Page 3 of Thirst For Me
I glance at the chatty, tattooed hottie next to me, dubious about trusting that white-toothed smile and easy confidence, which has never worked out well for me in the past. But then he does me a solid and says, “Please, put your money away. Mason Grant, for fuck’s sake, let the woman use your Wi-Fi.”
Mason gives his friend a glare that could melt solid steel. When his blue eyes meet mine again, I try to give him my best “harmless, completely non-crazy stranger” face.
“Or, if it’s really that much trouble,” Hot Carpenter drawls, “I do have Wi-Fi back at my place ...”
I really try to keep a straight face. I know he just said that to irritate Mason and force his hand, because it’s clearly working.
I blink innocently at Mason. “And I could really use some privacy to make those calls,” I say hopefully.
Mason glowers briefly at his friend. Then he makes a growly sound under his breath and stalks toward a door at the far end of the bar. I scramble to pick up my things, flash a thumbs-up at Hot Carpenter, and hurry after Mason as he pushes the door open and stalks inside.
“Network and password are on the router, there.” He points a thick finger at the sleek white router, completely out of place on the ancient wooden desk piled high with papers and junk.
Then he leaves just as abruptly as he showed me in. “Thank you!” I call after him, but he just shuts the door like he didn’t hear it.
I blow out a breath and dump my things on the chair behind his desk, because there’s nowhere else to put anything. The shelves along one wall overflow with old bar equipment, tools, and more papers. Liquor boxes are stacked precariously along another wall. The small, vintage tufted sofa is buried under a landslide of more papers, file boxes, and bar towels.
Even the walls are covered with framed newspaper clippings, dusty certifications, and what look like old family photos, most of them in black and white.
I connect to the bar’s Wi-Fi and try to focus, absolutely itching with the urge to straighten, declutter, and spruce. I’m already rearranging the whole place and giving it a fresh coat of paint in my head. I can’t help it. I’m such a sucker for a fixer-upper.
Unfortunately, this weakness of mine also applies to men.
I enable Wi-Fi calling on my phone and call the number June Spencer gave me while trying not to stare at the framed photo on the wall in front of me. Mason and his carpenter friend hold up a couple of giant fish they presumably just caught. They’re both shirtless, revealing mouthwatering abs and more tattoos.
I eyeball Mason greedily. A girl could really have a nice nap on that broad chest after all the sex. He wears a backwards ball cap, and he’s clean-shaven. He looks younger. Deep dimples slice into both cheeks.
So, hecansmile.
The call goes to voicemail, just an electronic message that informs me no one is available at the number I’ve called. I leave a message for June, then call Sophie in Vancouver.
“Dear fucking lord, Sierra Daniels, where the hell have you been?” My overtly loving, squishy-hug-giving, one-woman-funhouse of a best friend picks up the call, absolutely breathless. “I’ve been trying to reach you forhours.”
“You have? Sorry, it’s been a day. Cell service is spotty around here. I’m in Orchard Cove now, but I can’t find June Spencer. You know, that cranky old lady who walked up to my booth at an industry con, took one sip and told me that my smoothies are ‘perhaps too ambitious,’ then invited me to her tiny-ass hometown in the same breath, and I said, ‘Why, yes. How soon can I sign the lease?’ Like a damn idiot. Why did I think this was a good idea?”
“Well,” Sophie says carefully, “because you thought it would be fun to spend a few weeks on the island this summer, sipping wine and eating the local raspberries or whatever, with Kyle.”
“Yeah. What a dumbass.Please, I fucking implore you, if I ever plan anything more than a week in advance with a man again, kick me right in the junk.”
“How will that ever work? You’d be black and blue. You can’t help romanticizing—”
“Nope. That was the old Sierra. New and improved Sierra does not fantasize about her future with any man. She’s got enough on her plate, just trying to unfuck the here and now.”
“Si, come on. You’ve got to stop blaming yourself—”
“As of next month, I am completely winging it,” I insist. “I just need to fulfill this stupid lease agreement and get back to the city, so I canfixwhat’s left of my life—”
“Sierra.Sweetie.” Sophie’s unusually forceful tone makes me shut my mouth. “I’ve been trying to reach you for a reason. And maybe you should sit down for this.”
“Oh.” I shove my things over and squeeze onto the leather chair that Mason has very possibly had sex on. I mean, if I were a guy that hot and I owned a bar, I’d definitely be fucking someone in my office. “Tell me what?” I ask her, slightly distracted as my eyes drift back to that shirtless photo.
“Well ...” Sophie groans, like she really doesn’t want to say it. “If you thought things were bad before you left ...”
“You mean, this morning?” I laugh humorlessly. “What could possibly have gone wrong since this morning?”
Sophie takes an audible breath before she forces it out. “There’s a meme.”
I don’t quite know how to interpret this, or apply it to the conversation at hand.
