Mai Tai'd Up Page 11

  What? Beauty queens get themselves off all the time. Believe me.

  But the only thing I set myself to grinding was the pepper mill. Which I did, to the tune of “Come Fly with Me.” The house was equipped with stereophonic sound, hi-fi to the max, and the complete vinyl works of the Rat Pack. So while I handled my cucumber, I let Ol’ Blue Eyes romance me a little. To be clear, the Blue Eyes I was referring to was Frank . . . Oh, you know who I meant.

  I swayed a little as I finished the platter, feeling my skirt swoosh around my knees. Maybe it was the influence of the house, but I’d been compelled to buy a very 1960s-looking dress in town the other day. Kelly green, it had little straps and a fitted bodice, empire waist with a full flaring skirt. Too much for a dinner that was only happening because I was messing with Marge? Maybe, but it made me feel pretty. I’d piled my blond hair into a bun on top of my head, but a few pieces had escaped as I twirled with my cucumber. I hadn’t quite decided on shoes, and was still pondering this when the doorbell rang. Barefoot, I danced to the door.

  I peeked out at him through the colored glass, and I could just make out his features. Again I was reminded how very tall he was. Better go with the heels. Heels? This is Lucas—what was I making a big deal about? Taking a deep breath, I opened the door.

  I took another deep breath almost immediately, because the only thing better on him than scrubs was a pair of comfortable-looking jeans and a navy blue sweater. Casual but probably cashmere, with the tiniest hint of white at the top where his undershirt showed through. I followed the column of his throat to his Adam’s apple: perfection; to his jaw: perfection; and then his lips—holy fudge: perfection. Just a few inches above were those eyes, set off by the navy in his sweater. Messy red hair, ruffled by the ever-present coastal breeze, completed the ad for Banana Republic that was currently being shot on my front porch.

  In his hands? Not roses. No, he brought something unique, something unexpected. Dahlias. Deep red, almost burgundy, dinner-plate sized with velvety soft petals.

  “Hey there, Rebound, you look pretty,” he said, his eyes taking me in. “These are for you.”

  I was in so much trouble.

  Following me inside, he stopped just before stepping down into the sunken living room. Marveling at the decor once more, he turned in a circle to take it all in. The leather couches, the scoop-back chairs, the built-in entertainment center complete with record player. Where Frank was now crooning “Summer Wind.”

  “I still can’t get over this place; what a great vibe!” He turned in another circle, shaking his head. “Vibe. See? I’m already channeling the lingo, chickie baby.” He chuckled, snapping his fingers. “I feel like Bob Hope might stop by at any second.”

  “He’s down on the golf course with Bing, but he’ll be along for cocktails,” I said with a laugh, and started for the kitchen. “Speaking of, can this chickie baby get you something to drink?”

  He followed, and I could feel his eyes all over me. Did I swish my skirt a little more than was necessary? Oh my, yes.

  “What do you think Frank and company would have to drink?” he asked, and I looked over my shoulder at him. His eyes were on my behind. And when caught? Didn’t even have the decency to blush. Naughty boy.

  “Probably martinis, although I heard a rumor that Dean Martin rarely drank. It was part of his image, though, so whenever you’d see him on stage with a scotch? It was usually—”

  “Tea. I heard that too. Iced tea, to keep up appearances,” he finished for me, and I nodded.

  “Appearances are important,” I said, picking up the platter and then spinning to head back into the living room, where the tiki bar was. When I turned, he was right behind me.

  “Well, hello,” I said, my carrots now pressing into his tummy.

  “Hello,” he answered, reaching out to take the platter from my hands. “I’ll get that.” He looked down at the vegetables, then back up at me. “This looks impressive.”

  “Just a little something before dinner,” I said, scooting him into the living room. Where the bar was—I needed a drink. He set down the tray and selected a pepper while I started to mix up two martinis. “Vodka or gin?”

  “Vodka please,” he answered, crunching down on the pepper. I added booze and ice into a shaker, shook for thirty seconds, then poured into two martini glasses.

  “Olive? Onion? Lemon?” I asked. I’d stocked the bar. Well prepared.

  “Lemon’s good, thanks,” he replied, and I nodded as I used a tiny paring knife to peel back a sliver of lemon. I added a twist to my own glass, then handed him his.

  “Cheers,” I said, clinking his glass. We sipped, and our eyes met over the rim of the glasses. No one said anything, except for Frank, who was now crooning about strangers, and them being in the night. Heavy.

  The silence stretched out, and finally he said, “Well, we sure are fancy tonight, aren’t we?”

  “I know!” I said with a laugh, and it was easy again. “After that amazing day yesterday, I wanted to do something nice for you.”

  “The dress is nice,” he said, letting his eyes roam once more.

  “Thanks. I’ve been so busy lately there hasn’t been a lot of opportunity to dress up, you know?” I gulped my martini. “Not that this is an occasion to dress up; that’s not what I mean. I mean, it’s just dinner, nothing special, just two people, having dinner, at home . . . I’m going to stop talking now, okay?”

  He simply said, “So show me around your pad.”

  “Pad?”

  “It was fifty-fifty between that and digs.”

  “Pad it is; I’ll give you the tour,” I said gratefully, leading him into the less formal family room. “It’s really my dad’s pad; it’s been in his family for years. Thank goodness my mom didn’t get it in the divorce.”

  “Your parents are divorced?” he asked, following me into the dining room, where I flipped on the lights so he could fully appreciate the kitsch.

  “Yeah, they’re both back in San Diego. They fought like it was their job. Better for everyone that they’re divorced—although they had a huge fight over this house, lemme tell ya.” I grimaced.

  “She wanted it?”

  “Oh good lord, yes, which never made much sense to me. We only came up here now and then, and all my mother talked about was how much she wanted to redo it. Maybe she wanted it just so that he couldn’t have it—wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Are you guys close?” he asked, admiring the miles of orange Formica.

  “My mother and I? Hmm, tough to say right now,” I admitted, opening the screen door onto the patio. “It’s complicated.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.”

  “Nah, its okay. She was furious that . . . we called off my, the wedding, and she hates what I’m doing up here. Wow, not really complicated at all.” I sighed, sipping my martini. Not complicated except for my tripping over my pronouns. I needed to be more careful.

  I flicked on the Christmas lights that were strewn through the trees out back, and suddenly it was like being in a fairyland. I loved to sit out here, especially at nighttime; it was one of my favorite spaces in the house. Brick patterned patio floor, giant hedges that offered some privacy, and a view that went all the way to the coast on clear days.

  “Why would she hate what you’re doing up here? Everything I’ve heard about Our Gang sounds pretty terrific,” he asked, his voice confused.

  “Yes. You know that and I know that, and everyone else knows that. But when someone says those things to her, what she actually hears is ‘Our Gang, that place where my daughter is throwing her life away to pick up dog doodoo and raise a bunch of vicious mutts.’ She can’t understand how the same girl who won a crown and a sash by throwing a fire baton could also want to do this. Not when there are social committees to chair, and a golf grip to master,” I finished, realizing I hadn’t taken a breath that entire time.

  “Wow,” Lucas said.

  “Yeah,” I said, dr
inking the rest of my martini and then rattling the ice in my glass. “Another?”

  “I think I kind of have to, after that,” he said with a chuckle, draining his glass. “Fire batons? Damn.”

  I shook off the melancholy, took the glass from him, and nodded toward the gas grill. “You go get that fired up, I’ll make the drinks, and then we’ll get dinner going. I need to eat something, or I’ll get sloppy drunk and you’ll end up having to put me to bed.”

  I started across the patio, then turned back to him just as he was opening his mouth. “Shush,” I warned, then my dress and I flounced over to the bar. Where I mixed two more martinis with a twist . . .

  We made dinner together, Lucas in charge of grilling the skewers of steak and onion, while I tossed cherry tomatoes in a hot pan with some olive oil, fresh garlic, and lots of parsley and thyme. I boiled fingerling potatoes in a brine of water and salt, then steamed them for a few minutes in their skins, making them perfectly tender inside. I then tossed them with a little brown butter and cracked pepper. With the kabobs, it was a perfect meal to eat outdoors, under the fairy lights.

  I’d wisely switched to ice water after my second cocktail, and I could see a two-drink maximum was going to have to be the new standard around Lucas—especially when he was wearing navy blue. It was almost impossible to stop myself from crawling across the table, curling into his lap, and licking his face. Maybe I should have made the time to grind a bit earlier—it might have taken the edge off.

  Once dinner was over and we’d switched over to espresso (made with the ancient espresso maker my grandfather had in the kitchen since it was built), we just sat and talked for hours—the kind of hours you can afford when you have zero cares in the world and no responsibilities. We had those cares, yet we still stayed up talking well into the evening.

  We moved inside when the night air got chilly, and I was curled up on what I’m sure in its day was called a davenport, across from Lucas, who was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, which was crackling away comfortably. Ella and Louie were on the record player now, singing “You Can’t Take That Away from Me.”

  And speaking of records, for the record, no redhead should ever sit in front of a fire. Because it’s just not fair to the fire. Honestly, the way the firelight caught his hair, throwing flashes of burnt orange and whiskey honey around the room, it was just . . . not fair.

  As I was ruminating on this, my phone rang. Surprised, considering it was well after nine, I looked at the phone and saw that it was Lou.

  “Hey, Lou, what’s shaking?” I asked, laughing when I realized I was speaking in Rat Pack. Lucas just shook his head, snapped his fingers, and pointed at me. Ring a ding.

  “Hey, Chloe, you ready to get your first dog?”

  “Huh?” I asked gracefully.

  “Got a call about a dog they picked up in Salinas. Looks like it might have been a bait dog, lots of old scars.”

  “Okay,” I said, clutching the phone.

  “They’re gonna hold him for you to pick up tomorrow morning; I’ll email you the details. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I repeated, eyes wide.

  “Easy, princess—you’ll be fine.”

  “But we’re not ready yet, there’s still so much to be done and—”

  “You’ve got the pens ready, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And food and water?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then you’ll be fine,” he said, his voice kind. “You can’t always wait until everything’s perfect—sometimes it happens when it’s not supposed to. You roll with it, right?”

  “Right,” I whispered, looking at Lucas, who was by now on the couch next to me.

  “I’ll call you in the morning, and don’t worry so much. You’re going on your first freedom ride! Enjoy it!”

  “I will, Lou, and thanks for calling. I’ve got this, no problem.”

  “I know. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Oh, and Chloe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t wear your tiara—that dog’s already gonna be spooked enough as it is.”

  “You’re pretty funny for an old hippie,” I cracked, and he hung up the phone laughing.

  “What’s going on?” Lucas asked.

  I sat back against the couch. “I’m getting my first dog tomorrow—I have to pick him up in Salinas.”

  “That’s great! Congratulations!” he said. “Want me to go with you?”

  I did. I really did. But I needed to do this on my own. So I shook my head and politely declined.

  “Well, if you change your mind, just call me. I’m taking the late shift tomorrow night, so my morning’s free. You let me know.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine.” I nodded my head vigorously.

  “Well, then, I’ll let you get some sleep for your big day.”

  He helped me bring the cups into the kitchen, then I walked him to the door. He lingered a bit in the open doorway. “So listen, tonight. I had a really good time.”

  “As good as paddleboarding?” I asked, smiling up at him.

  “Different kind of good time.” He nodded, and leaned down. I held my breath. But all he did was place a gentle kiss on my forehead. “Good luck tomorrow. You call me if you decide you need some help, promise?” he whispered.

  I could only nod. Because his lips on my forehead were, in fact, enough to make me breathless.

  “Night, Chloe.”

  Then he was off the porch and into his truck, starting the ignition. As his taillights splashed across the back of my convertible, I realized . . . Fudge—I can’t pick up a pit bull in a convertible!

  “Hey, Lucas, wait! I need your truck tomorrow!” I called out, running after him.

  Ah, well, you couldn’t do everything alone.

  chapter nine

  Lucas picked me up bright and early, with coffee and donuts from Red’s: every kind of chocolate donut they made, apparently. He’d brought me chocolate glazed, devil’s food, chocolate cream filled, and even half a dozen chocolate donut holes.

  “There were originally a dozen, but they were rather demanding,” he said with a sheepish grin.

  “The donut holes were demanding?”

  “That I eat them, yes.”

  “Well, donut holes’ll do that from time to time.” I snorted and took the bag from him.

  “Based on the pudding and the Pop-Tarts, chocolate seemed like the way to go,” he said, side-eyeing me as he spoke.

  “Safe bet,” I answered, cramming one into my mouth. “Niiiiice.”

  We drove along, heading inland toward Salinas. My knee was swinging back and forth, my hand was tapping on my thigh as I chain-ate donut holes one right after the other.

  “Nervous?” he asked.

  “A little,” I admitted. “Is that weird?”

  “Not even a little,” he assured.

  “It’s just . . . I don’t know, it’s like my first day on a job. Up until now, it’s just been painting and fixing and filing and planning. But now?”

  “Now it’s real,” he said, answering my unasked question.

  “Exactly. Now it’s real.” I popped in another donut hole, chewed, then said, “What if I suck?”

  “I sincerely doubt that.” He laughed, handing me his coffee. “Here, add another sugar, will you?”

  “Seriously, though, what if I’m not good at this?” I asked, adding his sugar, then stirring. “What if it’s too much? What if—”

  “What if you get bitten? What if you let the wrong dog out at the wrong time, and you’re chasing the runaway with a flashlight at midnight? What if your favorite gets adopted?” He merged onto the highway, then looked at me briefly. “Those are all things that’ll happen—I can guarantee it.”

  “Is this my ‘get ready for greatness’ speech? Because it’s starting out a little strange,” I said, handing back his coffee. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” He sipped, then set it in the cup holder. “My point is, all of
those what-ifs are out there, but so are these: What if you get to throw tennis balls for two hours one day, and that’s your job? What if you get to be there when one of these females has a litter of pups? What if you meet the dog of your dreams?” He smiled, and reached out to steady my knee, which was still tap-tap-tapping away. “What if you fall in love with this new life? And it all starts with getting this first dog?” He pointed to the sign that said Salinas.

  “You’re good,” I allowed, sipping my coffee.

  “I’ve been told.”

  “Shush.”

  We arrived at the local animal shelter to a riot of yips and barks. After checking us in, a female tech led us back to a hallway lined with rows and rows of cages. All full of beautiful animals that just needed a chance. I gulped down the lump that had immediately risen in the back of my throat as I took in all those wagging tails, those hopeful eyes, those “play with me” paws.

  This is why I worked with therapy dogs. I’d never worked on the shelter side; it had always been too tough for me to handle. To see all these gorgeous animals that just needed a home, when I knew what happened to most of these dogs . . .

  “Oh my God,” I murmured, my breath catching as I realized how many of them were pit bulls. Lucas’ hand was on my shoulder, soothing me, grounding me. We continued along the hallway and came to the last pen.

  Huddled in the corner, facing away from us, was the guy we were here to get. Rescued from a fighting ring awhile back, he was scheduled to be put down because he’d simply run out of time. He hadn’t been adopted.

  “He’s super sweet once you get to know him, but a little shy at first,” the woman who was showing us around said. She opened the gate, and at the noise, he turned around. The first thing I saw were the saddest golden eyes I’d ever seen. Rising to his feet, he stood a little unsteadily. He seemed to be favoring his right side, and as he turned to walk toward us, I noticed the scarring on his left flank. It made sense why he was unsteady, and my blood began to boil at what he’d obviously been through.