corner tweaked my curiosity. Be a Sex Diva: Naughty Tricks Men Crave. While the combination of daylight and sobriety assured me the odds of practicing any kind of naughty tricks at the choir director’s retreat were low at best, it never hurt to expand the repertoire.
And my repertoire was woefully rusty.
Fifteen minutes later I’d figured out Cosmo was so not the magazine for me. I didn’t want to dress like Angelina Jolie or learn how to apply black Amy Winehouse-style eyeliner copied from a 1950s Barbie Doll. I worked out often enough my stomach was already flat, thanks. If anything, my boyish body needed more curves, but none of the articles went there.
I came to the article promising to turn me into a sex diva. Crazy. Halfway down the page, one of the bold-type headings demanded I Flick His Frenulum. I vowed to flick the next one I saw, once I figured out where it was located. Apparently it would fire up his treasure trail, the line of hair running south from his bellybutton. The article said a real diva should take the initiative and undress her man. And I could imagine doing that exactly never. The next page suggested the standing doggie-style position would bring me to the highest heights.
O-kay.
The whole thing had me all twisted up, excitement and fear and desire making like ribbon candy in my belly. I tried to picture the kind of man I’d want behind me for standing doggie style. My ex came to mind, but right about the time the flood of bad memories started, Krista interrupted me with a sharp poke to the ribs.
“Check him out,” she said, her voice barely audible.
A man leaned against the railing at the front of the boat. He stared out at the water, taking lazy drags off the butt of a cigarette. Since he mostly had his back to us, I felt free to check him out.
Yum. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a light green T-shirt. He turned to the right, giving us a profile shot and showing off a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. His toned forearm had the freckled, light toast color redheads get in the sun. He wasn’t a true carrot-top; more like a sandy red, and his short hair could have used a trim. His beard, too, was a day or so into scruffy.
A black tattoo circled his arm just below the hem of his sleeve, calling attention to the swell of his bicep. I closed the magazine and sat forward, trying to get a better look at the tat, when Krista grabbed my elbow.
“There is no way.” I spoke without turning my head or moving my lips, even though my twisted candy core started to melt. “Because even if he turns out, by some miracle, to be a music teacher, I couldn’t string sentences together in front of someone so incredibly handsome.”
She gave my elbow a shake. “If you get the chance, you are totally going to hit that.”
I shoved the magazine at her, hoping the Ginger God didn’t turn around and notice my blush.
Krista had always been the optimistic one.
Chapter 3
Between the dull rumble of the ferry’s engines and Krista’s strategizing, my hangover head was overwhelmed in something less than twelve minutes. To combat them both, I dug out my mp3 player and let my favorite band, Albannach, cut loose with a sound so hot it all but melted my ear buds. If I turned the music loud enough, I couldn’t hear Krista’s pointed sighs.
Funny how the dull ache in my head could handle Scottish pipes, but not her “how to get a man” pep talk.
Out our window, a gull took a couple of lazy flaps with his wings, then dropped toward the water. He must have missed his intended victim, because his beak was empty when he came up. Good for you, fishie!
When the other passengers packed up, Krista and I followed. We were halfway down the stairs to the car deck when the high-pitched grind from the engines told us the ferry captain had thrown on the brakes, and we scurried the rest of the way.
“Are you ready for this?” Krista asked, buckling herself into my CRV.
I pulled the earbuds out and tossed the player in my bag. Just outside our window, another gull made a dive for the waves and came up with breakfast. He flew past, the fish’s tail flipping in defeat. I knew how it felt. “What are my options, again?”
“You could have a little fun.” She lifted her shades to wink at me. “Or you could punk out.”
Her evil smile let me know which one she’d choose.
The rolling two-lane road took us past miniature farms, their space limited by the size of the island, then dumped us into the forest. The retreat was held at Lorreson Lodge, a
three-story wood building fronted by a circular driveway and flanked by a half-circle of cabins. The front door faced the forest and behind the lodge was ocean beach.
The main entrance rose two full stories, anchored by a huge stone fireplace with a slate hearth. To the right of the fireplace a door led to the dining hall, and to the left was a stairway to the guest rooms on the second and third floors. Krista and I had reserved one of the cabins, figuring we might need an escape hatch. Bundling my things out of my CRV, I was grateful for her foresight.
A card table had been set to the left of the front door as a check-in point for the conference attendees. We got ourselves signed in, dumped our gear in the cabin, and went to the orientation session. The room was about two-thirds full, and I couldn’t help myself; I spent the entire ninety minutes assessing my fellow conference attendees for their romantic possibilities.
Well, the male ones, anyway.
They finally cut us loose, and Krista and I shuffled along the sandy path to our two-room cabin. We had one of the lucky ones facing the beach, which was cool, but still—if we held hands, Krista and I could touch all the walls in the main room at once. It held two bunks, a desk, and a folding chair, and the bathroom was so tiny I wasn’t sure I’d be able to turn around in the shower.
“‘Keeping your program afloat’? What a lame-ass title. Their ‘advocacy skills’ were rehashed common sense and a lot of wishful thinking.” Krista pushed the cabin door open wide, and a blast of late-afternoon sun highlighted the dusty sand our feet kicked up.
I landed hard on my bunk, the coils under the mattress giving a perfunctory whimper of protest. “Because starting off a conference with an hour-and-a-half discussion on how to keep your job is always uplifting.”
“Damn.”
Not exactly the response I was expecting, and Krista’s thumbs began a furious flurry over her phone.
“What?” I asked.
She tossed her phone on the bed. “Effing J-Bone says he can’t come Sunday night.”
“J-Bone?” I reached behind my neck for the ties holding my halter top up. “You’re dating a guy named J-Bone?”
Whirlwind Romance: 10 Short Love Stories Page 22