by M. C. Cerny
Blondie’s skin is smooth and pale. It’s odd, but I have these expectations of California girls having a fried golden tan with frosted hair. Instead, I get this little mouthy monster who I want to pin under the boardwalk and thrust into until I no longer hear her complaints, just breathy little moans as she claws my skin, begging for more.
Gah! Who am I kidding?
I want her out of my head. She’d tried tipping me—millionaire boat builder—a five-dollar bill and frequently sends me on my way with my tail between my legs. I’m not about to subject myself to being toyed with by some LA girl who thinks the sun rises and sets at her slippered feet.
Walking up to her table, I stand over her, blocking out the sun. I can clearly see down the front of her sundress to the pale blue lacy bra she is wearing. The color matches her eyes and reminds me of the little blue flowers that bloom around the banks of the Rogue River—or at least when she isn’t trying to throw icy daggers of insults my way. Everything about her seems to distract me and screw me up.
Taking advantage, I taunt her. I’m having a little innocent fun, watching her chest heave angry breaths and getting a closer look at the breasts—I’d never otherwise see—as I lean over to pour her water.
Lucky for me and my dick, the ice princess replies in her conceited manner enough to sink the Titanic boner in my pants. I imagine the icy shards stabbing me repeatedly with her sour attitude. I sure this encounter alone will turn me off forever, until I see the wounded look in her eyes. I don’t believe her demeanor is in any way related to me. My bets are on the shithead boyfriend.
I make one last taunt, pinning her to her seat and leaning over her. Once I give her the final perusal and she notices my eyes travel a bit further south of her lips, I get the cock-blocking ice freeze, ending any chance to identify the sweet smell I catch when I get close to the sea banshee.
She bursts from her chair like her tail is on fire, and due to my proximity, she has to brush against me to leave. Sure, I could step back from her, but really, where is the fun in that? Our bodies touch ever so briefly and it’s the tease in our movements that makes me want her still. My cock goes hard so quickly, I swear my balls disappear.
The majority of our encounters resemble this dialogue: me being my charming self and the ice princess biting back with her frosty lips. It’s a no-win situation I’d happily surrender, but she’s summarily checkmated me for life.
I can’t lie and say I’m not the tiniest bit curious about the bratty blonde princess from LA. I can’t even deny I discreetly inquired about her as week one of her arrival merged into weeks two and three. We keep running into each other, as fate would cruelly have it. After all, Gold Beach is about a square mile of actual town, with less than three thousand residents, so it isn’t like we can go far without tormenting each other. We’ve been reduced to exchanging stinging barbs or just eye-balling each other curiously before walking away. It would appear, I have a talent for irritating her. It actually delighted me to see her so peeved when I bought a whole group of kids some ice cream just so I could pay for hers.
She’s beautiful when angry; her face flushes and her voice pitches. Maddie keeps warning me to behave—frankly, she told me to go up to Seattle and tend to my boat business like I should—but this is far more interesting, seeing what makes her so bitchy.
I use to think I was somewhat easy on the eyes, but this woman makes me question my appeal to the female species as a whole. Her capacity to ignore me is cutting my ego to shreds. I want to know what made her come all the way to Gold Beach by herself. Seems her rich lawyer boyfriend is on the outs with her, and while I have no desire to come between the two of them, I can’t understand why he is leaving such a beautiful, if bratty, girl on her own. I sure as hell wouldn’t if she was my girl—but she isn’t, nor do I want to saddle myself with one. I came to Gold Beach to exorcise a few demons of my own. I really don’t need Blondie here to add to my troubles. I’ve made it a rule to not get involved with out-of-towners here in the sanctuary of where I grew up. I save that shit for Seattle.
Chapter Four
ABIGAIL
“Are you shitting me?” Sitting down on the metal barstool, which been bolted to the floor, I dump my small purse on the polished wooden bar of the Ship’s Bottom Bar and Grill. I look up into familiar gray eyes and light brown hair highlighted by too much sun these past few weeks—not that I’ve noticed his hair or anything. I contemplate throwing the stool at him, and with how offensive he’s been, I’m sure I’m not the only female who’s had the same idea. Hence, the bolted stools. His hair is mussed over his head like he just rolled out of bed, and I wonder just how many women in Gold Beach get cozy with the lewd postal-sailor-waiter-barkeep. Not that he’s crossed my mind once in the last week.
Nope.
Nada.
Okay, maybe a little.
“I shit you not, ice princess,” he chuckles, the sound grating on my biased ears as I watch him run a soft rag over the bar, keeping it free of spills and sticky liquid. The sound of his laugh filters through my rigid body like warm honey, relaxing me, and I sit back on the stool, making myself comfortable. I’m tempted to leave, but I’m here and there’s not much he can say or do to me in a public place, right?
“Jesus, you’re the barhop too?” My tone is snide and I wince, breaking eye contact with the cocky stranger and owner of the most incredible smile. I keep bumping into him. The more I try to buck the universe and avoid him as much as possible, the more he keeps showing up. I decide to settle in for a long night of trading barbs. Anything is better than holing up in my cottage alone, again, listening to waves break the surf outside my window and my phone ever silent.
“Jesus ain’t got nothing on my skills, sweetheart. Now, name your poison, ice princess. Arrrgh!” He grins at me, making a ridiculous pirate accent. I’m pretty sure he’d whip out an eye patch if he could. I struggle to remain immune, rolling my eyes at him and reminding myself how much I hate men. I hate them. Really hate them. Most of them, anyway, since Lucas is too busy to take my phone calls and his infrequent texts stall our reconciliation.
“You can stop calling me that name, you know,” I state, folding my arms over my chest. I hate his nickname the ‘ice princess,’ which he has taken to calling me after several of our encounters ended up with either glares or us just shouting at each other for no real legitimate reason. I mean, it wasn’t my fault entirely that we got asked to leave the library after I yelled at him for staring at me in my sundress the second time I went there. The elderly volunteer at the desk just clucked at me and pointed to the door. Apparently, Roman was legitimately dropping off books from the senior center, and a ‘visitor’ like me was being disruptive. Fine. That’s why I brought a Kindle, anyway—so I could avoid public places.
“Now whose fault is that, Miss ‘I shoot daggers of ice at unsuspecting males between the ages of sixteen and seventy’?” All right, he got me there, but still… His smile makes my lips tug, but I want to resist it as long as possible—based on principle, you know.
“We haven’t been properly introduced,” I insist, finally. I might get to appease my curiosity, since I shot down Maddie’s questions about my ‘run-ins’ with him. Part of what made the fun last this long was I didn’t know his name, or rather, he hadn’t told me his name, but now my curiosity is finally winning me over.
“Roman Winters. Much to your dismay, I’m local, so you’ll keep seeing me around, if you haven’t caught on yet.” Yeah, I sure bet I would in this town—and likely in my dreams, too. “I’m really not stalking you. I actually live here,” Roman leans over the bar to whisper at me, smirking. He’s big, tall, muscular, and a cocky SOB with more confidence than the best defense attorneys I’d ever met. That said a lot, considering my dad owns a prominent firm in LA. “And you would be?” he asks, leaning closer over the counter and prompting me to end my idyllic dreaming. My girl parts squeeze deliciously together like a champagne bottle building pressure ready to pop. Not even L
ucas gets me this hot this quickly. Embarrassment floods my face and I hope the dimness of the bar conceals my flush.
“Abigail Holliday, new attorney and summer vacationer,” I stick out my hand like a lame olive branch to shake his and, hopefully, put a little distance between us. He looks at me for a moment, before taking my hand.
Big.
Freaking.
Mistake.
Roman’s warm hand engulfs mine like a flickering flame slowly stoking to life and the rough spots of his palm rub against it as he pulls me closer to him, practically over the damn bar. His skin is abrasive from the outdoor work he does and each touch tingles an unforgiving response from my hand all the way to my brain, short-circuiting my verbal response. His thumb softly strokes the tender spot between my thumb and my fingers, causing me to shudder slightly. It hooks me in and pulls me under, suffocating any chance of rebuffing him. His hand isn’t clammy or awkward, just warm, big, and firm as he holds mine gently. I tug my arm back and he lets go, but not before squeezing my hand tenderly and smiling. What is it with people in Oregon squeezing hands?
“Ah, so now that we’ve been properly introduced, may I concoct the lady a drink?” Roman queries, curbing his previous attitude behind a friendly smile. I expect a snarky response, but he doesn’t give me one.
“White wine,” I request, looking down and opening my purse to pay him as I busy myself sliding my finger over my phone’s screen. Nothing from Lucas. I shrug, unsure of what I really expected from someone fourteen hours away, and slip my phone back into the zippered pouch, looking back to Roman.
“Boring! And keep your money, Princess Abby, drinks on me tonight.” He drawls out the word ‘boring’ like it’s as painful as he makes it sound.
“What’s wrong with white wine?” Frustrated, I push my purse around on the bar top and contemplate getting the hell out of here.
“You might as well have asked for a spritzer…and this, my dear, ain’t no country club.” He smiles, quoting a Sheryl Crow song and my belly does this ridiculous flop I want so desperately to ignore. I’m thankful this isn’t a country club—I left that behind in LA.
“Okay, hotshot, you suggest something and tell me what to drink.” Scrunching my nose, I wonder what this challenge got me into. I’m not usually into verbal sparring with men I barely know outside my job as a lawyer, but Roman has honestly been the only entertaining thing here besides walking the beach.
“Lemon drop.” He turns around, grabbing a bottle of vodka from the shelf and other ingredients, treating me to a view of his fine backside. I’m mesmerized for a moment, so I don’t realize he’s turned back around to show the bottle of vodka to me, waiting for my go-ahead. I realize I’ve now been staring at his package for a moment and the embarrassment flushes me. His face remains neutral with the exception of one cocked eyebrow and I know that he knows.
“That’s so…” I stare at him, shaking my head, wishing he’d just turn back around. Is it shallow? Most definitely, but you’ve never seen the backside of Roman Winters to make an effective counterargument. It’s also safer than imagining his package and knowing I’ve been caught looking him over.
“So what, Blondie?” The challenge is in his cool gray eyes and his hint of a smile, and it’s frustrating and fun all at once.
“Girlie,” I say, snorting my distaste, which causes him to throw his head back and laugh loudly, drawing the attention of just about everyone in the small town bar. The heat of my blush flashes in my cheeks again. I feel like I’m doomed to be overheated in his presence.
Roman is in mid-pour before he continues. “Unless you hate lemons, it’ll be perfect for you, because it’s both tart and sweet.” His voice deepens and I know he’s throwing evocative ideas at me. “Or do you want to suggest something else?”
I look around the bar, trying to remember a drink from my early college days, something that might impress him—or at least not make me look so naïve. I search for the most notable one I can consider imbibing. I’m not a drinker and I rarely go out; three years of drudgery in law school will do that to you.
I gather my courage for this and wish I’d had a glass of wine or something before leaving the cottage. Hiding my hands in my lap under the bar, I pinch my arm to keep myself from giggling.
“Blow job.” I look at him deadpan, using the face I practiced on for hours to use when I have to give courtroom dialogues and question clients. His arrogant smile falters. With a deep chuckle and a shake of his head, he downs a shot of pure vodka, making me question which of us needs the fortification more at this point. I don’t even question that he’s drinking while on the clock.
I honestly have no idea what is in a blow job, but I’ve seen the rare girlfriends of mine make a big deal of ordering and drinking them with their hands behind their backs at our little weekend girls’ night gatherings or bachelorette parties, which are sadly few and far between. I’m not stupid, just maybe a little inexperienced.
Roman leans over the counter to whispers in my ear, close enough his breath puffs against my face, the sharp scent of vodka mixing with his own. My hair tickles my neck and I involuntarily convulse with a shudder. I pinch my unseen arm harder to no avail. “Now who’s offering?”
Wow… that has me taken aback. His voice delights my ear, my face flushing with embarrassment while a funny little tightness spirals between my legs, only to release in a liquid slow burn, making me shift on top of the barstool. My panties are not wet. My panties are not wet, I chant in my head, feeling like the easiest co-ed on the planet.
“Umm...” I swear the barroom has heated up. The A/C must be broken because I’m too young for these hot flashes as his vodka fueled breath brushes past my ear in a cool ripple that seems to travel down my chest as if he is caressing my breasts through my shirt, circling my nipples, making me shiver.
Next time, I will fucking google a shot to drink before I say something stupid.
If I could have an out-of-body experience, I’d bet money my angel and demon twins are arguing this second. I try again to ignore the building feelings. We don’t even like each other, I try to reason with my body, but the sassy tart isn’t listening. I’m hot, I’m cold, I can’t decide anything realizing I should have brought a jacket as I rub my hands up my opposite arms for something distracting to do, because pinching the shit out of myself didn’t help at all.
“Exactly what I thought.” Smirking, he pushes back from the bar and, sadly, away from me, reaching under the counter for a martini glass. I have no idea what he did with the previous one because I am so mind-screwed. “Let’s stick to the lemon drops, Blondie, and you can tell me what brings you to Gold Beach.” He drops the glass in a bowl of sugar and then pours me a drink, sliding the glass across the bar.
I down the drink with bravado I don’t usually possess, struggling to keep my composure once the sour reaches my tongue. He has a glass of water waiting for me already. I lick my lips, appreciating the tartness of lemons and the sweetness from the sugared rim of the glass. Picking it up again, I lick the crystals off the glass. His eyes never leave my face, and I recognize the starved hunger behind them. I’m full of false courage but push onward.
“I’m taking the summer off before I go to work at my dad’s law firm.” Pushing the glass back in his general direction, I nod that I’m ready for a follow-up drink.
“So you’re a real lawyer then? Not just one on TV?” He pours me a second one, holding it back as I shrug in response before snatching it from him. Damn, he’s a good bartender.
“Is there another kind?” His comment isn’t the first one pegging me for an actress. I don’t look like a lawyer, but he also didn’t look like a notable conversationalist the first time I met him. He must not get out of Gold Beach too often, and I wonder what he does the rest of the year.
“Well, you just seem too pretty to be chasing ambulances or conducting ruthless corporate takeovers.” Roman looks directly at me—and he’s right; I don’t do those things. That’s unless
my dad revokes my position at the firm as a way to punish me for running off this summer. I shake the thoughts off because I know I can find a job easily. It just wouldn’t be greased by my dad’s influence.
“I studied criminal law,” I tell him without elaborating and he nods approvingly. His eyebrows only raise slightly, which means, yeah, he did think I was one of those low-key estate planners, too pretty to get down and fight dirty. He doesn’t say anything else, but encourages me to share more details of my work while he pours drinks for me and other paying customers at the bar. Our conversation is flowing well and we don’t try to kill each other in the minutes that follow, which I find promising.
“Sounds dangerous.” Roman jokes and we toast another drink. If he only knew, I got all the DWI cases and petty misdemeanors up until now. Feeling more at ease under the haze of alcohol I continue.
“I was clerking and doing a lot of grunt work until I was offered a probationary job at my dad’s firm.” It’s disgusting how I make an obscene amount of money which I guess is the perk considering the pressure I’m under. It makes all those debate trophies sitting in my bedroom in my dad’s big house seem ridiculous.
“So you’re getting more serious cases now?” He leans in asking with interest.