by JoAnn Ross
Annie told herself that she was not going to think about Midnight Mac’s butt.
Major fail.
“He’s got thick, wavy black hair, blue eyes, and some scars beneath his eyes that for some reason, maybe because we were running on your beach in front of that shipwreck, had me thinking of pirates.”
Just the mention of pirates, which brought back her erotic dream, sent a hot flash blazing through Annie from the roots of her hair down to her toes. Was it possible to go into menopause at thirty-three?
“So he’s as sexy as he sounds on the radio?”
“Even sexier. If you’re into wounded, gruff warrior types, which I’m so not. I’m always surprised when I hear him talking so easily on the radio, because he’s never said more than a half dozen words at a time to me.”
Annie’s foolish fantasy about possibly someday meeting Mac Culhane in person died an instant death. Sedona might be one of the smartest people in town, but that didn’t stop her from also being one of the nicest and looking like, as Annie had heard her described, Malibu Barbie. If the middle-of-the-night radio deejay hadn’t displayed a bit of interest in the sexiest woman in town, Annie wouldn’t stand a chance.
It was just as well. She’d learned the hard way that reality never lived up to the fantasy. And, she reminded herself, she wasn’t in the market for a relationship.
“He does adore his daughter, though,” Sedona allowed as she rang up the sale. “It’s more than apparent that she’s the most important thing in his life. Just as it’s obvious that she thinks he hung the moon, so he can’t be as surly at home as he comes off.” She shrugged, then put a tropical piña colada cupcake topped with coconut in an individual box. “For you,” she said. “To savor while you’re lying in bed, listening to your fantasy man tonight.”
Annie accepted the box, knowing from experience that when Sedona Sullivan decided to give you one of her world’s best cupcakes, she would refuse to take payment for it.
“He’s not my fantasy man.”
“Really?” That blond brow arched again. “If that’s true, you’re probably the only woman in Shelter Bay who hasn’t fantasized about the guy.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t your type.”
“For a relationship,” Sedona clarified. “There’s enough heat simmering below the cool, aloof surface that if he’d even noticed I was alive, which he hasn’t seemed to so far, I wouldn’t mind indulging in a brief, hot fling. I don’t really like a lot of conversation during sex and he would definitely be an improvement over Dracula.”
They shared a laugh over the baker’s most recent date fail. Then Annie picked up both of the cupcake boxes and went on her way.
As she pulled out of her parking space in front of the bakery, preoccupied with planning what supplies she was going to set out for the book club members, she failed to see the black pickup, driven by a dark-haired man with a little girl sitting on a booster seat in the back, pull into the space she’d just vacated.
15
Mac had been on edge all day, waiting for tonight’s show. So much so that he’d snapped at Emma while she’d been dithering for what seemed like an eternity in picking out a cupcake at Take the Cake. Fortunately, as his daughter’s blue eyes had begun to fill, Sedona Sullivan, who looked like she belonged surfing on a California beach instead of serving up cupcakes, came to his rescue with a trio of miniature cakes that solved the chocolate/strawberry/banana dilemma.
Knowing when she had him at a disadvantage, Emma had no problem talking him into stopping at the Crab Shack for the panko fried prawns she’d come to love. After getting a family meal order to go, he’d dished up supper, washed her hair in the tub, tucked her into bed, and briefly told his father about his visit to his grandfather, all the time feeling as if the hands on the kitchen clock had come to a stop.
By the time he went on the air, he felt as if he’d drunk eight triple espressos.
“So, gang,” he started out, “the burning question for tonight is a scary one for a lot of people. . . .”
He played the opening clip from Jaws to underline his point.
“We’re going to talk about love. Is unconditional love a thing of the past? Did it ever exist or is it one of those made-up Hollywood 1950s impossible ideals of couples like Bogie and Bacall, Rock Hudson and Doris Day, or Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy? These days, when divorce seems to be like a flu virus that can hit everyone, even those who think they’re inoculated, does it keep you from getting involved again?
“Pick up the phone and give me a call while we listen to Dierks Bentley’s ‘Thinking of You.’”
Mac wondered if Sandy was listening. Wondered if she would get his message that he’d spent the entire day thinking of her. Something about her had gotten under his skin and into his mind.
He could’ve just googled her by her phone number, which had shown up on the caller ID, or checked to see if her name was listed on the local Chamber of Commerce Web site. Then he would know what business she ran and he could have casually dropped in and checked her out.
But that would be too easy. And, as he knew too well, reality often didn’t live up to the fantasy. Which was why he’d chosen this topic for tonight. He knew that he was using work, his grandfather, and Emma as excuses not to even put himself in a position to get involved with anyone. But he’d spent much of the day wondering if, deep down, he was afraid.
Afraid that if he did meet her and felt even half as strongly about her in person, she might shoot him down. What if he discovered that he’d imagined the connection between them? Or maybe it had been real, but she’d just been using him as a fantasy man. A disembodied male voice coming out of her radio that she could mold into some ideal of masculine perfection.
Which he was anything but.
The light flashed on. Mac tensed, then blew out a breath when he saw the caller was a regular.
“Hey, Cowboy. So, what about it? Do you believe in love?”
“I believe love can be great,” the caller, a bull rider who was stuck home in Shelter Bay this summer with a shattered shoulder and broken leg keeping him off the rodeo circuit, responded. “One weekend at a time.”
“A girl in every rodeo town?” Mac guessed. Since rodeo cowboys had to pay their own expenses on the circuit, being able to sleep at a girlfriend’s house saved on motel bucks.
“It’s the easiest way. Everyone has fun, no one gets hurt or angry.”
The other two lines immediately lit up.
“You ever think of trying for a bit more commitment?” Mac asked. “Like maybe a week or two?”
“Nah. Why would I want to do that? With gals it’s all about looks. Same as with us guys. So, if you click, you get together, have some fun, then move on before things get too intense. No harm, no foul.”
Mac remembered a time when he’d behaved much the same way as he’d moved from town to town. “I wonder if the women think the same way?”
“Who knows what the hell women think?” Cowboy said. “Here’s the way I look at it. They go for the bad-boy types because they’re looking for the wrong guy.”
“Not Mr. Right?”
“What would be the point in that? Gals date guys they want to change into a good person. It’s like Beauty and the Beast or all those other fairy tales they grow up reading. If you’re the kind of guy who goes out of his way to treat a woman right, with flowers, candy, and overpriced dinners at the Sea Mist, they think you’re a wuss and won’t look at you twice.
“But forget to call, or ask them out at the last minute, or show up at their door at midnight for a booty call, and hey, man, they’re all over that.”
Nothing like starting the night off with a bang. Normally Mac liked it when a caller threw out a grenade like Cowboy was doing. But if the phone rang as much as he suspected it would, he probably wouldn’t get any decent Sandy time.
&nbs
p; “Well, now, pardner, that’s a real interesting take on it,” he said. “Thanks for starting things off with a bang. And our next caller is . . .”
He hung up the first line, which immediately lit up again, and picked up the third, leaving the second hanging for a time, since the caller ID showed it to be another guy and he wanted to hear a woman’s response to Cowboy’s take on romance.
“Hey, Sophie. Thanks for calling in. Where are you calling from?”
“Depoe Bay and that Cowboy’s a douche.”
“Why don’t you tell us what you really think?”
“Women aren’t stupid. We can tell real life from fairy tales. And let me tell you, I can’t imagine a woman spending five minutes with such a brain-dead misogynist.”
“So, are you in a relationship?”
“Not at the moment. Because I made the mistake of marrying Cowboy’s evil twin. I was young and stupid and, and yeah, maybe I thought he’d change.”
“Making Cowboy’s point,” Mac felt obliged to note.
“No. I figured that once he was married, he’d feel the same way I did. That ‘until death do you part’ also included monogamy.”
Mac was guilty of many marriage sins. Fortunately not that one. “That’s tough.”
“It was at the time,” she admitted. “But, hey, his loss, right? And I ought to be thankful because I’m now working on self-love.”
“That sounds like you’re in a good place.”
“It is. But it’s more like a journey of self-discovery, and I’m enjoying every step of the way.”
“Good for you. Good luck with that, and thanks for calling in, Sophie.”
As soon as he answered line three, two lit up again. Yep. It was going to be a busy night for a Sunday, which was usually slow.
“We’ve got Dale on the line. So, Dale, do you agree with Cowboy? Or Sophie?”
“I think it’s all about timing,” the caller said. “If you’re out there scamming on women for the short term, yeah, you hit on enough of them and you’ll get lucky. But eventually random sex with women whose names you can’t even remember in the morning gets old, you know?
“Like going out drinking tequila shots with your buddies every night. Now that I’m in my thirties, I’m ready to settle down, but I figure if I just be who I am, and not try to be what I think women want, and generate positive energy, eventually love will find me.”
“And you’ll settle down and have two-point-five kids?”
“Something wrong with that?”
“No. It’s still probably the ideal. At least for a lot of people.” It had been for him. Until his marriage had died. Which, he acknowledged, was more his fault than Kayla’s.
“So, thanks for calling and, hey, if you meet that perfect woman for you, be sure to call back and let us know, okay?”
“Sure.”
Another woman was on line two.
“Can you give Dale my phone number? Because people are drawn to positive energy and I just know I’m the perfect woman for him.”
“Sorry, I’m not into the matchmaking business, but—”
“That’s okay,” she broke in. “Dale, I’ll be at the Stewed Clam tomorrow night at eight. If you want a woman who appreciates a man who’s into commitment, come on by.”
She hung up before Mac could decide whether to cut her off. Since she was recorded, he could leave out that last part, the way he’d kept his conversation with Sandy private. Then again, he thought with a shrug, unless Dale turned out to be a serial killer, what could it hurt?
“Just a reminder that we’re not the Love Connection here,” he said. “After a word from Tony Genarro from Genarro’s funeral home, who, around here is referred to as ‘the guy with the plot, the guy with the plan,’ we’ll be hearing Brad Paisley’s ‘Waitin’ on a Woman.’ Meanwhile, you all keep those calls coming in.”
The commercial took thirty seconds. Mac decided he’d run three minutes of calls. Then Paisley’s song went four minutes and forty-five seconds. Which gave Sandy eight minutes and fifteen seconds to call in.
As Genarro rattled off a list of reasons for pre-planning funerals, Mac sat back in his chair and, just like Paisley in the song, found himself waitin’ on a woman.
16
Annie jumped when the phone rang. She’d realized after she’d first called the station that Mac would have her caller ID and could either call her or, if he went to a bit of trouble, in this day and age with everything on the Internet, even track her down.
But, no, it wasn’t him.
“So, why haven’t you called him?” Sedona asked when Annie pressed Talk.
“Who?”
“Oh, don’t give me that innocent act. Midnight Mac.”
“What makes you think I haven’t? I told you, he records the conversations off the air while the music is on, then plays them after the song’s over.”
“If you had called him, why would he be sending you those messages? He opened up with ‘Thinking of You.’ Then now he’s playing ‘Waiting on a Woman.’ Who else could that be?”
“You never know. He probably has a lot of women calling him all the time.” Women far more interesting than her. Hot, sexy women like Sedona.
“Right after you hung up last night, he played ‘The One That Got Away.’ It’s you, Annie.”
“Maybe.”
A secret part of Annie, the part whose fingers had been itching to pick up the phone, hoped Sedona was right. But why did he have to choose that topic, of all things? Couldn’t he have talked about sports? Or the best country video ever? Or the weather, which had been unseasonably balmy for an Oregon June?
He’d been right on the money when he’d said love was scary. Scary to talk about, even scarier to fall into. And too painful when it ended.
“Call him.” Sedona pressed her case. “It’s obvious he’s made time just for you. Put your big-girl panties on and call the guy. You know you want to.”
With that she hung up, leaving Annie listening to dead air.
Annie waited another few seconds. Then, unable to resist the phone’s siren call, she punched in the number she’d already memorized.
“It’s about time,” the roughened voice said after the first ring. “Do you know how crazy I’ve been going waiting for you to call?”
“This is crazy,” she said. “You don’t even know me.”
“I told you. We can remedy that. I’ve got tomorrow night off. Let’s spend it together.”
All night? “You have a daughter.”
“I also have a live-in babysitter. Who’s my dad. And, just to make sure we’re on the same page, I’m not talking about spending the entire night together. Just dinner. Maybe a twilight walk on the beach. We’ll talk, trade life stories. See if this connection between us, whatever it is, exists in real life.”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“You know how we were talking about regrets? Of things we wish we hadn’t done?”
“Of course I do. It was only last night.” And this relationship, whatever it was, was happening way too fast for Annie’s comfort level.
“Well, do you really want to go through life regretting what we didn’t do?”
“I’m not sure I want to go through life with a man who’d stoop to such a cliché to get me to go out with him.”
“Touché. I’m not asking for a lifetime. Or even more than one dinner. Just a couple of hours uninterrupted by commercials, callers, and music . . .
“How about this? . . . If I promise not to propose, will you have dinner at the Sea Mist with me?”
Yes.
No.
Yes.
No.
The warring responses bounced back and forth in Annie’s head.
“We’re running out of time,” he said.
“I’m sorry. But no.”
>
Then, before she could change her mind and give in to temptation, Annie quickly hung up.
Then called Sedona, who she knew would be waiting.
“Okay. I called him.”
“And?”
“He asked me out to dinner. At the Sea Mist.”
“So he’s willing to spring for the big-ticket meal,” Sedona said. “Well done, you.”
“I turned him down.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because there’s no point.”
“It’s just dinner,” Sedona said, with an uncharacteristic huff of exasperation. Maybe they didn’t have a lot of free love in that commune where she’d grown up, but Sedona Sullivan was normally the most easygoing person Annie had ever met. “Not a damn marriage proposal.”
“Funny, he said the same thing. But I’m not interested in just hooking up with some stranger. And it can’t go anywhere further than that, so what’s the point?”
“Why can’t it go anywhere?”
“It just can’t.”
Annie might not have a crystal ball, but she could see the future. A future where Mac Culhane would start thinking about giving Emma a little sister or brother. Better to guard all their hearts, she assured herself.
“You’re not still legally married, are you?”
“Of course not.” She might not have been totally forthcoming about the breakup of her marriage, but she hadn’t lied.
“Then what’s wrong with sharing some intelligent, interesting conversation over a great meal?”
“I already have that with you. And Maddy, and Kara, and the others.”
There was a long silence as Sedona thought that over. “Damn. This conversation is making me wonder if just maybe my mother was partly right.”
“About what?”
“That if I’m not careful, I’m going to end up eighty years old, living all alone with a houseful of cats. What she had no way of knowing when she warned me about that was the equally depressing fact that if you keep refusing to date, we could end up as old lady roommates with doilies all over our furniture and fur balls everywhere.”