by Melissa West
Next time.
There would for sure be a next time and a next, every single one of them a reminder of what dates used to be like. The slow smile and gentle kiss on the cheek before he crushed her with a single whispered insult. And then she’d be forced to hold it all in while inside she felt like that little girl on the swing set, never good enough for a friend.
Well, at least with ready access to her car, if Zac pissed her off, she could toss her drink at him, say screw it, and leave. Because while she might not be one hundred percent yet, she wasn’t the weak person she’d once been, the person who allowed another to treat her like a possession. She would never be that person again.
But then, a part of her suspected that she would have nothing to worry about with Zac. He’d probably never insulted anyone in his life. He had a good-boy vibe to him, something that said beneath all those smirks and tattoos lay a man who would stand tall for those he loved, who wasn’t afraid of hard work, and who would hold a woman long after she’d drifted off, his eyes still on her just to watch her sleep.
“Stop thinking about Zac Littleton.”
“What?”
Sophie’s eyes went wide as she stared around her car. “Who’s there?”
A laugh broke the silence. “Your car called me again, silly. I’m on Bluetooth or whatever.”
Sophie released a breath as she found her cell, and sure enough, she’d accidentally dialed Glenda; now she was on the intercom in the car. “Crap. Sorry.”
“Just be glad it wasn’t Zac Littleton you called when you confessed that you couldn’t stop thinking about him.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Um, sorry. Yes, in fact, it is what you said. And besides, what’s so wrong with Zac anyway? He’s hot, and he’s nice.”
“He’s not nice.”
“All right, so not nice, but something.”
Sophie chewed her thumbnail. “Yeah, I know. I hate that something. I mean, I don’t even know what it is or how to describe it, which makes me hate it all the more.”
Glenda laughed again. “How about you forget the something for now and just have a good time tonight? See how it goes from there.”
“I don’t like Zac Littleton.”
“Sure you don’t. Have fun!” Then Glenda ended the call before Sophie could try harder to convince her friend—and herself—that she had no thoughts about Zac, certainly not likeable thoughts.
But as she drove down his long driveway, cradled by pinewoods on both sides, his cabin in the far back, the tin roof with cedar wood siding stained to perfection, she knew she was lying to herself. Because she had a lot of thoughts about Zac. Too many, in fact. And not enough of them were negative thoughts, but that ended right now.
Sophie opened her car door and threw on that sass she carried around like an iron shield, then strutted to his door—all Lorde singing “Royals”—and knocked twice, prepared to tell him to hurry up, she ain’t got time to wait on a man. Then the record skipped, and instead of Zac answering the door, his daughter greeted her.
“Ms. Marsh!”
“Um, Carrie-Anne . . . hi.”
The little girl, who was every bit of twelve and probably didn’t view herself as little, took Sophie’s hand and tugged her inside.
“I was just asking Daddy which nail polish he liked better—black, green, or purple—and he said pink.” She rolled her eyes, as if Sophie would totally understand the absurdity of choosing pink as a nail color.
“What?” a deep voice called. “You’re a girl. Girls like pink.”
Sophie’s eyes lifted to find Zac standing in the hallway dressed in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and dark jeans, his hair a spiked mess like always. The look collided with his tattoos in the sexiest of ways, and Sophie prayed that her face wasn’t revealing just what she thought of Zac Littleton in a dress shirt.
“Ms. Marsh, tell him he’s ridiculous. Tell him he has no idea what’s in style.”
Biting her lip, Sophie peered back at Zac. “You’re ridiculous. And you have no style.”
“Is that right?” Zac edged closer, his mild cologne clouding her senses until she was uncertain whether she could speak without drooling all over him.
Dear God, attraction shouldn’t be this hard to ignore. Or at the very least, they should offer medication to counter it. She swallowed and ordered her ovaries to behave. “Apparently so. Miss Carrie-Anne here says so.”
“Hey,” the little girl said with a grin. “No one calls me miss.”
“Well, if you call me miss, then I have to do the same.”
Carrie-Anne’s grin widened, and Sophie reached down, grabbed the purple polish, and passed it over. “This is perfect. It’ll bring out your skin tone.”
She stared at the polish and then back up at Sophie. “Do I want my skin tone to be brought out?”
“Totally.”
When Sophie glanced over at Zac, she found his eyes on her and a peculiar expression on his face that said he hadn’t figured her out.
But before Sophie could clue him in to the hard fact that there would be no figuring her out, because she had no intentions of allowing it, a knock sounded from the front door, followed by the doorbell, then another knock.
“Coming!” Carrie-Anne squealed before darting to the door.
“Thanks for that,” Zac said.
Sophie cleared her throat and peered up at him again, steeling herself for the warmth she knew she’d find on his face. “Anytime.”
“Do you mean that?”
She cocked her head in question, but before she could ask what he meant, Brady and Charlie appeared, Carrie-Anne on their heels.
“So we’re painting purple today.”
Sophie’s eyebrows lifted. “We?”
Brady grimaced down at the polish in his hand. “She makes us let her paint our nails. She calls it practice.”
Carrie-Anne winked from behind them, and Sophie grinned. “Of course. A girl’s got to practice.”
“Will you practice with me sometime, Ms. Marsh?”
“Um . . .” Sophie checked Zac for his reaction, but he wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at Carrie-Anne. Sophie could tell by his expression that he was worried about this already—how it would affect his daughter and how she would cope once it fell apart.
“Sure thing. Just name the date.”
“Yay! How about tomorrow?”
“Oh, I . . .”
“Yeah, see how you like it,” Brady said as he patted Zac’s shoulder and went into the kitchen. “Got any leftovers?”
“Chicken-and-rice casserole.”
Brady peeked back into the family room and pointed at his niece. “You?”
She grinned. “Me. But Daddy won’t let me put it in the oven by myself.”
“What?” Brady said, affronted. “You’re fourteen years old.”
“Twelve.”
He waved her off. “Same thing. And you won’t let her use the oven without parental supervision.”
Zac smirked at his brother. “Don’t feel bad. I won’t let you use my oven without parental supervision either.”
“Funny.”
“I thought so,” Sophie said grinning, and Zac’s eyes locked on hers. She had no idea why she took Zac’s side, but she liked the idea of having his back, and maybe him having hers in return.
“We should go,” Zac said as he cleared his throat, suddenly refusing to look at Sophie. Or his brothers, she realized.
“Right.”
“Thanks for watching Carrie for me,” he said to Charlie.
“Hey! What about me?”
“And for watching Brady. I know he can be a handful.”
“Ha. Ha.”
Zac gave Carrie-Anne a big hug that seemed to embarrass her more than anything. Then he opened the door for Sophie, who, without looking at him, said, “You know guys only open the door for women so they can check out their asses, right?”
“Yep.”
&nbs
p; “So you’re admitting that’s what you just did?”
He winked at her as they reached Sophie’s car. “That’s not what I said. I said I knew that’s what guys did. I didn’t say that’s what I did.”
“But did you?” She stared him down, daring him to argue, but he only grinned back at her, the sexy smirk in full work mode.
“Sorry, that’ll have to go to the grave.”
Then he stood beside her at the driver’s door. Both looked at the other confused.
“What are you doing?” they simultaneously asked.
“Driving,” Zac said.
“Nuh-uh. This is my car. I drive.”
“I don’t think so. We can take your car, but I’m the driver.”
“Why?”
Zac’s head twitched. “Because I’m the guy.”
She pointed at him. “See that. That right there? There’ll be none of that in this.”
“There will be plenty of that in this, or we can call the deal off right now. I don’t ride. I drive.”
“So do I.”
Zac took a step closer. “And a part of me appreciates that about you, but there can be only one driver in this thing, and that driver is me. So either walk your cute ass around to the passenger side, or I’m going back inside and you can sweeten the town on your own.”
“This is silly.”
“Yet you’re still standing here. Forget that I somehow have to figure out how to squeeze into this Barbie-mobile.” He shook his head. “Surely there are height restrictions for this thing.”
“Are you trying to piss me off?”
“Right now? Not really, but give me time.”
“I’m driving.”
“Okay, so drive.” He started to walk away, and Sophie stomped her foot in aggravation.
“Ugh!” Clenching her fists, she smoothed her dress to calm her temper before she went off on Zac in his front yard, Carrie-Anne mere yards away in the house, probably watching them. And she seemed like such a sweet girl, despite having a pigheaded ass as a father.
“Stop.”
“What did you say?” Slowly, he spun around and crossed his arms.
“I said stop.”
“And . . .”
“And you can drive your truck and I’ll drive my car. Then you don’t have to worry about the whole squeezing-into-my-car business.”
Zac considered this, his eyes checking his truck, then her tiny Mini Cooper.
“Deal.”
She released a breath.
“Didn’t realize you were so nervous.”
“I didn’t realize you’d bail on me over something as stupid as driving.”
“A man’s got standards, and I refuse to lower mine. I drive. End of story.”
“Your stubbornness knows no bounds.”
“Ditto, Ms. Marsh. Ditto.”
* * *
Zac found himself glancing in the rearview mirror over and over. He’d glance at it, catch sight of the Mini Cooper, and then look back at the road, only to start the process all over again. Which was plain stupid. What was she going to do? Bail on the date before they even arrived?
Maybe.
The disappointment he felt at the thought bothered him, and he tried to make sense of why he cared at all. But the truth was, he wanted to spend time with Sophie, wanted to slowly peel back those layers of hers to discover what lay beneath them.
Which was why going to Captain Jack’s might have been a mistake. Especially when he pulled onto the gravel road that led to the restaurant that overlooked Cherokee Lake and realized every other person in town had also chosen it for their Friday night.
He wanted the town to see them out together, but he’d hoped to tread slowly and more cautiously into the roaring wave of gossip that was Crestler’s Key.
After parking, Zac walked over to Sophie’s car and opened the driver’s door. “Hope you like fish.” He tried to keep his tone light, teasing, but in truth, he was every bit as nervous as he would be if this were a real first date.
“Love it.”
“Good.”
“Are you ready for this?” he asked as he closed her car door and waited for her to hit the automatic lock, which made him smile a little, because there wasn’t a person in Crestler’s Key who’d care to steal her car. They’d far more likely try to steal his truck, but that hadn’t stopped him from leaving it unlocked.
“Honestly? No,” she said with a laugh. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, and the last thing I need is to make an idiot of myself. Then they’ll hate me even more.”
“I’ve told you, they don’t hate you.”
Sophie glanced up, her look tentative in the moonlight, something like doubt hidden behind that sass of hers, before she laughed. “Yeah, well, they might if I break your heart, so you’d better keep it safe in your chest. Some tell me I’m easy to fall for.” She winked, but Zac couldn’t bring himself to say anything insulting in reply when the only thought going through his mind was hell yes you are.
Instead he stared back at her and said, “I believe it,” before opening the door to the waterfront restaurant, a heavy stream of noise and chatter filling their ears. The smell of grilled steak, a Captain Jack’s specialty, hit them, and Zac decided to go all out tonight with steak and lobster and offered for Sophie to do the same. Who knew if he’d piss her off and this would be their one and only date.
The restaurant was a mix of rustic woods and calming greens and blues, like something you’d find at the ocean instead of in the middle of Kentucky. But Zac liked it. It reminded him of a few of his coastal favorites, and Brantley, the owner, had fresh fish brought in every weekend, so Zac could get himself a good crab cake and catch of the day, filling his inner need to be on the water, instead of managing a farm. As usual on Friday night, a live band was setting up at the back corner.
“Heya, Zac, what are you doing here on a Friday night?” Brantley called from the bar.
Zac held his breath as every head in the place turned toward the hostess podium, their eyes on Zac, a smile there, until those same eyes drifted to Zac’s left, to Sophie. Then their faces, one by one, crinkled up in confusion.
As Brantley realized what he’d done, he pushed out from behind the bar and started over, his white hair gelled into place like always, his cheeks forever red, and his belly jiggling despite his occasional workouts at the Y. Some people were built a certain way no matter what they did, like God had his creation set and refused to waver.
“Uh, Zac, Sophie Marsh is beside you.” Brantley scratched his head and smiled a bit at Sophie, though he didn’t actually say hello or acknowledge her beyond the pained smile.
“Yeah, thanks for letting me know, Brant. But seeing as she came with me, I kind of knew that already.”
Brantley’s eyes turned to saucers, and he rocked back on his heels. “Oh. Oh, right.” He glanced between Zac and Sophie again, like he was trying to make sense of something overly complex. For the first time, Zac understood what it must feel like to be Sophie in Crestler’s Key.
“Care to grab us a table?”
“Table? Oh, right.”
And then Sophie spoke up.
“Or we could just seat ourselves.” She started toward an open table, but Zac grabbed her hand to pull her back, securing her to his chest and trying to laugh it off. But there was no hiding what she’d done.
Brantley’s brow furrowed as he scowled at her. “I don’t know what it’s like in Merryville, but here, we care about service. We don’t just wave our hands and tell people to find their place. We take them to their tables with a smile and a handshake and bring garlic biscuits. I bet none of the places in Merryville bring garlic biscuits either, do they? Well, you’re getting some. Like it or not.”
“Brant, she didn’t mean—”
“I know what she meant.”
Ah, damn.
Brantley set down the laminated menus with more fervor than a simple request to seat themselves should warrant, but there it was
.
“Drinks?”
“Um . . . can I have a second?” Sophie asked, her voice small now.
“Typical out-of-towner,” Brantley muttered. “Fine. I’ll send Trixie over to help y’all.”
Zac nodded with a tight smile. “Thanks, old man.” Brantley sped off, clear aggravation on his face.
“That went well.”
“See, I told you. I didn’t do anything but offer to seat us so he didn’t have to and then ask for a second to figure out what I wanted to drink.”
“I know.”
“So why did he freak out? Am I wearing an offensive color or something?”
Zac tried to think of a good way to explain it. Surely, Merryville residents had their quirks, like the people of Crestler’s Key. It couldn’t just be them.
“Back in Merryville, did people bring by soup when you were sick?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Um, no. Why would they?”
He tried again. “Okay, how about the hardware store. Did yours let you keep a tab until you were done with your project?”
“Our hardware store was called Lowe’s.”
That threw him. Zac knew Merryville was bigger than their small town, but he didn’t realize they were that kind of town. The kind that posed as a small town but allowed all the luxuries of a city—the Wal-marts and Starbucks and Lowe’s.
“Right. Well, I guess that’d be the problem.”
“That we had a Lowe’s?”
“No, the reason you’re not fitting in. You’re a little too city.”
She jerked back and pointed a finger at herself. “Me? Do you hear my accent?”
A grin took over Zac’s face. “Oh, I hear it. But I don’t think you’re hearing me. We are a small town as set in its ways as an elderly couple who’s been married too long to remember how to function without each other. Everybody has a tic, making the whole town sort of like a clock that runs just fine.”
“So you’re saying I’m messing with how well the clock turns?”
“Exactly. Glad you see the problem.”
“I see it about as well as I can see through motor oil.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I’m frustrated.”
He smirked and glanced down at the menu.
“And everyone’s staring at us.”
“Which is what you wanted, remember? They like me.”