The Real Deal

You don’t know that. Hell, I don’t even know if he has a morning boner.

Jesus. What’s wrong with me? I’m thinking about his dick.

Must stop thinking about his dick.

Especially since he’s walking across the room right now in those sleep pants hung low on his hips. The bathroom door closes, and before mortification sets in more deeply, I grab my bag, phone, and wallet and shout, “See you downstairs!”

As I race down the stairs, I vow to stop objectifying him.

It’s my new project—get my mind out of the gutter.





Chapter Eighteen

April

I wave at a young woman wearing a red bandanna over her hair inside FlourChild, my sister’s bakery. The woman waves back. I’ve never met her, but she’s Tess’s employee.

We cross the street.

Sprays of ruby-red and fire-orange tulips line the windows in the florist shop. “That’s Sally Linden’s shop,” I say, continuing my impression of a town docent. “When she’s not arranging bouquets, she knits hats that she sells at the farmers’ market every weekend in the winter.”

Theo shakes his head, amused by the Wistful tales I’ve been telling. “That’s too quaint.”

I point to the diner at the end of the block. “Sam’s Diner. Try to control yourself at the sheer originality of the name,” I say, because talking so much helps smooth over the jitters inside me. I’m pretty sure I received an infestation of jumping beans of lust this morning, and now they’re banging and jostling around inside me.

That’s why I’m giving him a tour of my town, since it’s a proven scientific phenomenon that little kills lust faster than a tour of too-charming shoppes. Yes, shoppes, with two ps and an e.

“But how are the fries at Sam’s Diner?” Theo asks.

“To die for,” I say emphatically. “And fries are the true measure of a diner’s character.”

“I’ll second that.” He holds up a fist. I knock mine to his.

See? We’re buds now. All that paint me and I want to do everything to you yada yada yada from last night has gone sayonara. It’s been brushed out the door or at least swept under the carpet. Thank God. It’s far too difficult to maintain a fake relationship with someone you want to shag. The more I gab about flowers and fries and the nail salon that also offers massages and the adorable drugstore up the street that looks like something from the 1950s and the redbrick bank right next to it, the less I’ll want to bang Theo, and the easier it’ll be to pull this off.

At the end of the block, a ginger-haired man in a light blue polo shirt nurses a coffee alongside a woman dressed similarly.

“And there’s a coffee shop, too. Truly, this town wants for nothing,” I say with an exaggerated sigh.

“It is Bob’s Coffee? Jane’s Cup of Joe?”

“If only it were so original. It’s called—wait for it—the Coffee Shoppe.”

He stops in his tracks and holds up his hands. “Whoa. You’re blowing my mind now.”

“I know. But what it lacks in originality, it makes up for in awesome coffee. Plus, the owner donates one-quarter of the profits to the local animal rescue, so that’s kind of awesome,” I say as we reach the next block.

“That is actually incredibly awesome.”

“That reminds me. You and I are neck and neck for first place. What charity would you give the money to? That is, if you beat me. Which you won’t.”

He laughs; then his expression turns more serious. He looks away from me, staring at the shops on the other side of the street. “Something with kids. Maybe an after-school community center that tries to keep kids off the street.”

“Oh, I love that. Is that something you do in the city?” I ask, keeping up the one-two-three beat of the conversation. This safe banter is doing the trick.

“Sort of. There’s a kid I hang out with, Jared. He lives in my building, and his mom works a lot, so I try to hang out with him a couple times a week. Play sports and stuff.”

“That’s amazing. And even better, in a way, that you do it on your own. Plus, that’s amazing that you can fit it all in with your acting and the bartending and whatnot. Your schedule must be crazy when you’re rehearsing.”

“Yeah, it definitely is,” he says, staring at the shops.

“What was the last thing you did? Would I have seen you in anything in New York?”

“Ha. I wish.”

“What was the last GigsForHire job you did, then?”

“I did an office party a couple months ago.”

“And was it challenging?”

He shakes his head. “It was a straightforward smile-and-wave type of gig.”

“So pretty much the polar opposite of this assignment.”

“Yes. What about you? What would you do with the prize money?” he asks, getting back to the subject.

“Probably an arts program for kids. I volunteer with one that tries to bring art classes to kids from all walks of life, so I’d do that.”

The scent of salt water licks the air. We’re so close to Wistful River here, and it connects to the Sound. The water’s only a few blocks away, and I can practically taste it. I point to the end of the road, where pavement turns into dock. My father and Bob’s corporate offices stand proudly at the end of the street, and the boats they build are moored to that dock.

“That’s my dad’s boat business.”

“Show me.”

We wander to the end of the street, and I show him the redbrick building that houses the offices; then we cross to the docks. The water laps the shore lazily with each pull of the morning tides.

I watch the marine life, from the gulls hunting for bread and other leftovers on the pier to the last of the fishermen prepping to head out to sea. They’re likely fishing for fun rather than for a living. The commercial fishermen are long gone, weighing anchor well before the sun climbed over the horizon. They’re off casting nets, hauling in their first catch of the day.

“Are any of those your dad’s boats?” Theo asks.

I peer at the hundreds of boats bobbing in the water. Some are cruisers, some are cutters, and I explain that my dad and Bob make a handful of those types of boats every year. Those bigger ones bring in big paydays. “But they specialize in smaller, classic, handcrafted wooden boats. The kind a family of four or six and a dog might take out on the water for the day. Maybe to fish, maybe to lie in the sun, maybe to picnic.”

“Just boats for fun?” he asks, as if it were an absurd concept.

Maybe it is if you’re not used to it. “They’re kind of a luxury. They cost fifty-two thousand dollars,” I say, and admittedly, that does sound like quite a luxurious price tag.

Theo bursts out a cough. “Fifty grand? For a boat? For fun?” His brown eyes blink, rapid-fire.

“I know. It’s nutty, right?”

“I can’t even imagine.” He swallows and shakes his head, breathing out hard. “Hey, whatever floats your boat, right?”

I laugh, and we turn around. “Our house is a mile or so from here, and it looks out over a small lake. My dad used to test his boats on that lake all the time. I guess boats are just normal to me. Boats, water, bridges, docks. There’s a beautiful drawbridge about a mile away from here.”

He groans. Playfully. “Don’t tell me you spent your childhood wandering across the bridge, singing sad lullabies, and dropping flowers in the water.”

Laughing, I swat his shoulder as we wander past the sandwich shop. I flash back briefly on the mention of tri-tip steak sandwiches, and I’m glad I’m not going on a date with Mark, the proprietor. I’m quite happy that I’m strolling past the shop with Theo. “And simply for suggesting I might have done that, I’ll never ever take you to a bridge again.”

He pouts. “You haven’t even taken me to a bridge yet. So now you’ve taken away something you’ve never even given me.”

“I’m terrible and cruel.”

“If I’m good, will you take me to your drawbridge?” He bats his eyes playfully.

“Depends what ‘good’ is,” I say, and then we turn and head back to the stores.