Page 12 of Villainous Summer

Designed with meticulously weathered white shiplap and dark-blue walls, the waterfront restaurant boasted the best views of Freedom Bay.

As a child, my father would take me here on every birthday, allowing me to get the pirate ship meal off the kid’s menu. My first legal drink was at the bar, a slippery nipple that tasted better going down than it did coming back up three hours later. The walk from Ridgewood Inn took me across Front Street, past Sticky Cow Brewery, and up a staircase to the heavy cabin door.

The day had been a long thirteen hours at work. When one of my servers called in a half hour before his shift, I knew that the day would be tough. Marnie in housekeeping had informed me that the guests in 221 stole the towels and pillows from the room and that Angie’s car had broken down and couldn’t get a ride to work until her boyfriend returned from his job.

All I wanted to do was head back to my apartment, but my fridge was as empty as the gas tank in my red two-door Camry. While I could have Nutter Butter bars for dinner—again—I deserved tourist-priced wine.

With my glass of a local Viognier on its way, I opened my reading app, pulling up A Ladies Guide to Impropriety.

When the server set my wine down, he winked.

He was cute enough, someone a few years older than me at school. I was pretty sure he had asked Devin out at some point.

As he walked away, I sent Devin a text.

Summer: Is John who works at The Cabin the guy who sang Ed Sheeran to you in the middle of the courtyard at lunch junior year???

Devin: It was Coldplay, but yeah

That was a no-go. I added “serenading servers” to my immediately jail list. So far, I had cheaters, men who wear deep V-neck shirts, girls who baby-talk in the middle of a conversation, anyone with a beer opener on their sandals, people who hate Taylor Swift and Beyonce based on vibes, and those who tell me I don’t understand Wes Anderson movies.

It would’ve been nice to have a little physical attention, though. The dating pool in Ridgewood was getting slimmer each year. While I’ve had a few flings over the years, hooking up with a random from the Skol House wasn’t an option anymore when they could also show up at the hotel.

Dating apps were a lost cause. Most people who popped up lived across the water in Seattle, and with as horny as I could get at night, I wasn’t going to hop on a boat for an orgasm.

Switching from the message thread to my library book, I read the first sentence when the door opened. I glanced up, the street roaring below us, and almost dropped my phone on the table.

It was the guy.

It had been over a month since I had seen him. But somehow, he looked better. In all the heightened emotions of the day, I told myself he wasn’t nearly as good-looking as I remembered. But, no, if anything, he was better-looking. A clean gray tee shirt clung to his broad chest, gripping those firm biceps. His beard had grown out thicker, but it was well groomed. When I last saw him, his dark hair was disheveled, but it was neatly combed.

I wasn’t sure what I liked more.

He stopped at the hostess stand, his thick forearms flexing as he shoved his hands in his pockets. A sly smile crossed his face as he talked with the hostess. She giggled, then waved him toward my general area.

No. This couldn’t be happening.

He wouldn’t come over and talk to me, would he? Our exchange was awkward, possibly felonious, and I had done everything to wipe it from my mind. So much so that I wasn’t sure I remembered his name.

Taking a gulp of my cold wine, I racked my brain.

Did he tell me his name?

No, I didn’t think he did.

Did he?

He looked like someone with a butch name. Jagger or Diesel or Ace. Something like that.

Surely, enough people were there to hide among.

Pulling my blonde hair over my eyes, I picked up my phone, my eyes downcast.

The night before, I had been engrossed in the tale of Viscount Rodolphe as he stole a phaeton to confess his love for Beatrice.

Now, I had to will myself to reread the same sentence repeatedly. My eyes darted to the bar where the mystery man was seated with his back to me. The server was flirting with the bartender, leaning between the row of ketchup bottles and rolled napkins to talk.

Had they put my order in the system yet?

---