“What do you not understand about being work neighbors? Are you the only person in Port Snow that doesn’t know I’m incredibly needy and clingy?”
A rumble of a laugh comes out of me. “No, I gathered that after seeing you interact with your brothers in Snow Roast so many times.”
“So then you understand that I’m going to be at the Parlor all the time, right?”
“Are you telling me you’re going to be a mooch?”
“Tea sandwiches, Ruthie.” He clenches his fist. “I need tea sandwiches.”
“Do you plan on paying for these tea sandwiches?”
“Of course. With labor. You can’t possibly do the renovations all by yourself. We spoke about this. The garage is slow right now and my guys can handle whatever comes in. Summer rentals are picking up, we’re a smooth operating machine, but you on the other hand, I mean . . . I just had to patch up a hole in the wall for you.”
“A hole you put there.”
“Doesn’t matter how it got there.” He waves his hand. “What matters is that I was there to help, and that’s the kind of help you can’t put a price on.”
“Pretty sure Rogan could give me a quote from one of his guys.”
He sighs and leans on the table. “Ruthie, I think you need to understand something about me. I can dish it, but I can’t take it, so busting my balls is going to break my fragile self-esteem.”
Chuckling, I say, “My mistake, wasn’t aware I was going to have to stroke your ego.”
“It would be appreciated. Thank you.”
Just then, our server brings us our drinks and our baked bean sandwiches. My mouth waters as my eyes fix in on the homemade bun, lightly toasted with slices of apple, bacon, cheese, and beans in the middle.
I know, I know . . . it sounds gross, but I swear it’s heaven on earth.
“Enjoy,” the server says and takes off. Before I can even reach for my napkin, Brig has the sandwich in hand and had already taken a bite. Leaning back in his chair, he quietly moans and savors the flavors while looking out toward the ocean.
“This is what life is about,” he says after swallowing. “Baked bean sandwiches. This is why we were put on this earth, so we can enjoy something like this, something so delicious. Don’t you think, Ruthie?”
I’m still trying to get over the sound of his moan . . .
“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat. “Love the beans.”
He smirks over his sandwich before taking a bite, and then he looks away.
Love the beans? Come on, Ruth, don’t lose it now.
Just because he moans into a sandwich and looks like he’s having an orgasm doesn’t mean you need to lose your smart wit.
Get it together, woman.
I take another bite, chew, and swallow. “So, you said we have things to discuss. Does this have to do with sharing a wall with you? You don’t have to worry, there won’t be any raucous behavior happening over at the Parlor.”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard clotted cream on scones can make people wild. For all I know, your Parlor could easily turn into a brothel.”
“You know about clotted cream?”
“Searched the Internet to see what tea parties were all about last night. Wanted to see what the basics were, needed to see if it’s something I’d want to take part in.”
“And . . .”
“I’ll be honest. The term clotted cream threw me off. I don’t think you ever want to eat anything that has the word ‘clotted’ in it. But after I saw what it was all about, I felt confident in becoming quickly addicted to a dainty meal served to me on tiered milk glass.”
“I do plan on having tiered milk glass. Have you been reading my diary, Brig?” I joke, and his eyes sharpen.
“You have a diary?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m just kidding.”
“Damn. I feel like if I got my hands on that, I wouldn’t be able to do the noble thing and look away. I would read that so hard and so fast.”
And if I did have a diary, I’m pretty sure he’d be in for a world of shock, because there’s no doubt in my mind that pages would be filled with his name, my name, and hearts encompassing the both of us.
“Good thing I don’t have one then, given your inability to control yourself and your penchant for gossip.”
He shrugs. “What can I say, I’m meant for this town. The gossip, the secrets, it gives me life. Do you ever check the Hen Line?”
“Not really.”
He slaps the table in disappointment. “Ruthie. You’re missing out on so much. This morning, there was news posted about Darla Eagleton getting a mole removed . . . off her left butt cheek.” He shakes his head in humor. “That’s the spell-binding news I want in my headlines. Butt cheek mole removal. God, that’s good stuff.” He chuckles to himself and takes another bite of his sandwich.
“Poor Darla—”
“She was the one who posted it.”
“Well, then I guess Darla deserves whatever gossip is spread about her mole removal.”
“Anyway, we’re getting off topic.” Brig pops one of the homemade chips in his mouth. I’m normally the person who balks at a restaurant giving me “homemade chips” over fries. If I’m going to eat out, I want fries, preferably seasoned and coated fries, you know, the ones with real crunch. But Knight and Port’s homemade chips are so freaking good, it’s hard not to eat a handful at a time. It has something to do with a certain pickle salt they use . . . not quite sure. Whenever you ask Reid, he just shrugs and walks away. He’s not giving up any of his secrets. “We have a few things to discuss.”
“So you’ve said.” I eat some chips and wonder how I’ve been able to survive my life without these before Knight and Port opened.
“Let’s get down to business then.” He picks up his napkin, wipes his mouth, and then takes a sip of his water. “Renovations. I’ll be helping you.”
“Brig—”
He holds up his hand. “I don’t want to hear it. You need to open this summer to cash in on the tourist season. You can’t do that alone. I’m not doing anything important right now. I want sandwiches. I’m helping. Simple as that.”
I guess so.
“But in return, you must run with me.”
Run with him? Oh, okay. Suuure. Let me get right on that.
“I would rather do the renovations by myself,” I say.
“It’s not bad, Ruthie. You’ll be surprised how much you’ll like it.”
“Pretty sure I’ll hate it.”
“Either way, you’re running with me. We’ll start small and then work our way up to six miles, maybe ten.”
“Oh, okay.” I chuckle. “Sure, yup. Ten miles.”
“With an attitude like that, I’m going to make you run a marathon.”
“I dare you. Pretty sure I know how that bet will turn out.”
He studies me and for a second, I forget that we’re in a restaurant in the middle of our hometown where anyone could chat about Brig Knightly and Ruth Barber having a meal together. I’m lost in his eyes, the way they study me with such thoughtfulness, with humor, as if he’s trying to figure out his next joke.
“You know, normally I would take that bet, but if I learned anything about you over the last few days it’s that you’re stubborn, and I think it would be a terrible decision on my end.”
I smile at him. “Smart man.”
“But I will demand you run with me. Every day.”
“Every day?” I shake my head. “No way. My deteriorated muscles would never be able to keep up with that.”
“I got you, Ruthie,” he says with a wink. And that’s all it takes. That one shameless wink attached to that reassuring sentence. I’m done. I’ll do anything he says at this point. “I’m not going to let you get hurt. Might help with all the stress you put on yourself with Snow Roast and these new renovations.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I can’t help it. This is so surreal.
Immediately his brow furrows and
the chip he was about to put in his mouth is set back down on his plate. “Have I ever been mean to you?” It’s an honest question, no malice to it whatsoever. More like general wonderment.
“No,” I answer quickly. “No, not at all.”
“Okay. Good.” He looks off to the side and then says, “You were born and bred here, Ruthie. We take care of each other in Port Snow. I’m just trying to help out . . . be your friend.”
Be my friend.
Those three words stab me like a thousand swords.
Friends.
Is that all we’ll ever be? Just friends?
I wasn’t expecting him to say he wanted to date me or anything like that, but just hearing the friend word feels painful, like there isn’t much hope for a future.
Then again . . . Rylee said friends first, relationship second. The foundation of a great relationship. And if I’m honest, that is what I want. I’m still feeling slightly breathless around him, as well . . . he’s Brig, and he’s gorgeous. But maybe, given I’ve waited this long to talk to him like this, spend an easy night with him where I don’t feel so tongue-tied and cringe-worthy, I should feel thankful that at least he’s aware of who I am now. What’s more time as friends in the grand scheme of things? If I’m anything, I’m patient.
He’s offering up the first step. I should take it.
Tacking on a smile, I say, “I would like that. To be friends.”
His eyes sparkle with excitement. “Does that mean free tea sandwiches?”
“You know, Brig, I’m starting to think you really only want sandwiches from me, not friendship.”
“I want both.” He pops a chip in his mouth and smiles while chewing. Adorable.
* * *
I stare at the envelope on my nightstand. I told myself I wasn’t opening it until I got ready for bed and found shoes that would work for running. I spent half an hour trying to figure out what pair shouldn’t destroy my legs tomorrow and went with an old pair of Sketchers I found in the depths of my closet. Apparently, I need to go shoe shopping. Not just shoe shopping, but workout clothes shopping. The ensemble I have laid out for tomorrow morning is less than flattering, but it’s all I have.
Long red basketball shorts, white tank top, and Sketchers from the 2000s doesn’t scream, “hey look at me, I’m a runner.” It more or less says “what’s working out?”
Alarm clock is set, water bottle is cleaned, and unfortunately, shoes are untied, ready to be slipped on my feet.
When Brig said he wanted to run with me, I didn’t think he was serious at first. I thought maybe he was teasing and nothing would come of it, but when we left the restaurant—after he paid for dinner—he said to meet him in front of Snow Roast at six for our first run. He then took off toward his place, leaving me with a crazy mixture of hope and fear.
Running with Brig . . . oy. I didn’t think this entire thing through. There’s so much unattractiveness that goes into running when you’re not a runner.
The heavy breathing.
The sweating.
The possible tripping.
The smelling . . . oh God, the smelling. I glance toward my bathroom and quickly grab the deodorant. Extra swipes tomorrow, extra swipes everywhere.
EVERYWHERE.
Now that everything is in place and I’m ready for bed, I sink under my covers, plug my phone into its charger, and I pick up the letter.
Blue envelope, blue paper inside.
It’s such a dorky thing, but I truly love how Brig has special paper just for this. Makes me wonder, did he get the paper specifically for the pen pal program?
I hope so.
Sinking down into my mattress, my nightstand light the only light on in my compact apartment, I unfold the letter, feeling at ease when I see his distinctive writing. I couldn’t find a more perfect way to end my night, but with Brig’s words tucking me in.
Dear Secret Pen Pal,
I wish I knew who you were, because if I did, I would no doubt run up to you and plant a giant kiss on your lips as a thank you for those whoopie pies. Damn, girl, they were phenomenal. My brother wanted me to ask you for the recipe. I’m not saying you have to hand it over, but you know, if you wanted to help me make one of my brothers beg and plead, it would be appreciated. I love when they have to shower me with compliments to get what they want.
As for Damariscotta, I’ve never been there, which seems weird since I’ve lived in Maine my entire life. The family business held us in Port Snow most summers, but then again, I think that’s how it was for most Port Snowians, always catering to the tourists. I hope to travel around the Northeast at some point, especially during fall. It’s one of my favorite times of the year and not because of the gorgeous trees, but because of the noticeable crispness in the air that you don’t get any other time of the year. The smell of dried-up leaves, the crunch of them under your feet, the knowledge that you’re at the end of the tourist season and you can get back to your small town and reconnect with the people around you. I love it. What about you? When is your favorite time of the year?
Also, this may sound corny, but thank you for writing back so quickly. I had no clue I’d enjoy corresponding with a new friend so much. It gives me something to look forward to.
Sending Over Hugs (hope that’s okay),
YSPP (Your Secret Pen Pal)
God . . .
He’s so perfect.
That or I’m just so totally infatuated with him at this point that he can do no wrong.
Well . . . except for make me run.
Chapter Nine
BRIG
“You look like you might want to murder me,” I say, walking up to Ruth, who’s leaning against Snow Roast, arms folded.
Yesterday was weird.
I don’t know how else to describe it, but when I didn’t see Ruth at the Parlor, I felt like I’d scared her away. Call me insecure, but there are times where I come off a little too pushy . . . needy . . . a know-it-all, and when she didn’t show up, I thought maybe I had been all three of those things the day before when fixing her drywall.
Either way, I went to Snow Roast just as it was closing to check in with her.
Never in a million years did I think she would be talking about a date with her vibrator, nor did I consider going to dinner with her. But both of those things happened. When we parted ways last night, it was with a tangle of emotions residing in both of us—me slightly confused, her looking nervous.
I like to consider myself a people person. For the most part, I can read people pretty well. But Ruth is a mystery, an anomaly. Every interaction with her, I think I have her figured out, and then she goes and says something like she has a date with her vibrator, blowing my theories completely out of the water.
There are times where she sounds so damn confident it scares me, and then I catch subtle insecurities here and there that remind me of the girl behind the counter.
And as I walk up to Ruth this morning, decked out in basketball shorts and a tank top with—are those Sketchers?—I realize this is one of those behind-the-counter moments.
“Are you looking at my shoes?” she asks, her voice sounding not quite awake yet.
“Those aren’t running shoes.”
“It’s all I had at last-minute’s notice.”
“You should have told me. You could have borrowed something from my sister, Jen. You guys look like you’re about the same size.”
“Ah, but that would have required a phone number,” she says, pushing off the building and walking up to me.
At least a foot shorter than me, she really is a petite thing. All blonde hair and smooth skin. And in the early morning light reflecting off the harbor, I can see a light hint of whiskey in her normally dark eyes.
“Are you asking me for my number, Ruthie?” I tease.
“I’m asking you to get this hell-on-earth run over with so I can take a shower and eat a cinnamon bun.”
I chuckle. “Do you have fresh cinnamon buns in the shop right now?�
��
“Yes, and I have two set aside, so let’s move this along.”
“Is one of those for me?”
“I’m not an asshole, so of course one is for you.”
I clutch my chest. “You do care about me.”
“That’s more than I can say about you,” she mutters, folding her arms across her chest.
“Caring about your health is caring about you. Come on, this is to help relax you.” I take her by the shoulders and shake her. “Now, how do you feel about a mile this morning?”
“Dreadful, but let’s get it over with.”
“That’s the spirit,” I say, laughing. “We’ll go at an easy pace, a pace where we can still hold a conversation.” I nod toward the harbor. “Come on.”
Sighing, she saddles up next to me and together we start jogging. In an instant, I realize her slow is a walk for me, due to the difference in our strides, which is fine. I don’t want to push her too hard. After this, I’ll hit up the roads again and get in some additional miles on my own.
“So, how was your date last night?” I ask her, trying to take her mind off what we’re doing.
“Date? What date?”
“With your battery-operated friend.”
“Oh.” She laughs. “Uh, pleasurable as usual.”
I know I asked, but I still can’t believe she answered.
This new Ruthie is something else.
“Does he have a name?”
“Marvin.”
I stumble over a crack in the sidewalk and catch my balance quickly. “Marvin, really?”
“No.” She chuckles. “That was just the first name that came to mind. I don’t have a name for my vibrator. I try to keep emotions out of the relationship, you know? Easier that way.”
Fuck. This girl’s smart mouth.
“Understandable. Mixing that much pleasure with emotions could honestly lead to some weird things, like marrying your vibrator. Talk about fodder for the gossip mill. Darla’s mole removal would be old news.”
“And I really don’t want to take the spotlight away from her.”
That Swoony Feeling Page 10