Page 16 of Villainous Summer

Slipping my fingers around the stem of my wineglass, I needed to steady myself before I took a drink.

The server came back with Van’s burger, setting it between us.

Before he could leave, I said, “My guy here is insisting that I take a slice of the peach pie home. Could you box that up for me?”

Van snorted, shaking his head and then nodding at the server. “Of course. Anything my girl wants, she can have. Why don’t you make that the dessert sampler? We’ll need a treat for later—extra energy and all that—won’t we, Sunshine?” He gave me a lascivious wink.

Despite myself, heat flooded my cheeks. If this were one of my books, I’d call him rakish. In our time, it’s a fuck-boy look.

The server mumbled his response, walking away.

My smile dropped, and I scowled. “Was that necessary? You look pornographic winking like that.”

“Pornographic. My, my. You have an imagination.” With his elbow propped on the table, he swirled his thumb over the tip of his pointer finger.

I thought of how that hand felt in mine, the strength of those fingers as they slid over my skin. I had never given much thought to the strength of a man’s hands, but it was consuming me.

“It’s indecent. I work across the street, and now the server is going to be picturing us in bed together.”

Van glanced at the server, who was at the bar talking to the bartender. “That man has been picturing you in bed this entire time.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I scoffed.

“He has, and you know it. You can be my little thief, but don’t you dare lie.”

“I didn’t steal, and I’m not your anything.”

Regretting the decision to allow him at my table, let alone agreeing to this fake date with him, I realized I could always stand him up.

“Oh, you’re something alright, but that’s not important. Now, before you get too far in objectifying me, let’s talk logistics. What do I need to know about you before Saturday?” He took a big bite of his burger.

Staring across the table at this gorgeous man, I tried to think of a dozen reasons to leave.

I didn’t know him. He was infuriating after fifteen minutes. His face was far too symmetrical to be trustworthy.

All the warning signs were there. This was a stupid idea. But it wouldn’t end with me having to get tested at the clinic or with a bottle of duty-free champagne thrown at his door. I was original enough to switch things up, anyway.

What harm could one fake date do?

Summer

Even in early July, the weather in the Pacific Northwest can’t be trusted. Some years, it rains nonstop through the parade, soaking the pageant queens in their convertibles and melting the scattered crowd candy. Others, it’s sweltering heat on the concrete of Front Street, with nary a breeze from Freedom Bay to cool. This year, it was a perfectly pleasant sixty-six degrees on the sidewalk. By noon, people were setting up their chairs in front of the hotel to prepare for the two p.m. parade.

My assistant manager, Lucia, was due to arrive at twelve-thirty to take over for me.

A part of me hoped she would get stuck in traffic or twist her ankle or something so that I would have to stay and miss the parade party. But it was not to be. Lucia arrived, as fresh as ever, at 12:27 p.m. Blast her punctuality and professionalism.

I gave her a quick rundown of the guests. We were fully booked because of the holiday weekend. When I offered to stay, she shooed me to my office to change, reminding me that, since I started, I had been working over sixty hours every week.

With my office door locked, I changed from my white button-down and black slacks to a blue sundress and nude sandals. I styled my hair that morning in a braided coronet. Pulling out the pins, I shook my head until the kinked strands cascaded around my face. If I had more time, I would have curled my hair, but the slightly crunchy wave would have to do.

Using the camera on my computer, I applied a swipe of mascara, bronzer, and watermelon-colored lipstick. I had forgotten a strapless bra, so I would need to go without or risk everyone seeing the thick-strapped dirty-dishwater monstrosity I had pulled on. I needed to invest in a bra that cost over thirty bucks.

Luckily, my small boobs could afford me a braless day. Not that I didn’t wish I had the cleavage. Why Autumn got the buxom DNA and I didn’t was a crime.

Standing back, I turned this way and that, making sure I looked presentable enough.

Briefly, I wondered what Van would think, but it didn’t matter. This was a no-strings-attached occasion. It was obvious he wasn’t the settling-down type—even if he didn’t explain how he didn’t want to find another girl to bring, since she’d think it was more serious than that. It was in the way he flirted. He was used to the short term.

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