by C. M. Lally
“Hmmm,” she murmurs, tucking her head back down into its original position. Her hand changes positions leaving my chest and circling itself around to my lower back. I feel her tuck her thumb into a belt loop on my jeans. We continue dancing and I look around the room. There are a lot of eyes on me. I guess I have surprised the hell out of the patrons. Many smile and wink, but most of them are engrossed in their own business ignoring us. Good. That’s exactly how I want it to be.
I kiss her forehead while we sway and feel her smile spread across my chest. I think, but can’t swear to it, that she kissed my T-shirt. It was whisper light, but I felt a light touch against my heart.
The song ends and JEMFire cuts straight to the guitar riff for ‘Sex On Fire’ by the Kings of Leon. We both shake our heads, declaring we’re done as Isabella laughs. She claps for the band and Jenna smiles big at both of us before the lyrics begin. I lead Isabella back to my stool and motion for Derek to bring two beers. “But I didn’t finish my other one,” she complains, looking around for her original beer.
“It’s okay,” I advise. “I wouldn’t let you drink something that’s been open and unsupervised for more than a minute. Not everyone’s intentions are good, especially after they’ve been drinking. Bar rule #1: Protect the patron.” Derek pops the lid off of our beers and sets them down on napkins.
“Oh, look at that,” she says and traces an etching on the bar that reads ‘Sherry loves Manuel’. “Love doesn’t get more permanent than that.”
I scoop up both of the long neck bottles and carry them to an empty booth near the back not wanting to get mushy with her tonight.
After we settle in, she takes a long drawl from her beer and sets it right back down on the water ring that formed on the table. “Did you have a good time tonight at the wedding?” she asks shyly. Her eyes are lowered and her voice is small like she’s nervous asking my opinion of her work.
“It was beautiful,” I inform her and her face raises to mine quickly. A warm smile spreads across her face and her eyes crinkle in the corners. I’ve made her happy with my impression.
“And would decorations in that manner be okay here on the inside of the bar for Aran and Kyle?” she asks, raising one eyebrow in question. Her face is hopeful in anticipation of my response.
“Do you really want to talk business tonight or relax and celebrate a successful night of dumpster diving?” I ask, trying to shut off her mind from work. I hope the half-smile on my face lets her know I’m teasing, but she needs to unwind. I already know she’s a work-a-holic. Her wedding schedule is printed on her website, and she’s fully booked for the next four months. Every fucking weekend.
“Alright. I can relax, I guess,” she says, before taking another drink of her beer. I don’t believe her. “How long have you been the owner of this fine establishment?” She asks while I’m taking a drink of my beer, and I just about spit it out on the table.
“Fine establishment?” I ask, chuckling at her words. Her face drops into a pout, and she starts peeling the label from her beer letting me know I’ve offended her. I reach across the table and brush my finger across the top of her hand. “Hey, I’m sorry. No one has ever called it that. The usual adjectives are dump or dive, but I’m proud of it. Thank you for putting it in high regard.”
She lifts her face up to mine. “You didn’t answer my question,” she reminds me bluntly. She’s almost done with peeling her label.
“It will be nineteen years in October,” I inform her. Bekah walks by the table as she comes in from the new addition in the back. She approaches the table, but the look I shoot her makes her continue on, hopefully without notice to Isabella.
“So, you must have been young when you became the proprietor?” she asks. “No college plans or was this in your family before you?”
“Are you trying to figure out my age in a roundabout kind of way?” I question, staring her directly in the eyes. “I like to get to the point— I’m forty-five if you want to know.”
“Alright. And how did you come to own the bar, Mr. Get-To-The-Point?” she sasses, tilting her head and calling me out on my shit.
“I bought it when my career fizzled and my fiancé died,” I say, matter-of-factly. No bullshit. There it is spewed out on the table. Let’s see how she handles it. I grit my jaw, waiting for her response to my truth.
“And what career were you in?” she asks, swallowing hard and ignoring the other part of my confession. She’ll work her way to it, I guess, but I’ll shut her down and we’ll see how she handles that.
“I was a stock car driver,” I admit, letting out a big sigh. I stretch my long legs out under the table, settling in for the conversation. “I was doing pretty good on the circuit, gaining sponsors and working my way up the rankings. It took me years to do it until one night it all came crashing to an end. Literally.” And that’s as far as I am going with that story tonight.
“I like racing,” she confesses, her face lighting up in amusement. “I used to watch it with my dad, but I don’t remember you. Then again, I was only thirteen and still planning weddings with my Barbie dolls and Ken.” We both laugh and it’s obvious that we’re attempting to ignore the other statement in my confession. Time to shift gears.
“Did you get enough to eat at the wedding?” I ask. My stomach is starting to whimper lowly and if I ignore it, it will become a raging growl soon. “I ask because I’m getting a little hungry.”
“Sure, I could eat. Is there food here or did you want to go and get something?” she asks, finally peeling the full label off her beer and spreading it out on the table with her fingertips. She smiles at me with pride in her accomplishment. It’s perfect, but it’s Isabella and I’m not surprised.
“No. We only have pretzels and peanuts here,” I advise, pulling my legs in and sitting up straight. “We can’t drive now that we’ve had alcohol. My house is out back if you want to come over? I have homemade potato soup I can re-heat, or we can grill hamburgers? Your choice.”
“I could go for a burger if it’s not too late?” She takes the last drink of her beer and scoots to the edge of the bench to stand. Without any hesitation, she starts walking towards the new addition to exit into the parking lot. I motion for Bekah.
“We’re going to go eat. In case I’m not back tonight, can you shut everything down and lock up?” Bekah follows Isabella down the back hallway with her eyes. I swear she rolled them, but I can’t be sure because I was watching Isabella walk too.
“Yes, Sir,” she says, nodding her head and tucking her serving tray under her arm before walking away. She’s silently pissed, but I don’t know why.
I catch up to Isabella at the back door and swing it open for her to exit first. She waits for me to take the lead, and we walk across the lot to the far corner. I’ve got my hand on my spot on her lower back. It goes there easily and instantly like it’s designated for me.
We get to the bamboo gate and I pull the latch, swinging it open easily for her to enter first. I’m anxious to see her reaction to my Japanese garden. She stops abruptly once she enters and her eyes adjust to the dim lighting. “Oh my God. This is gorgeous,” she exclaims. “Did you do this all yourself?”
“No,” I admit, feeling inferior for that truth. I could have done it, but I just wanted it completed quickly. I was too far into my grief to be creative. “I hired a landscaper from San Francisco. His crew did it in two weeks once we had the plans drawn up. It would have taken me months.”
We walk across the curved bridge over the koi pond and onto the lighted pathway that I take alone every night. It feels better walking it with her. She points to the hammock and the water fountain that is next to it. “I bet that’s a perfect place to rest and read. I’d love to do that someday,” she admits. “Stretching out and listening to the babbling water of the fountain. I’m in Paradise.” She reaches up and rubs the long, thin leaves of the Eucalyptus tree above us.
“Yes, it’s my haven. I’m here every night after the bar, lying in that hammock to
unwind,” I confess. “At 3:00 am, it’s completely silent and peaceful.”
She reaches her hand up to cup my neck and pulls my face to hers, pressing her lips to mine. I can taste her Blue Moon beer and it’s orange spice. She opens up to me, taking the kiss deeper. My arms pull her to me, lifting her up, wanting all of her within this one kiss. She’s light as a feather, but I break the kiss and set her back down.
“Let me feed you first, and then we’ll tour the garden,” I promise, taking her hand and entering my kitchen.
Chapter 11 – Isabella
I sit on the stool that overlooks his prep counter, watching his cooking prowess. The best part about this seat is that I get to appreciate the movement of his ass and how it fills out his jeans. Most men don’t have any ass at all, so it’s mesmerizing when you can watch a beautifully sculpted one in motion.
“You have the kitchen of a gourmet chef,” I comment as my eyes take in the expanse of the large restaurant style refrigerator with separate freezer, the Dutch-oven stove with grill and griddle plates, and the deep-well farm sink. “Cooking must be a hobby for you? Or is it a necessity for a single man?”
“Cooking is a necessity for anyone who values eating,” he chuckles. “I spent way too many years on the road, eating at every dive hole that served food. I’ve learned to appreciate the importance of a well-cooked meal. I’m pretty good at watching others and picking up a few skills here and there.”
He winks at me with that glorious smile of his as he lays bacon on the griddle for the burgers, and I shuffle around in my seat. That damn smile will be my undoing.
“Do you cook?” he asks, lifting his eyebrow high with curiosity. “You know, with being a single person yourself. It’s hard to cook for one most of the time.”
“Yes, but only when I am with my family or going to a family event,” I sigh with revealing one of my secrets. “It’s not my favorite thing to do, but I am Brazilian and that is my shameful secret. Brazilian’s love to cook, but it’s a lot of work for one person. I reheat leftovers from takeout a lot. Living in a large city makes it too convenient sometimes.”
I flip the heavy metal bar that lies over his napkin holder, not knowing what to do with my hands. The corded muscles of his back catch my attention as they move with efficiency while flipping the burgers and bacon. The sleeves of this shirt stretch and move against the hardness of his biceps, hugging them tightly, and I squirm again. My panties are soaked and all he’s done is cook. I’m pathetic.
“During the week, I find myself at a lot of food tastings for weddings, so many of my meals come from there,” I admit. “And on the weekends, I’m too busy to eat with keeping everything moving along smoothly for the reception, so the catering staff usually boxes a meal for me. The rest of my meals comes from Uber Eats or pizza delivery. And that’s the sad, hard truth about my life.”
He turns to face me after my admission. His mouth is turned down like I upset him. “Don’t say that. It’s not sad, but just the cold reality of being single,” he offers. “I’m sure if it were truly sad, you’d change it. Invite some friends or family over. Have a party that isn’t a wedding, you know?”
And there’s the deep heart of the matter. For someone who loves to socialize at weddings and has built a great business on it, I don’t socialize for any other reason. If I’m not with a client, aka socializing for a wedding, then I’m alone.
“I’m not a great socializer outside of weddings,” I confess, swallowing that hard truth as well. I feel like I should be lying down on a couch since I’m spilling my soul to him.
“I don’t believe you,” he says, turning down the flames on the food. He pulls out a cutting board and reaches into the bowl on the counter, double-fisting a tomato and red onion. He begins slicing them with the expertise of Bobby Flay, and I pray that he misses his fingers because his knife looks sharp as it glides easily through the skins of each one.
He grabs two plates from the rack above the sink and sets them down on the island in front of me. Strolling over to the massive refrigerator, he pulls the door open and asks, “Do you ketchup, mayo, mustard, pickle, and lettuce, or not?”
“I only mayo, mustard, and pickle,” laughing at the way he asks that all important question. He sets down the bottles and jars that he collected and turns and throws a few hamburger buns on the griddle. “Wow. Toasted buns. This is a treat.”
“This will be, without a doubt, the best bacon burger you’ve ever had,” he beams with pride. “I may not do a lot of things right, but I’m the best at grilling burgers.”
“I think you do a lot of things right,” I blurt out, not meaning for those words to escape my lips but it’s too late now. He heard me and smiled. Damn that smile again.
“Like what?” he asks. “Yes, I’m fishing for compliments to go with my burger-making skills.”
Without thinking, my mouth opens and says, “The way you fill out those jeans is quite right.” He twists his head and side to take a look at his own ass. Before I can blush, he wiggles it and begins assembling our burgers. Suddenly, the air in the room is blistering hot.
Scooping up our plates, he says “Let’s go eat outside,” and I slide off my stool. “Hey, would you please grab that bag of chips on the far counter and come outside?” I find them and head out behind him. He’s still shaking his asset as he walks in front of me.
I follow him to the left on the lighted pathway, and we come upon a raised teakwood patio with a matching table and fire pit. It blends in perfectly with the rest of the garden and I stand in awe. He sets the plates down and flips a small switch on the fire pit watching the gas ignite the flame and light up. “Ambiance,” he says, giving me a side smile and slightly shrugging his shoulders. It’s more beautiful than if he lit twenty candles.
“Ambiance is beautiful, especially after midnight,” I elaborate before biting into my burger.
“Mmmmm,” I groan with my mouth full. The blend of meat and spices hits my taste buds, and I know I’ll probably inhale it with how hungry I am. It really is the best burger I’ve ever had. The juices run down my chin, and he reaches across with a napkin, wiping my mess for me and causing me to blush. “Thank you.”
He grabs the bag of chips in between bites of his own burger and pops them open serving me a small amount first before getting his own. What a gentleman.
“How is the burger?” he asks, holding his breath and narrowing his eyes in anticipation of my critique.
“Oh my god. It’s fabulous— easily the best burger I’ve ever eaten,” I admit. “I can taste the meat and spices. It’s not too salty. It’s perfect, actually.” I smile boldly, letting him know I truly do love it. He tucks his head away again. This daring man cannot be shy. Maybe he lacks confidence?
“You’d make a killing serving these burgers in your bar, you know that right?” I ask between chewing my last bite of burger and bun, and popping another potato chip in my mouth.
“I’ve thought about it. Several times in fact, but burger joints come and go quickly,” he grumbles, picking up our plates and walking them to the outside sink that I didn’t see in the corner. “I would rather do something that I am great at, like running the bar than something I am okay at. And besides, you need more menu items than just burgers. Therein lies the main problem. I can only do burgers well.”
“Stop saying that,” I insist. “You do many things very well. Don’t you know your own worth in this world?”
“My worth died a long time ago,” he sighs heavily. I know he’s talking about his fiancé, but I haven’t had enough liquid courage tonight to hear that story, maybe not ever.
“C’mon, let’s go test out that hammock,” I say, holding out my hand to him. “I’ve never been in one, and I want to see how comfy they are.” Before he can take my hand, I run across the patio and down across the smooth, stone pavers kicking off my shoes once I get to the grass. It’s so soft on my toes I take a second to squeeze a few blades between them, then I dive right into the hammoc
k.
It swings and bounces with me as I scoot around trying to get comfortable. He cautiously approaches the wildly swinging tangle of me, netting and rope, laughing a deep belly laugh. It’s deep and instantly draws me in. I get the impression he rarely gets to laugh that hard, so I continue to thrash about giving him his due.
I hold out my hand for him to come closer, and as he steps out of the shadow of the tree, the moonlight illuminates his face and he’s got this hungry wolf look in his eyes. I swallow the ball of nerves in my throat but still pat the netting for him to lie down with me.
He tumbles into the hammock and we both roll towards each other. His arm stretches up for me to settle into the crook of his shoulder, placing my hand on his chest as I tuck the other one into my side. Even though this is a very intimate setting for two people who are just getting to know each other, it feels right. Like this is exactly where we should be with each other, never mind that we’ve yet to go on a date.
“Is this a date?” I ask, my voice is small and nervous.
“This is our third date,” he declares without any hesitation.
“Third?” I ask, my voice a little louder and higher this time. I should probably try to contain my excitement a little more.
“Yes. The wedding was the first. The bar was the second, and now my cooking for you is the third,” he explains very confidently. I raise my eyebrow in surprise, but more in wonderment of his thinking process. I mouth the word “ahh”, making him smile.
“May I kiss you know?” he asks, picking up a stray strand of my hair and twirling it around his finger. “I don’t think I can wait any longer.”
His soft words send a massive wave of emotion to my heart, and I feel it skip a beat. No man has ever said that to me. I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with, especially date, but he makes it all feel so slow and steady—like it’s just right.
I lean into him as his fingertip gently guides my chin higher to accept his kiss. His lips are full and round and warm against mine. They’ve got that perfect divot that every woman wants, but most men get.