by Ellie Hall
As the heat of the day vanishes over the lake, I warm through.
8
Losing Cone-trol // Doug
It’s not until the day before the fourth of July that I get the Corvette into the Oil Change King. The computer software for state inspections suspiciously broke. And then we got backed up with other customers.
Thing is, this franchise is supposed to be a well-oiled machine. Pun intended. Cars get lubed, checked, topped off. They’re in and they’re out. Harlen isn’t running this outfit properly and yet for knowing the biz inside and out, I still can’t figure out where the kink in the hose is.
On top of that, I have a pint-sized distraction named Rose. I’ve developed a serious ice cream habit. The trouble is her scoops are more than enough, but I can’t get enough. Also, I can’t afford a distraction. Not even a summer fling.
So what am I doing at her house during my lunch break? Picking up her car, that’s what. That’s all. Nothing else. Not leaving flowers on her doorstep or chocolate in her mailbox. Nope. Not this guy. Must’ve been someone else who rides a motorcycle.
I’m the bearded bandit. Slipping out on four wheels and a V8 engine.
Plus, Rose gave me the keys because she’s busy at the ice cream shop and couldn’t bring the car herself. Hopefully, Harlen doesn’t notice. He also employed a guy named Mark but fired him for asking too many questions about why we did things old-school without special machines. My questions exactly, but I don’t want to risk my cover.
The place is in shambles, but the plan is to use Rosie’s Vette as a decoy. See, I can’t very well test out my theories on a veritable stranger’s car. Rather, I need a car that I can claim has a problem beyond needing an oil change. I’ll keep it overnight to correct my “mistake” like an upstanding employee. That way, I can poke around when Harlen isn’t here.
He saunters over and runs his grubby hand along the polished fender of the Corvette. I mask a growl by pretending a bolt is rusted on.
“What’s a beauty like this doing in Liberty Lake? You’d think I’d have seen ‘er cruising around.”
I grunt.
“I’ll have to look up the owner on the computer. Good thing we got that machine going again. Seems to conk out once a month.”
Yeah, right around when bookkeeping is due. Harlen is certainly up to something.
He disappears into the office. I don’t care if he checks the computer because I entered a false name, address, and telephone number. If he checks the VIN, he might discover Rosie is the owner, but the guy is too lazy and arrogant to suspect anything.
I cuss loudly to make it sound like I’ve blundered under the hood. He hollers at me to keep it down. I repeat this twice until he charges out, asking me what I’m rattling on about.
“I busted the gasket.”
He reems me out and I make my apologies, pledging to fix it on my own time and my own dime.
“Tell the customer the computer is down and that the oil change is on the house. Get it done tomorrow, and the cost is coming out of your paycheck. Don’t forget to lock up.”
“Of course, sir. I guess I’ll be here late tonight.” I make a big deal out of obeying orders and listen for his truck to rumble out of the lot.
For the next hours, I scour every inch of the Oil Change King, searching for clues and connections to the lake. Buckets, barrels, hoses—anything leading to the water or that might be dumped into the water.
A short time later, a ping-ping sounds off the glass of the back window. I peer into the darkness. A pair of sparkling eyes reflect in the dim streetlight.
“I brought reinforcements.” Rose holds up a slim pizza box and two bottles of cola.
We lean against the tires of her car and dig into slices of pepperoni.
“I’m still waiting to get the results from the second set of water samples. Did you find anything suspicious?” Rose asks.
“The only thing I came up with are boxes filled with coolant containers. Only, they’ve been opened and refilled with used fluid. At least, that’s what it looks like. It’s not necessarily unusual because of the chemical recycling program, so Harlen may intend to turn them in.”
“Like redeeming bottles and cans?” she asks, waggling her bottle of cola.
“Yeah, except you don’t get a five-cent refund. The business owner has to pay a small fee to have the fluid collected, but it’s rolled into the cost of an oil change so it doesn’t come directly out of the shop owner’s pocket. However, the owner doesn’t have to pay the usual disposal surcharges.”
“You sure know a lot about the oil-changing business, considering you only started here last month.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, well, you know me. I love cars.”
That was a close one. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have Rose find out my true identity. However, now that I’m Doug Slate, can I go back to being Doug King? I kind of like the bearded, carefree version of myself more than the freshly shaved, suit-wearing businessman.
Time to change the subject. “I was, uh, wondering if you’d like to see the fireworks together tomorrow night.”
“What if I came as a quintet?”
“A what? Wait, don’t tell me you sing barbershop-style music.”
She giggles. “My friends and cousin are visiting from the city—she and I used to come here when we were kids. That’s how I knew about the lake. Every summer, they visit for the weekend. It’s our thing.” She goes on to tell me about Catherine, Hazel, Lottie, Colette, and Minnie.
“Sounds like fun. Do you mind adding a dude to the mix?”
“Does the dude have a beard and a slight addiction to ice cream?”
“Slight? More like I’ve lost cone-trol,” I say with a smirk.
While Rose is busy at Queen’s Cones on the Fourth of July, I spend the day with my aunt. She glares as Harlen zips by on his powerboat. I share my suspicions about his activity and she drawls on, telling me about her favorite cozy mystery authors and how they go about solving crimes.
However, all I can think about is Rose. Her lips, her hair, her laugh. She’s smart, creative, and funny. It’s not only her ice cream that I’m addicted to.
Later, I cruise over to her house and expect a car or two to line the driveway, but only the Vette sits in the garage, oil changed and as good as new.
I rap lightly on the door. Her hair is down and her red, white, and blue sundress flutters. Something in my chest rattles.
“You look very independent,” I say.
“Call me lady liberty.”
I chuckle. “Where are your friends?”
“They hit major traffic. I’m afraid they’ll miss the fireworks. But we’ll have a girls’ night, nonetheless. We always stay up late talking. It’ll just be you and me doing the hometown July fourth thing. Hope that’s okay.”
Being alone with Rose is more than okay.
“The cool thing is, we’ll be able to hear the concert from the dock and get a great view of the fireworks.”
She brings some snacks, including cheese, crackers, and grapes but not ice cream. Maybe she’s trying to wean me. We spread a blanket on the end of the dock. The music from the live band filters from the beach where tiki torches and strings of lights illuminate the crowd.
“I sometimes go over there, but it’s a mob scene. Plus, my favorite is seeing the fireworks sparkling off the water, and that’s hard to do in the crowd.”
Dusk paints the tops of the trees in gold and purple splendor. The crowd of people on the beach vibrates with excitement. Me too, but only because I’m with Rose.
Her eyes sparkle and I shift a little closer. Her leg leans against mine, sending a twinge through me. As we listen to the music, we sway slightly to the rhythm. Our claps and cheers echo across the water. Eventually, my hand finds hers and I trace the inside of her wrist. The twinge turns into a twitter that gets louder and stronger with each passing moment.
I steal a glance and my pulse doubles. Her long hair curtain
s either side of her face. I lean in then the first boom of fireworks blasts overhead. Her gaze rockets to the sky and her long waves fall back. Her full lips part and are absolute perfection. The real show is right in front of me.
Rose releases a deep breath from her chest and her eyes float to me. A deep current of peace washes between us.
My heart melts, opens, and is no longer cautious. I know what I want and it’s this bold, beautiful woman.
She tilts her head and smiles.
A thread of courage prompts me to lean in again.
She meets me halfway and her eyes shutter.
The space between us disappears. The sound of booming slips away and all I hear is my pulse in my ears, matching hers as our lips connect.
Even though I found my way to Liberty Lake, for so long, I was lost. But everywhere I’d been led me here, to Rose.
Her hand grips the back of my neck.
My fingers caress hers.
Her vanilla sugar scent fills me.
My breath turns shallow.
Our lips continue to press together.
The kiss deepens.
Forget living life in neutral. The ignition is on. I rev. Zoom. I’d pop a wheelie if I could.
9
A Sweet Twist // Rose
Doug’s fingers graze my cheek, blazing a thrill of excitement across my skin. My head spins as the fireworks crack overhead. Behind my eyes, light sparks in bold reds, whites, and blues, a soft waterfall of purple and gold, and twinkling silver even brighter than the stars.
His lips press more firmly against mine.
My breath catches and I return the kiss.
The pulsation between us turns cartwheels in my stomach.
Then he draws away, trailing his lips along my jawbone to my ear, and I curl into him.
When he returns to my mouth, the gentle pressure of his lips moving with mine tugs at something deep inside my chest. It’s almost like we’ve done this before yet no one has ever made me feel these kinds of fireworks inside. I’m like my very own Fourth of July celebration. Independent yet connected to this unexpectedly amazing man.
I didn’t want a love story, but it looks like I found one.
When we draw apart, we both take a moment to catch our breath.
“That was worthy of a lot of oohs and ahhs,” Doug says.
“The fireworks or—?”
“What fireworks?” he asks with a chuckle.
I smirk. “The ones between us.”
“I don’t think the town gives permits for displays like that. Far too powerful.”
“I agree.”
“That makes—”
“I’ve lost count,” I say, referring to the number of things we agree on.
“What would you say if I told you I really like ice cream?”
“I think we’ve established that. I blame you for the recent run on butter pecan.”
He feigns innocence. “What can I say, I’m a trendsetter.”
“And Queens’ Cones ice cream is undeniably delicious.”
“What would you say if I told you I really like you?”
My heart hammers out a confusing beat. “I’d, um, tell you that, I also really like you.”
Doug’s lips quirk. “What would you say if I told you I’d like to go on another date...or do more than date? Like, be your boyfriend.” His blue eyes magnetize to mine.
Could this work between us? It’s been hard not to think about my past juxtaposed against my present. Doug isn’t a wealthy, snobby, social climber who thinks money can buy happiness. He’s a down-to-earth, every-man. Except he’s nothing like any man I’ve ever known.
My heart, long-locked, opens. “I’d love to be your girlfriend.”
Doug leans in and plants his lips on mine for an encore of the fireworks display, except this time they’re just for us.
Later, I check my phone to find out if Catherine and company are getting closer, but with the winding hills leading to northern New Hampshire, they’re probably going in and out of service.
Doug and I build an outdoor fire in the stone pit on the beach in front of my cottage. The scent of woodsmoke fills the air, mingling with his manly scent. I lean against him and he wraps himself around me like a blanket.
We talk about summer and the lake, old cars and ice cream. “I’m glad you stayed. I’m afraid I’d fall asleep on my houseguests if you weren’t here. They’re going to be exhausted after the long ride.”
“They do this every summer?”
“Yep. They came up my first year here. Catherine knew I needed—” I cut myself off. I was about to say she knew I needed a sister, or five, when Margo betrayed me. “Do you have siblings?”
“I have a sister. Jennifer. She got married a few years ago. Pride of the family.”
“Mine is engaged,” I blurt. “Same thing.”
“When it comes to my family, I’ve always felt like I have something to prove.” His eyes flick to me. “But when I’m with you, that disappears. It’s just us. All that doesn’t matter.”
“I think I know what you mean.”
“What if we prove something to each other?”
“And what’s that?” But I think I know where Doug’s going with this because I have an inexplicable heart-pull to this extraordinarily handsome man.
He cups the side of my face. “I’ve always thought that love is the courageous act of carving out a little part of my heart.”
“Sounds painful.”
“It can be. And risky. It’s good to know a reputable surgeon.”
We both chuckle.
“If I were going to give part of my heart to someone, I’d want them to be gentle.”
Doug’s fingers lace through mine. “The gentlest. Will you do the same?”
My answer is the press of my lips against his as I breathe the word yes.
It’s midnight when Doug leaves and my friends arrive. Unlike previous years when we stay up until the wee hours gabbing, they go to sleep on after the long ride.
The next morning, I’m up relatively early but tired and not at all refreshed. My mind is in overdrive and I mainline coffee.
I heard a study a while ago that the average person has six thousand thoughts per day, ninety percent of which we’re not aware of. After last night’s kisses, I’m convinced Douglas Slate occupies ninety percent of my subconscious.
I’m also pretty sure I have a kissing hangover when I accidentally overmix the Belgian waffles recipe and have to start over.
The girls filter out as the sweet scent fills the cottage when I plate them up with a drizzle of blueberries, fresh maple syrup, and a dollop of whipped cream.
Catherine comes alive after her first bite. Hazel’s eyes shift into focus with a few sips of coffee. The others slowly make their way to wakefulness.
And yes, all I can think about is Doug.
Hazel sniffs the air. “A man was here.”
Six pairs of eyes zoom in on me.
Catherine looks me up and down. “It wasn’t a plumber or handyman.”
Minnie circles me. “She has that look.”
“The I’ve been kissed look,” Colette says.
I clamp my hand over my mouth.
“Tell us everything,” Lottie commands.
I hold up the coffee decanter. “Anyone need a refill? We might be here a minute.”
Remember, I’m sassy, not shy, so I’m not averse to giving my best friends the scoop, but I am careful about the word that starts with C and ends with T.
For one, commitment with someone after what happened to me is a big deal.
For two, commitment in any relationship is built upon another word that ends with T. Trust.
The girls gush and are about to rifle about a hundred questions at me when I hold up my hand and count off their answers on my fingers. “Tall, dark hair, beard, dimples, buff.”
Hazel halts us with her hand. “He has a beard? Does it look like he employs a manscaper or is it all-natural?”
/> My cheeks heat. “He looks after the facial hair. Keeps it trim.”
“Eyes?” Minnie asks.
A long sigh escapes as I gaze toward the lake. “My favorite shade of blue.”
Colette shuffles behind me and holds her arms out as if to catch me. “Watch out ladies. Swoon, incoming.”
We all laugh.
“What does he smell like?” Lottie asks.
“He smells like...man.”
“What does man smell like?” Catherine wrinkles her nose.
“Girl, you’ve been single far too long,” Hazel says as though disappointed that my cousin doesn’t date more.
“Grit and summer. Hard work and soap,” I answer, resting my chin on my hand.
“She’s got it bad,” Minnie whispers.
“A solid crush,” Lottie says.
But my heart says it’s a little more than that. A lot more.
We finish our leisurely breakfast and spend the next couple of days lounging at the waterfront.
I don’t see much of Doug during their stay. Do I think about him? Constantly.
The morning they leave, promising they’ll be back for my birthday, I wave to them from the end of the driveway. When I check the mail, I find a walkie-talkie and a note in my mailbox.
Cream Puff–Meet me at the boat launch at twenty-two hundred hours. Signed, Foxtrot.
My pulse quickens at the thought of having a late-night rendezvous with Doug at the lake.
10
Spies Like Us // Doug
I crouch low in the bushes by the boat launch at precisely ten. No, I’m not going to scare Rose. That would be cruel. This is a stakeout.
While she was busy with her friends from out of town, I thought long and hard about her, us...and Harlen. No, not all at once. Gross.
Rather, I thought about Rosie and me, and what a future together might look like. The cottage. The garage to match on the outside, but on the inside, I’d outfit it with all my tools and restore old cars. We’d have ice cream for breakfast. What? A waffle cone with a scoop of vanilla is probably equivalent to loading one up with maple syrup.