Sighing, I pulled my blankets off to the side, replaced the buckets where I could find the drips, and curled back into a ball. I mentally added another task to my to-do list. I fell back into a troubled sleep while listening to:
Drip.
Drip.
Drippity drip.
The next morning I spent twenty minutes trying to figure out how to make the Eisenhower-era coffeepot work, before I remembered that Jessica had said she opened her shop at 6 a.m. Since I’d been up since 4 a.m. (time difference was going to take some adjusting to), I was in my car and into town almost as soon as I could throw on some clothes. The storm the night before had scrubbed clean the already fresh air, and by the time I’d hit the front door of Cliffside Coffee, the cobwebs were mostly swept from my brain.
A bell tinkled overheard as I opened the door, and I saw that lots of people started their day here. It was a cross between old-fashioned dive diner and cozy coffee shop, and heads turned to check out my arrival. But all in a pleasant Hi how are you? kind of way. I spied Jessica behind the counter, and she waved me down to the end.
“I wondered if I’d see you this morning. Coffee?”
“Bless you.”
“Black, right?”
“As midnight, please.” I sighed, sitting down on the stool and gratefully accepting a mug.
She set down a menu with a grin, then topped off several other customers’ cups.
“By the way, you were right. That pizza was like a gift from the gods.”
“I told you! No one knows meat like my boyfriend. Eyes on your own breakfast there, Mr. Martin. I know exactly what I just said,” she warned, thumping the counter in front of who I guessed must be Mr. Martin. “Dirty old man.” She laughed. He grinned at her but did indeed go back to his own breakfast. “How was your first night?”
“Shitty, actually. Leaky roof.”
“Ugh. The worst.” She nodded sympathetically, then looked down at the menu. “You know what you want?”
I was famished. That sea air was definitely working on my appetite. “Let’s do the Hungry Man breakfast.”
“Nice,” she said. “I’ll go put the order in.” She moved away, taking care of her other customers as I watched the comings and goings. There was an interesting mix of people here, old and young. There seemed to be an artistic bent to this community from what I’d seen so far, equal parts California granola/free spirit vibe along with a side of coastal chic. I saw a few guys dressed in coveralls, and it made me think of something. When Jessica brought my breakfast over, I asked her, “So if I needed to get some work done on the house, roof, porch, et cetera, any recommendations on who to hire?”
“Sure, plenty. Want me to put the word out?”
“Yeah, I’m not a hundred percent sure what I’ll need yet, but there’s definitely some work to be done.”
“Sounds like you’re planning on staying awhile,” she observed, looking at me with a knowing smile.
“You’re kind of nosy, you know that?” I remarked, digging into my hash browns.
“Hell yes,” she affirmed, setting a bottle of hot sauce in front of me and waving a hello to a new group that had just come in the front door.
I finished up, got a coffee to go, and thanked Jessica in advance for putting the word out to get some help. I headed back to the house . . . where there was a cowboy waiting for me.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, looking at the hunk who was on the porch. I noticed he’d avoided the broken floorboard. He stared at me, his eyes hard and unflinching. Recognition flared in them; did he remember me from the beach? Did he think I was still trespassing?
Unfolding my legs from the car, I put on my best strut as I closed the distance between us. My first words to him had to be something memorable, something intoxicating, something to make him think the dirty thoughts. His eyes strayed to my legs as I strode purposefully toward him, clad in short denim cutoffs and recently cleaned boots. And a bandage. Aw yeah.
Now standing at the bottom of the steps, I licked my lips as I appraised him. The seduction of Hank begins with the words . . .
“I see by your buckle your name’s Hunk. I mean, Hunk. I mean, f**k, Hank. Crap.”
He looked confused. Not amused.
Birds chirped. Wind blew. Hank stared. I? Sweat. Aw yeah.
Deciding to pretend I’d not spoken at all, I stared back at him, determined not to say anything.
“So, you’re Hank, right?”
Way to go, Viv.
He nodded.
Mmm. Nodding was the best. I wasn’t going to say anything else.
The pressure of his silence built.
“I’m Viv Franklin.” Sigh.
He just continued to stare, and I wondered if I had Hungry Man breakfast on my face. So much for the seduction of Hank.
“So anyway, I’m Maude’s great-niece. Did you even know I was coming out here?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He speaks! I mean, he hums!
“Great. Okay, so . . .” I trailed off. Nothing. “Yesterday, when we were on the beach? And you said, you know, get the hell off the beach?”
“That was you?”
Okay, I’m a pretty girl. A tough kind of pretty, with the tats and the piercings, but I have a great face and not smallish boobs. Not to mention I was dragging a shit piñata behind me through the sand when we met. So overall, pretty memorable.
But not to Cowboy Hank. This was going to be a tougher nut to crack than I thought. Good thing I liked a challenge.
“Yep, that was me. This is my place now. I mean, I don’t know if I’m keeping it for sure, lots of work to be done, and I haven’t really seriously considered the implications of actually moving here from Philadelphia, but I’m thinking about it. What is it you do here, exactly? I heard you oversee things, but what does that entail? Does it mean—”
“You sure talk a lot,” he mused, hooking his strong hands through his . . . gulp . . . belt buckle. Mmm, I did love a man who wasn’t afraid of a buckle.
“I don’t normally.” I moved to the side to get out of the sun, and now he was in silhouette. Christ, his outline made me want to lick things. “Anyway, you want to come in?”
“Nope. Just here to feed the horses. I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said with a frown, turning toward the barn.
As he passed me I caught a whiff of his cologne. Spicy and manly. I suddenly sneezed.
“And stay out of the barn, you’re making the animals nervous.”
I stood there, evaluating and assessing. This guy was turning me into an idiot! Like, a simpering girly girl who couldn’t handle herself around a mountain of man flesh, not at all how I normally was around men. But ooooohhhhh. Maybe this was supposed to be how it was? Like, in a good romance novel the heroine was always affected by the hero. Okay, so, reassess. Reevaluate. The cowboy wasn’t going to fall in line. That’s what happened, though, right? It couldn’t be too easy, or romance novels would just be little pamphlets. There’d be some conflict in this story. Challenges. But no more word vomit hopefully.