by C L Cruz
Roan waves goodbye to me as I ease my car out around his truck and head down the road, only picking up speed once I reach the pavement. Finding the diner is easy even though this is my first trip into Spring. And it’s just as cute as the realtor promised. There’s a boardwalk crowded with half-dressed families, and an adorable town square straight out of a Hallmark movie. That’s where I find the Munch Box. After talking to the owner, who doesn’t just give me the go-ahead to hang out there for the day but comps me a breakfast sandwich—“the newcomer special,” he calls it—I claim a table on the patio instead of inside.
With my headphones in and a nice breeze coming in off the water, I find that I’m able to get into the zone and actually write for the first time in a long time. The next book in my series has been outlined for months, ever since Angela and I were pitching it to publishers, but I hadn’t figured out how to start. But now, the words flow out of me, and this alone is proof that I made the right decision in moving here.
I’m so absorbed in my work that I don’t even see Roan standing over me a few hours later with two baskets of food until he taps my foot with his. I jerk my head up, squinting at him from my spot in the shade beneath my table’s umbrella. I cannot get over how handsome this man is, with his messy blond hair, the scruffy golden beard dusting his cheeks and chin, and the rippling muscles that I got to see up close this morning. Yesterday, I would have sworn that men like him existed only in romance novels.
To make matters worse, it goes beyond physical attraction. He’s passionate about his work, and chivalrous, rushing into the waves to save me when he thought I was in trouble. And respectful when he’d turned around to let me dress in private, even if it had been a little late for that. I mean, he’d already gotten an eyeful. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—he hadn’t returned the favor, and I’m left only with what my imagination can conjure up.
And let’s be real. I’m a writer. I have a very good imagination.
In fact, it’s my imagination that leaves my cheeks heating as I tug my earphones from my ears. “What, uh, what are you doing here?” I stammer.
He lifts the two red baskets of food in his hands. “I thought we could have lunch and talk some more about the house.”
The house. Right. Of course. I close my computer and gesture for him to sit. Instead of sitting across from me, he takes the seat caddy-corner from me, our knees bumping under the table.
“Fish and chips okay?” he asks, sliding one of the baskets in front of me as I move my laptop out of the way.
My stomach growls in answer, making both of us laugh. “Yes, definitely. Fresh fish, I assume?”
“As fresh as it gets,” he confirms.
We dig in, eating in silence for a few minutes, before I ask, “How is everything going at the house?”
“Great,” he says. “Roof will be done today. Deck and steps tomorrow. Electrical and plumbing systems look good. Mostly just cosmetic fixes, which is lucky, considering how the Hacketts left it.”
“The Hacketts?” I ask.
He nods. “The family that lived there before. The house was in their family since it was built, but eventually, the kids and grandkids all grew up and moved away. They used it for vacations now and then, but even that got boring, and they neglected it for years until finally deciding to sell it.”
“And then I came along,” I say with a smile as I sip at my bottle of water. “So, you’re from Spring?”
“I am. Most of us who live here are. It’s a pretty tight-knit community.”
“Will I be shunned?” I ask, only half-teasing. I’ve never fit in easily anywhere, and I’m not looking for a temporary fix. I’m looking for forever.
He chuckles. “Definitely not. Especially not if you make a guest appearance at the Women’s Book Club.”
I widen my eyes at him. “Um, that would be amazing. What are they reading?”
“You’ll have to ask my mom,” he says. “I’ll get you guys in touch, maybe you can meet up for brunch or something.”
“You’re close to your family?” I ask.
“Very. My parents are still married and living in the same house where I grew up a few blocks away.” He jerks his head to the left, I guess indicating the direction. “What about you?”
I shake my head. “My parents split up when I was young, and my mom died a few years ago. I’ve never really had a family or a place to call home.”
“Until now.”
Smiling, I agree. “A home, yes. Still working on a family.”
He gives a small laugh. “Me too.”
Roan and I make small talk for the rest of our meal. I tell him a little bit about my books, which is a little embarrassing since I’m already picturing my next hero like him, and he tells me about some of the hot spots in town, places I should visit, people he wants to introduce me to. It’s comfortable, and it feels like we’ve known each other longer than just a few hours. He’s fun to talk to and has an easy way of making me laugh.
It makes me wonder what it would be like to have a man like Roan come home to me every night. Someone to cook for, to talk to, to laugh with. And a mother-in-law who would invite me over for Sunday brunch and give me advice and tease me for loving her son so much. And a father-in-law who would check my car’s oil levels before letting me leave.
All things I’ve never had, never let myself imagine except in my books, where they happen to someone else.
Eventually, he has to leave to get back to the house. He tells me I should be clear to come home by five o’clock. I write for a few more hours and then pack up. I head to the grocery store and pick up the essentials—wine, Cheetos, peanut butter and jelly with a loaf of bread, hummus, and a veggie tray—before heading home a little early, secretly hoping to catch him.
But when I get there, his truck is gone. Disappointment wars with relief at being alone again in my little safe haven. I put the groceries in the fridge and take the wine and Cheetos out onto the back deck, where I sit in one of my folding chairs and eat my nutritious, well-balanced dinner and watch the sunset on my first full day in Spring.
Chapter Four
Roan
Tara and I fall into an easy sort of routine those first few days. She leaves early in the morning, and I meet her for lunch, presumably to update her on the house but really because I just want to spend more time with her. She has a great sense of humor that keeps me on my toes, and she loves talking about her work as much as I love talking about mine. And when I do talk, she actually listens, asking questions and paying attention instead of just brushing me off.
“It’s the writer in me,” she tells me once. “I live for the details.”
Furniture starts slowly trickling into the house—a couch she found on consignment, a bench she bought off of Amazon that I stay late to help her put together. But still no bookshelves, even though the piles of books seem to be multiplying. Some of them are hers, and she gives me a signed copy of “The Viking’s Victory” to take home and read despite my protests.
“On principle, I don’t read books with naked men on the cover,” I tell her.
But she leans over me and taps the man’s lower half. “Not naked. That’s a fur loincloth,” she points out as if that makes a difference.
Then, on Friday, I’m a little late getting to the diner for lunch and I find her usual table empty.
“She went down to the boardwalk,” Collin tells me. “I think she got tired of all the guys stopping to talk to her.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, spinning around to look across the street like I’ll be able to spot her from here.
He shrugs, picking up empty cups from a nearby table. “The vultures moved in when you didn’t show up.” Collin must be able to see something on my face because he adds, “It might be time to stop stalling and make your move,” he says.
He’s not wrong. I’m falling for Tara, and it seems like it’s time to stop playing it safe. Is it too soon to be thinking about a future with her? Or is it no
w or never?
I wait for a few more minutes, but when she doesn’t come back, I get a burger to go and eat in the truck on my way back to her house. To my surprise, her car is in the driveway, but I don’t see her. We’re working on the deck now, so I’m in and out of her house, but the door to her room stays close.
It isn’t until nightfall when I’m packing up to head out that she emerges. As soon as I catch sight of her, my mind goes completely blank. She’s wearing a knee-length black dress that hugs her curves like a glove with a neckline that plunges low between her breasts. Her hair falls in chestnut waves around her shoulders, and her lips are painted a deep purple color. While I prefer her natural, sun-kissed look, she looks stunning.
I realize I’m staring at her with my mouth open when she raises one dark eyebrow at me. “Missed you at lunch,” she says.
“Yeah, by the time I got there, you’d already left,” I say. “We finished the decks today. We’ll stain them in a few months once the wood dries.” I know I’m rambling, so I decide to just address the elephant in the room. “You look beautiful, by the way. Are you going out?”
“Thank you,” she says, picking up her purse off of the card table. “I saw this bar on the boardwalk I wanted to visit…the Deck? There’s supposed to be live music tonight. I thought it might be good to get out, see some more of the town. Meet some new people.”
My mouth goes dry, and I get a sickening feeling in my gut. “By yourself?” I ask.
She puts a hand on her hip and cocks her head at me. “That’s the plan. But I may not stay that way for long.”
The feeling in my gut turns from hesitation to blinding jealousy in a split second. Playing it safe is going to lose me the girl. I’m not going to sit by and let someone else win her over, not when we’re so right for each other.
I drop the hammer into my bag with a little more force than may be strictly necessary. “No, you won’t,” I tell her, “because I’m going with you.”
Her brown eyes flash with something like amusement when she says, “Is that right?”
“Meet me at the boardwalk in an hour.”
As soon as I get home, I hit the shower, not bothering to stop for dinner. I dig my only button-up shirt out of the back of my closet and pair it with dark-wash jeans. It’s hotter than the devil’s armpit outside, so I roll up my sleeves, hoping that’s still in style. Then, I get back in my truck and drive down to the boardwalk, parking in a sandy municipal lot a few blocks down from the Deck. Even from here, I can hear the loud beach music, and I already know that Ms. Deirdre May is going to be on the prowl for some unsuspecting young tourist to dance the night away with her.
I’m early, and five minutes later, Tara’s red SUV pulls in beside me. I meet her in front of her car.
“You clean up nice,” she comments, running a hand lightly down the buttons on my shirt, pausing just before she gets to my belt buckle. My heart pounds in my chest; this woman knows exactly what she’s doing.
I take her hand and we cross the street to the boardwalk and head toward the Deck. It’s a favorite with locals and tourists alike, with a casual atmosphere, reasonable prices, and live beach music most weekends. Tara finds us a table while I fight my way through the crowd toward the bar. The bartender greets me with a nod. I hold up two fingers, and he pops the top on two IPAs that I take before returning to Tara.
Tara takes the beer gratefully and drinks while I settle in beside her. I can feel people watching us curiously, but my presence keeps most of the sharks at bay. And it’s a good thing, too, because I feel protective. Territorial. Ready to defend my woman.
The music doesn’t allow for much talking, so I only sit there for a few minutes before standing and holding out a hand to her.
She laughs. “No way.”
“Why not?” I ask.
She nods at the small area where a few older couples are dancing shag on the boardwalk. “I don’t know how to do that.”
I watch as Ms. Deirdre May twirls her partner. “It’s just a shag. Come on.”
“What’s a shag?” she groans but takes my hand like I knew she would, letting me lead her to the dance floor.
We stand across from each other and I take her right hand in my left. “It’s two triple steps and a rock step,” I tell her. “Toward me. Away from me. Mirror me. And don’t let go.” I squeeze her hand.
She looks horrified as I start to move, but eventually starts picking up her feet.
“Don’t think about it so much,” I tell her, pulling her close. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just have fun.”
It takes a couple of songs, but soon, she loosens up and starts enjoying herself. We dance for hours until the sun sets and the globe lights strung across the boardwalk come on. As she relaxes, I pull her closer, my hand on the small of her back as we move together. I love how her curves fit against me, and the way my breath against her ear sends goosebumps down her arms. She touches me, too—her fingers against the back of my neck or tucked in one of my belt loops to keep me close, her lips ghosting over my jawline. It’s a subtle intimacy that I know has to be building up to something explosive.
By last call, Deirdre May has taught her some of the fancier moves, and we have to hunt down her shoes, which she kicked off at one point. As we walk down the boardwalk, she reaches between us and holds my hand.
“Thank you for coming with me,” she says. “That means a lot to me.”
I shake my head. “I should be the one thanking you. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun. Or any fun at all, really.”
“Workaholic, huh?” she teases.
Letting go of her hand, I wrap an arm around her shoulder, loving how she fits up against me. “Something like that. I’ve never met a woman who made me want to close up shop early. Until you.”
She pulls me to the side, and we lean against the railing, watching the moonlight reflecting off of the rippling water. It’s a sight I’ve seen my entire life, but it looks different with Tara by my side. She opens her mouth to say something, but I don’t let her finish. Instead, I dip my head down and capture her mouth beneath mine. It’s gentle at first, just a touch. Then she moans, her lips parting, and I deepen the kiss, wrapping one hand around her neck and the other around her waist to pull her close.
“Roan,” she moans as I move my mouth to her jaw and her neck, tasting her sweet, salty skin. Someone walks past us and whistles, and I force myself to pull away, leaning my forehead against hers.
“You’re amazing,” I tell her, unable to wipe the smile off of my face.
“You just like me because you’ve seen me naked,” she whispers, the tension between us dissolving.
I give a throaty chuckle before turning and starting the walk back to our cars. “Well, we’ll just have to even the score someday.”
Chapter Five
Tara
Roan and I kiss at my car for a long time like a couple of teenagers who can’t keep our hands off of each other. And even though I really like him and I really like kissing him, I don’t invite him back to my house. It seems I didn’t just inherit my mom’s brown hair—I also got her bad luck in dating. Inevitably, whenever I let someone in, I get hurt, so a part of me is always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’m not ready for that to happen with Roan yet.
I want to stay in the fantasy for as long as possible.
So, I end up going home alone and spending the rest of the night in a haze. I find a beach music radio station and dance and sing to myself as I get ready for bed, reliving the night over and over in my head. I met so many wonderful people and made great connections. I can really see myself living here for the rest of my life, which makes what’s happening with Roan even scarier.
Because when that other shoe does drop, what will happen to my sanctuary? I’ve never had a place to call home, and do I really want to risk ruining it for a man who might just break my heart?
The next morning, I wake up ready to tackle the day but find myself staring at my
computer, the blinking cursor mocking me. I can’t focus, and I feel frustrated with myself and my manuscript. I recognize all the symptoms because I’ve been down this road a hundred times.
Writer’s block. I thought I had it beat, but here it is again, rearing its ugly head.
I go for a walk on the beach, thinking that will clear my mind, but when I get back, I’m still stuck. Usually, this part is easy for me. This is when my characters break up. When the loving but arrogant Viking does something a little stupid but still forgivable, and the girl has to learn how to forgive him while also healing herself. But the words just won’t come.
That afternoon, I’m measuring rooms for furniture to procrastinate when my phone buzzes with a text from Roan. He isn’t scheduled to work today, but he says he’s coming over anyway.
Enter at your own risk, I respond. I have writer’s block and I’m in a bad mood.
He doesn’t answer, and I think I’ve scared him off until about twenty minutes later when there’s a knock on the front door. The door opens, and a box of donuts enters, followed by a cup of coffee. At the sound of my laugh, Roan pokes his head inside.
“Is it safe?”
“Only because you brought treats,” I tell him honestly.
“It’s a trick I learned from my mom,” he says, nudging the door open with his foot and making his way inside. “Whenever I was having a bad day, she’d take me up to Just Desserts or whatever it was called back then, and we’d share a dozen donuts and talk it out.”
I open the box of donuts on my card table. They look divine, warm and fluffy and sugar-coated. “Did it work?” I ask, picking one covered in pink and white sprinkles.