Passion in Portland 2016 Anthology

by Anthology

  When she pulls up to the hotel, I jump out in a focused haze and mumble, “Thanks for the ride.” On my way to the door, I bring up my Facebook app and scroll through my friends list to jog my memory. I often accept requests from other vegans in the Facebook groups I’m in, but nothing strikes any chords. No one has that black hair, that white smile, those blue eyes.

  After a short elevator ride, I arrive at my room. With a swipe of my keycard, I enter my small space and throw my purse on the bed. And let out a frustrated growl sound.

  I left my damn donuts and desserts in his car!

  But more importantly—how did he know my name?

  Wait a minute. The vegan Facebook groups! Maybe he’s a member in one of those.

  I run through the members of the first group, but no cigar. So I click the link for a second group and then freeze, my phone in my hand. My “eat my way through Portland” list.

  It came from a comment on a post in that group.

  From someone named Colin.

  With black hair, white teeth, and blue eyes.

  Aha!

  Mystery solved. Except…he knew me the whole time. And he didn’t say anything. Didn’t let on that he was the one who’d provided my list of restaurants. Didn’t tell me that we’d actually spoken before. Internet comments or not.

  I growl again and throw my phone next to my purse. Ugh.

  So, now what? He said that he had one more place to take me, and my curiosity is winning out big time. But what if he really is a stalker? What if he found out what hotel I was staying at and drove over here to wait for me to request a ride?

  Okay, that sounds ridiculous now that I’ve actually thought it. And he did seem genuinely surprised when he found out where I was headed this morning. Nothing about it felt preplanned.

  So—again—now what?

  I could message him on Facebook, but we’re not friends on there, so god only knows if he’d actually receive it. I could comment on the post where I asked for the restaurant recommendations, but what would I say?

  Hey. Sorry I flipped out, but I figured out who you are now, so let’s do dinner?

  Yeah, I don’t think so.

  What else can I—

  Then it hits me. So I snatch my phone back up and rush to the elevator. As I frantically smash the down button, I call up an app on my phone and work some magic. And I pray that it works.

  By the time I’m in the lobby, I’m ready to hit the final button on my phone, but when I step outside, I realize I don’t have to. A ride request is pointless when your ride is already at the curb, waiting for you.

  Colin is standing next to his Prius, his phone in his right hand, my bag of donuts in the other. Yes!

  I approach him unseen, my skirt swirling in the slight breeze. A chunk of hair not in my braid blows into my eyes, so I brush it away. But the wind picks up and it lands right back on my face.

  When I’m five feet away, he looks up from his phone and notices me. His eyes light up and his shoulders sag a little, like a weight has been lifted. I would have given anything for Darren to look at me that way, but that was before. Before he left, before I ran away, and before I met Colin.

  This is now, and Colin appears happy to see me. Even after I acted like a crazy person earlier.

  “I was going to message you on Facebook,” he says, holding his phone out, “but I didn’t think you’d see it.”

  “That’s what I was going to do!” I stop a foot away from him and snatch my donuts up.

  He smiles, but it falls before he says, “And I thought about commenting on your original post, but I didn’t know what to say.” He drops his arm to his side.

  I put my free hand on my hip. “I thought the same thing!”

  “So I ended up here, hoping you’d request another ride when you got hungry.”

  That makes me laugh. “That could have been a while.”

  My laugh is contagious, and he chuckles too. Then he reaches for the hair in my face and tucks it behind my ear.

  “Does this mean you’re up for dinner? I still have one more place I want to take you, and it’s not on your list.”

  I give him a hard stare, attempting to decide if he means it. That he actually wants to take me somewhere and I’m not too much for him to handle, like everyone else says I am. I want to believe that his eyes scream sincerity, but that could be wishful thinking.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “Does that mean my personality isn’t”—I use air quotes, even with the bag in my hand, and a dumbed-down voice on the next two words—“‘too strong’ for you?”

  He takes the bag, places it on his car, and holds my hands. “Who told you your personality is too strong?”

  “Oh, just the last few boyfriends I’ve had.” I look down at the ground. “People want to date me, but only for a while. Then I’m apparently too much to handle.” Unlinking our hands, I use air quotes again. “I come on ‘too strong’ and love ‘too hard’ and ‘too fast.’ I’m a ‘special brand of crazy.’”

  He pulls me closer to him, so I’m pressed right up against him. His arms wrap around my waist, and he says next to my ear, “I think you’re just my kind of crazy.”

  I lean away so I can look him in the eye. “You mean that? Because I kinda like you, whatever your name is.”

  “I kinda like you too, Alexa,” he says, putting his hands on my shoulders. His thumbs rub small circles on my skin.

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  He recoils a bit, having the grace to look like he knows he did wrong. “Yeah, sorry about that. I could have told you that I knew who you were.”

  “Yeah, you could have,” I say. “But”—I drag the word out and crack a smile—“then I wouldn’t have been right about the whole stalker thing. And what would the fun in that be?”

  His grin warms my heart as he tightens his arms around my waist. “True. It was kind of fun being super vague all day.”

  “Well, how about you don’t be vague about where you’re taking me out to dinner.”

  “Or,” he says, resting his forehead on mine, “you could just get in my car and be surprised.”

  I scoff at him. “Yeah, right. You’re a stranger,” I tell him, swatting at his chest. “I don’t just get in strangers’ cars. Or spend my entire vacation with them…” I wink at him.

  “Just how long is this vacation, then?” he asks, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I tease. Then I shrug. “Maybe forever?”

  There. I put it out there. Strong personality and special brand of crazy be damned. I’m done holding back, and I may get rejected, but it’s better to be unapologetically me and try than hide my true feelings and never know. The right person will appreciate me for who I am, not for who they want me to be.

  When his eyes widen and his smile grows, I have my answer.

  When his lips touch mine and he cups the side of my face as we kiss, I have an even better answer.

  My own lips curve into a giant smile, and I lean back to look at him. “Really? That doesn’t freak you out or push you away?”

  “Heck no,” he says, shaking his head. “What did I say earlier? I admire your strength to be yourself, put your heart on the line.”

  “Isn’t that my special brand of crazy?” I ask shyly.

  His smile falls a bit, but he reassures me with, “I don’t think it’s a crazy kind of crazy at all.” He touches his nose to mine and then winks. “Or it’s just our kind of crazy.”

  Before my heart and my stomach flutter out of control and I get completely ahead of myself—like I tend to do—I have to ask: “What about Stella?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “Don’t tell my sister, but Stella actually broke up with me two weeks ago,” he says, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “Did me a favor, if you ask me. Emmie wasn’t wrong about her. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to admit it.”

  I tilt my head. “Wasn’t your kind of crazy, huh?”

  “Nope. She was the crazy k
ind of crazy.” He crosses his eyes and smiles.

  Which makes me laugh. He may not have liked her kind of crazy, but if the strength of his arm around me is any indication, he likes mine.

  Then I remember one more thing. “And Nicolas?”

  “Yeah?” he asks, his eyebrows rising as he waits for a question.

  “No, I mean, that’s your name? Because”—I grin and poke him in the middle of his chest—“if I’m getting in that car with a stranger-slash-stalker, I should at least know his real name.”

  “Oh yeah,” he says around a laugh. “That. Yeah. Like I told you, my name is Nicolas, but I’ve gone by Colin since I was a kid.” He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s Italian. Get used to it.”

  “Ahh, okay.” I nod and roll my eyes. “Makes perfect sense.” But whatever. I’m ready to get this show on the road. “So, Colin,” I say, slapping my hands on his chest. “I’m not even close to being hungry, but how could there be a place not on my list that’s worth going to? Were you holding out on me?”

  “Absolutely not,” he answers. “But I thought it might be too forward of me to suggest my own home as a vegan place to eat in Portland. Now?” He taps his chin like he’s actually thinking about it. “Now, I think it’s the perfect place to go.”

  I giggle. “Too forward, huh?”

  “Imagine that.” He pulls away from me and opens the passenger’s side door. “What do ya say? I’ll cook and you can tell me all about why you almost threw this”—he waves a hand between us—“all away earlier.”

  “I’m not sure you want to hear about that,” I tell him cautiously as I get in the car.

  “Oh, please.” With his hand on the top of the door, he leans in and says, “I want you to tell me everything. And I’ll tell you exactly how wrong they were.”

  This time, I close the space between us and kiss him. It’s sweet. It’s forward. And it’s a little crazy. But it’s ours, and it’s something I’m free to do as I damn well please.

  When we break the kiss, he winks at me, closes the door, and walks around the front of his car.

  Toward the driver’s seat. Toward me. Toward my kind of crazy.

  Our kind of crazy.

  The End

  About the Author

  Eliza Boyd is a contemporary women's fiction and romance author. Also an avid reader, she writes novels, short stories, poetry, and whatever else strikes her fancy. Born and raised in Northern Illinois, she now lives in sunny Arizona with her husband and her plethora of animals. When she's not reading, writing, or working, she can be found walking around her neighborhood (for exercise, not for stalking), taking photos of her pets, or catching up on her favorite shows. Catching up really means binge-watching. Feel free to contact her on any of her social media sites. She spends too much time on the Internet, so she'll probably get back to you right away.

  FB: www.facebook.com/authorelizaboyd

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/elizaboydwrites

  Amazon: www.amazon.com/author/elizaboydwrites

  Pinterest: www.pinterest.com/elizaboydwrites

  Instagram: http://www.instagram.com/elizaboydwrites

  Website: www.elizaboydwrites.com

  Poker in Portland – Gretchen S.B.

  Nick is a baker with a strange tradition, every year he heads down to Portland for a scholarship raising poker tournament. While it has been a treasured event for more than a decade having his fiancée cheat on him last year at the event spoiled it for him. Now that the tournament has come back around again Nick needs a date that can convince everyone, including his cheating ex, that he is over her. Emma, the bakery's bookkeeper is perfect. She jokes with Nick and his partner and was there for his recovery from his break up last year. Luckily, Emma quickly agrees to help Nick out but little does he know Emma has a secret, she is hoping this weekend in Portland will be her chance to finally tell Nick how she feels about him.

  Chapter 1

  The dread dropped into Nick's stomach with an almost audible splash when he saw the royal purple envelope amongst his stacks of mail. Since Nick Walters lived above his bakery, he was in the habit of giving the bakery address for all sorts of things, including personal items like the purple envelope that sat on his display counter staring at him. Running a hand through his thick, wavy, black hair, Nick let out a loud sigh. The last thing he wanted was to see that envelope, even though he knew intellectually it's coming was inevitable, after all it came every year. Not wanting to throw off his entire day by thinking about it, he decided to get it over with and open it now, then stash it away in his desk to contemplate later. Shoving all the bills and junk mail aside, he picked up that purple envelope with a shaking hand. He knew it shouldn't be affecting him this much; after all, he had been going to this event since he was eighteen, and the previous fifteen years he always enjoyed it. Once the envelope was open, the same scrawled handwriting that appeared every year on the invitation stared up at him from the page as if taunting him about last year's fiasco.

  Nick had attended Portland State University and loved everything about his experience there, even though when it came time to open a shop and settle down, he returned to Seattle, he still had a soft spot for Portland. What made going to PSU so great had been his scholarship. He happened upon a scholarship program they gave out to four students a year. They managed this because of a yearly event at the end of March that raised a ridiculous amount of funds by way of a poker tournament. Alumni, past recipients, and even people who just loved playing poker would enter this annual tournament.

  Enough people participated each year with the three-hundred-and-fifty-dollar entry fee to pay all of the tuition for the recipients each year. The event was so huge, they rented out part of the convention center for it, and received a slight discount since it was technically a nonprofit event. To this day, Nick wasn't sure how they swung that and exactly how much they paid.

  This tournament had been going on since the 1990s. Before that, it was simply a dinner where people paid per plate. Then the committee in charge had apparently taken an interest in the movie Maverick and decided their yearly dinner, which had been going since the 1930s, would now become something akin to a steamboat poker tournament. The whole thing would happen over a long weekend, and those participating in the event were expected to dress at least somewhat time period appropriate.

  Nick always loved going. He had loved to play poker since his grandfather taught him when he was still in elementary school, so this opportunity to not only give back to something that helped him so greatly but to play a game he enjoyed had been something he looked forward to, until this year.

  At this time last year, he had been engaged to Stephanie Gold, a real estate agent who helped him find his bakery three years before. She had never been able to make it to the tournament with him because of conflicts until last year. When he realized she would actually be going, Nick was over the moon. Life could not have been better. He was originally going to propose to her at the event, but he had been so excited about her finally getting to see this thing he loved so much, he ended up proposing a month before.

  They hadn’t set a date or even done much planning; they were still basking in the excitement of it all. Then they went down to Portland and everything seemed to be going fine until Saturday night when he went to the restroom only to see his college best friend Luke, who'd been eliminated from the round before, and his new fiancée walking hand in hand out the convention center doors. Nick tried to concentrate on the next rounds of play, but he couldn't manage to do it. He didn't want to be suspicious of his fiancée and his best friend.

  Nick thought of himself as a fair and trusting individual, but something about the scene set off warning bells. So when he lost that round, he went back to the hotel but not straight to the room he and Stephanie shared. Instead, he went to the bar looking for the two of them, knowing Luke, was staying in the same hotel. When he couldn't find them, he begrudgingly went back to their room. He couldn't sleep and found himself tossing and t
urning. Then at eleven, he heard Stephanie slip her card key into the door and come in. With the light shining from behind her, he could see she wasn't wearing her shoes and her hair and makeup were disheveled. His heart squeezed in his chest as his suspicions were all but confirmed. She shut the door and turned on the light then proceeded to blink at him in surprise for what seemed like eons.

  She tried to cover with a stammered, "I thought tonight's round didn't end until midnight. You were doing so well, I thought for sure you'd make it until the finals tomorrow."

  Part of Nick wanted to latch onto what she was saying and pretend nothing could've happened, to pretend everything was benign, but he couldn't do it. Part of him had always been self-conscious being with Stephanie. With her honey blonde hair and big, brown eyes, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She had a beautiful figure, and honestly, he felt she was far too attractive for him. He was six foot two and seventy-five pounds overweight. He didn't have trouble getting around or anything like that, but he was most certainly obese. A small piece of him wasn't surprised she would want to look elsewhere. Luke, after all, did things like bicycle to work and run half marathons. That Luke used to be his best friend and she was his fiancée, the betrayal far outweighed his understanding.

  "Let's not beat around the bush, okay? Did you sleep with Luke? I watched the two of you leave together, and when I came back here, you weren't at the bar in the lobby," he said in a voice just above a whisper.

  Her expression said it all. Her eyes began to tear up, and she bit her lower lip, a nervous gesture hers. "I think I'm not ready to get married. I don't know… I just, the idea of getting married was… it's just been weighing me down, and I had a couple of drinks while watching you. You were in your element. You were so excited and it was so cute, but I just… I don't know. Luke was there, and he was joking with me and we have so much in common—weirdly, more in common than you and I have—and we just clicked. I don't know what I was thinking. I… I'm going to get another room," she finally said after a pause. Then she grabbed the jeans, tank top, and wrap she had worn before she changed into the cocktail dress she was currently wearing. Grabbing her suitcase off the floor, she did not even give him one last look, she left.