The Best Man (Chesapeake Shores Book 2) Page 7

  I hop aboard and set to work, wiping her down and checking that she made the journey intact. I’d gotten a text over the weekend from the Dockmaster, saying she looked good and telling me what slip she’d be docked in. He even sent me a picture, knowing that boat owners are proprietary. Still, there’s nothing like the feeling of being on my boat, even if we’re not sailing just yet.

  And from the looks of it, sailing may not be on the agenda for today. I check the time and note that I technically have two more hours of daylight, but the overcast sky begs to differ. Sharp wind whips around the marina, and I can tell that what Molly said on Tuesday is true: it’s cold. Rain begins to drizzle down, and I watch droplets race each other down the hull and into the water.

  I wave to a few people mooring their boats, and I know I’ve missed my window. Maybe, if we’d have taken an earlier flight, I could have made it back in time to get a few hours out on the water.

  But, it’s only March, I remind myself. There’s plenty of time for sailing. One last swipe of cloth against the metal rail, and it’s time for me to close up.

  By the time I’m done, my shirt is soaked and my mood has soured considerably. I walk a few blocks up from the marina to the coffee shop I’ve spotted several times before. Drip sits on the corner of a relatively busy intersection and the large white sign with bright red lettering is hard to miss. It’s a cute name for a coffee shop, I guess, and totally appropriate for the moment, because I’m literally dripping rainwater. I step under the awning and brush off what I can, resisting the urge to shake like a dog to rid myself of the excess moisture.

  A bell rings as I step through the door; chatter hums from various patrons, and the aroma of coffee wafts around me. But all those sensations are drowned out by the tall blonde perched at a cafe table in the corner.

  The set of her shoulders is tense, and she’s gripping her phone as though squeezing it will make it buzz or ring.

  I’ve never been insecure about my looks. Nobody’s calling me to strut down a runway, but I know I’m attractive, I dress well, and I make a good first impression. My 40th birthday came and went last year and the only notable thing about it was the gift from my sister. I needed no fanfare, and I certainly didn’t cry in my beer when I discovered a little salt and pepper around my temples.

  So, I’ve never in my life been nervous about approaching a woman.

  Until now.

  I’m soaking wet, fucking cold, and Goddamn tired. And even though I bear a striking resemblance to a drowned rat, I can’t resist the urge to talk to her, to share a drink, to check in. I look like I escaped a shipwreck, but my girl looks pissed. And she’d be really pissed if she knew I was referring to her as my girl. So, I keep those words to myself and walk toward her, determined to figure out what has her in such a bad mood.

  Water has pooled at my feet, and I mop it with a napkin, before striding over to Molly’s table.

  I tip my chin and smile as she looks in my direction. “Fancy seeing you here,” I say, because I’ve lost all my smoothness and am now only allowed to speak in cliches, apparently.

  At my approach, her face falls into a frown. Like I said, I’ve never had self-esteem issues, but, man, that hurts.

  “Ouch.” It’s all I can think of, but it’s accurate.

  “Oh, my gosh, no. I’m sorry, I—. I was expecting someone else.”

  Her words do nothing to soften the blow.

  She shakes her head as if to restart. “My crestfallen look was not personal, I promise. I’ve been stood up again by my half-sister, Ashley. She’s having a rough semester at college, so I keep trying to connect with her, but this is the third date we’ve made that she’s ditched.”

  “That explains why you’re gripping your phone like a vise.” Again with the cliches? This woman is turning my brain to mush.

  “Yea, I’m a little bit annoyed. But I’m better now that you’re here.” Her smile is genuine. “Will you join me for some tea? Or are you a coffee addict like Elaine?”

  “No one is a coffee addict quite like my sister, but I’m definitely a fan.” I move toward the table and, dammit, my shoes squeak.

  “Oh my word, you’re soaking. How did I miss that?”

  “Yea, this is what happens when you let some smokeshow borrow your car,” I smile.

  “Don’t blame this on me!” She laughs. “Have you heard of this thing called Uber?”

  “It’s a long story about a guy who thought he could squeeze in a couple of hours sailing on the Bay, but got stuck in a downpour as he was leaving the marina,” I lament. “I’m gonna see if I can dry off a bit.” I head down the small hallway that has to be where the restrooms are.

  A glance in the mirror confirms my suspicion: I’m a fucking mess. My hair is sopping wet and starting to curl, my white shirt is transparent, and I’m surely leaving a trail of water everywhere I go.

  I peel my shirt off and dump it in the sink to wring it out. My pants aren’t too bad, except around the ankles. And my shoes are likely ruined. I dry my hair with a fistful of paper towels and then aim the hand dryer at my chest.

  Before I can even turn it on, I hear the door handle rattle. Just my freaking luck. “It’s occupied,” I call.

  “I know it’s occupied. Let me in.” Molly’s voice rings clear.

  I crack the door open, and that’s all the encouragement she needs. She pushes my hand away and walks right in. To the restroom. While I’m wet and shirtless.

  “Need something, Molly?” I question, not bothering to hide my annoyance, as I press the button for the hand dryer and it rumbles loudly.

  She presses the button again, and the machine quiets. “No, I’m fine.” She smiles. “But you need a shirt. So I got you one.”

  “You got me a shirt?” Okay, I wasn’t expecting that.

  “Yea, they sell quirky shirts at the counter, and you need one, so…” There’s heat in her gaze as she looks at my bare chest. I’m thankful for my years of faithful gym habits right now.

  Her lips part, and it’s clear she’s not immune to me.

  “Do I really need a shirt?” I tease; I can’t resist.

  Unfortunately, that snaps her out of her lusty haze.

  “Of course you do. You’re dripping wet. And I missed you, which is both unexpected and inconvenient, but there you have it. And I figure you could stick around and grab a cup of tea with me if you were dry. Because friends do that. They drink hot beverages together. So…” She shakes out a giant purple sweatshirt.

  Now, it’s not that I’m ungrateful, but I was expecting something more along the lines of a standard-issue employee t-shirt. Maybe in gray or black. This crewneck sweatshirt is the color of grape soda, but it’s soft and dry, so I’ll keep my mouth shut about the color.

  “Thank you, really. That was—”

  “Oh, don’t thank me until you look in the mirror.” And there it is, that glint in her eye that tells me she’s up to something mischievous.

  I pull the sweatshirt over my head and smooth out the creases. There’s writing all over the front, so I look down and read. Sure enough, there in thick, bold, white letters are the words This Girl Loves Bengal Cats and Coffee. And there’s a Bengal cat screen-printed in the front to dispel any confusion.

  Molly can barely restrain a giggle. “This was all they had in your size…”

  “I hate cats,” I mutter as we walk back out to our table, which, of course, is all the way across the coffee shop. The coffee shop, which, might I add, is now filled with people.

  Of course it is.

  When I walked in, there were a handful of people here, drinking their coffee and minding their business.

  But now? Now that I am wearing a purple sweatshirt emblazoned with a cat on it? Now they’re all staring at me.

  So, I put on my most charming smile and own it. I’ve learned in business that people can smell fear, anxiety, and frustration. And sensing it just gives your opponent an edge. And no one gets an edge over me, so I have refined the ar
t of not giving a shit.

  Molly’s eating up every stare and every giggle that comes my way. And she leisurely pauses to check out merchandise, and hems and haws at the bakery case, all while putting me on display.

  And honestly, the smile on her face is worth it.

  She decides on a blueberry scone—warmed up, naturally—and then we turn to have a seat.

  Two guys now occupy the chairs next to ours and I smile politely in greeting. Then my head snaps back in recognition.

  “Mr. Madigan, I’m just out for a quick coffee. I assure you I’ll finish up everything tonight.” Nate looks mortified, as though he’s been caught doing something as scandalous as grabbing coffee before heading back to the inn to work for six more hours.

  Although, he’d be right to worry in most situations. Joel Peretti would be handing him his ass right now. And Blake Stills would be asking him how he’s survived all this time without knowing how to make his own cup of coffee.

  Yes, the guys I work with are total pricks.

  Good thing I’m not one of them. Not only could I never look myself in the mirror, but I have a feeling Molly might cut off my balls.

  “No worries, Nate. Having a cup of coffee is never something you should apologize for.” He smiles gratefully and I swear I can actually see his shoulders relax.

  The guy with him is fixated on my shirt, so I start the introductions. “I’d like you to meet Molly. She purchased this sweatshirt just for me after I got caught in the rain.”

  “Molly, great to meet someone with such excellent taste. I’m Nate, and this is Jared.” Nate can barely keep from laughing.

  Handshakes are exchanged all around and Molly enchants both of the guys with the extended version of my rain-soaked tale.

  I sit back and sip my drink, content just to watch and listen. I consider myself to be charming when it’s called for. That’s part of my job, afterall. But the charm Molly exudes is natural and effortless. Everyone in her orbit is drawn to her, just as I was a few months ago at that bar. And, I hope, I’m smart enough never to let her go.

  “What sounds good, Stella? It’s your pick.” She just finished up her physical therapy appointment, and we’re off to grab breakfast.

  “I love this car. Maybe we should just get Egg McMuffins, so we can keep cruising?”

  At her hopeful look, I laugh. “Enjoy it while you can. I saw Ev last night at the coffee shop, and I promised to return his wheels today. And I have to say that I doubt he’d appreciate crumbs on his leather interior.”

  “Alright, then. Let’s go to that diner over by the college. I’ve got a hankering for blueberry pancakes.”

  We fill up on carbs and talk about our weekend plans. Stella’s are far more exciting than mine. I am heading out to Mahady’s with Ev tomorrow night to check out a band that might perform at Elaine and Simon’s reception. It’s a far cry from the weekends when I used to go to the club night after night, but it will feel good to get back into the scene, so to speak.

  “Do you mind dropping me at the nail salon, dear? I really should get a fill. My nails look awful.”

  “Of course not, but really, they don’t look bad at all.”

  “Well, Vera’s brother is in town, and I just want to look my best, you understand.”

  “Far be it from me to stand in the way of a woman and her look.” I smile and steal the check before she notices it on the table.

  “What time should I pick you up? I’m on my way to dad’s after this. The dog walker has the flu, so I’m on puppy duty today. But I can swing by and get you at 11, if that works? It couldn’t be any later, though, because I have to pick up Ava and take her—”

  “Molly, darling, isn’t today your day off?” Stella asks.

  “Yea,” I nod, figuring the tip in my head and adding three dollars. I was a server in college; I’m an over-tipper.

  “And you’re spending this day off carting me around, helping your dad, picking up Ava, and Lord knows what else.”

  “It’s fine,” I assure her. “Helping people is what I do.”

  “And I’m so very grateful. But who helps you, lovely?”

  “I don’t need help,” I answer cheekily, with a wink. All the while, I’m fighting the visual of Ev that pops into my head. I feel like there are many things that Ev could help me with, and my schedule is far down on that list.

  “We all need help, dear. Don’t forget that. And don’t worry about picking me up. Dottie will come and get me and then we’re playing bridge at Vera’s.”

  “And let me guess, Vera’s brother will be there?”

  She smiles, “That’s the plan.”

  I shake my head. “Well, then. We’d better get you to the salon.”

  Two and a half hours later, I’m exhausted. I pinch my cheeks to add some color and swipe on some gloss before heading into the hotel to meet with Ev and the wedding planner. I lock the Porsche and give her a quick salute. I’ve had fun driving her, but it’s time she went back to her rightful owner.

  My heels click on the Italian marble of the Admiral Inn, as I walk into the lobby and take a seat in one of the plush, overstuffed chairs. Miraculously, I’m early. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes and take a few moments to relax.

  “Molly, are you all right?”

  The deep, rumbly timbre of Ev’s voice is soothing. I crack a smile and open my eyes.

  “I’m fine, Ev. It’s just been a day.”

  He takes a seat in the chair next to mine, and for a moment, I wish we weren’t scheduled to meet with the wedding planner. I wish we could just sit and talk. Despite my annoyance at his reappearance in my life, I genuinely like the guy. That’s probably why I’m so annoyed that he’s back. He’s easy to talk to and hard to resist.

  “Already? It’s barely noon,” he says.

  “Yes, already. I started my day with Stella at physical therapy, and that was the easy part. Then I went to my dad’s to walk his dog, but someone, probably my stepbrother Winn, forgot to close Baxter’s crate this morning, so the Cocker Spaniel puppy wreaked havoc on the place. I cleaned up two broken vases and a shredded pillow before I noticed a dark smudge on the white sofa. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was chocolate and that it was also all over Baxter’s mouth.”

  He stands and crosses the two steps to my chair, squatting behind me. What the hell? Did he drop a pen? “Damn. I’m no dog expert, but that does not sound good.” His firm hands grip my shoulders and knead the tense muscles there. Lordy Lord, I was not expecting this, but I’m definitely not objecting.

  “Not at all,” I continue. “I found the rest of the Hershey bar on the rug, which is also white. He chewed it, but didn’t eat much, thank goodness. So, I blotted those messes while I was on hold with the vet. I took Baxter over there to get checked out, just in case, and then I rushed over to my stepsister Ava’s school, so I could pick her up and take her to the gynecologist to get birth control.”

  “Jesus. Is that something sisters do for each other? Because...” Ev looks confused and a little green at the prospect of having to take a teenager to get contraceptives.

  “No, I don’t think it’s a sisterly ritual. We went to the salon last week, Ava and I, and she kept telling me all about this boy she’s talking to, so I took the responsible next step and got her an appointment. Her parents—my dad and stepmom—are good people, and they love her, but they aren’t great at noticing signs like that.”

  “Signs like talking?” Now his confusion is written plainly across his handsome face.

  “Oh, Ev. You’re showing your age, my friend. ‘Talking’ doesn’t mean talking, as in conversing.”

  “Of course not. Why would it? Okay, so enlighten me.”

  “These days,” I roll my eyes at my own age-revealing wording, “‘talking’ basically entails what we think of as dating, only it’s not necessarily exclusive, and it’s more physical than conversational.”

  Ev nods, as if digesting this alien information. “So, it’s like college dat
ing? Where you just sort of hook up? Or am I advertising my age again with that phrase?”

  “Ha. Maybe a little, but I’m tracking. And yes, it’s similar. So, we went to the gynecologist and then hit up a drive-thru for milkshakes. Oh, and I gave her a box of condoms, of course. Pregnancy is not the only possible consequence of unprotected sex, and I want to make sure Ava is prepared when she takes that next step.”

  He looks at me with regard. “You, Molly Randall, are one hell of a person. Do your parents—uh, dad and stepmother—appreciate that you’re basically raising their child?”

  “Haha. I’m not raising her. I’m just helping. And I know they appreciate that. In fact, I’m sure they’d love for me to let Winn, Ava’s fifteen-year-old brother, move in with me for the next few years. That kid is a handful.”

  “Wow. Do you intend to, uh, adopt your brother? Make him your roommate?”

  “Oh, hell no.” I assure him. “My family members on both sides lean on me a lot. I think I’m listed as the emergency contact for about thirty people. And I’m happy with this arrangement. I’m a fixer. But there is no way I’m inviting my moody, stinky, grumpy, hungry brother to move in. I don’t want kids of any shape or form. Not my own, and not anyone else’s. But I have no problem pitching in when I’m needed.That’s why I can’t wait to be an auntie to Elaine’s baby.”

  Ev’s fingers still for just a second at my words and then they resume their rhythm, as though there was no interruption. But I felt it. What is going on? Is he bothered by the reminder that I’ll be in his niece or nephew’s life just like he will? Is it the fact that I’m so family-oriented? Is he turned off by my admission that I’m not going to have children? Whatever it is, I’m not in the mood for heavy conversation right now. And besides, we really are just friends. And none of my choices or opinions change that.