Page 24 of The Best Man
“Financial investors make more than copy writers, or so it would seem.”
“Good thing you’re friends with an investor who knows what you like and is happy to share.”
There’s an undertone there that I don’t know what to do with, so I ignore it. That’s not usually my style, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t resist liking this guy and I don’t want to ruin the fragile friendship we’re building. Also, there’s a two hundred thousand dollar car in my driveway that is begging me to take it for a spin.
“One catch,” Ev throws out.
“Of course.” I roll my eyes. “
“I get a picture of you in that car.”
“Seems reasonable...” I reply, “...if I get a picture of you and the Chicago skyline. I’ve never been there.” What? What am I saying? I do not need a picture of this man. My mouth and my brain are not in sync.
“Consider it done.” He smiles, and I see the creases along his mouth and his eyes. They only make him sexier. The same with the hint of gray at his temples. God, he’s like a walking GQ ad and..
There’s background noise, and I see a young, good looking guy come into view. “Mr. Madigan, we should probably, oh, I’m so sorry to interrupt...”
Holy hell. What am I doing? He’s working. I’m working. We’re friends, for heaven’s sake.
“Don’t worry about it, Nate.” At Ev’s words, the guy,Nate,smiles and retreats.
“I’ll let you go.”
“Sounds good, Molly. I’ll be back in town Thursday, like I said, so—”
“We’re meeting with the florist at noon on Friday. See you then.” I smile and disconnect.
That was borderline rude.
Notruderude. But still. Too hasty. I should text. But what would I say?
Dammit. It’s been an hour since I received that first text, and I’m right back where I started. And what is it about Ev Madigan that makes me overthink everything? Gah.
It’s been a long week. It was a long flight. But I’m finally back on the Eastern Shore. I had the car service drop me off at the marina, and I asked Nate to take my bags and suit jacket to the inn for me. We were successful in Chicago, and we need to finish up that contract tomorrow. So Nate’s in town for a couple of days to help me wrap that up.
But we’re done working for now. Well, at least I am. I have no doubt that Nate has checked in, started a pot of coffee, and is grinding away at solidifying our latest acquisition.
Not so long ago—less than a year, really—that was me. But I’m restless today. Who am I kidding, I’ve been restless for ages now. An hour or two on the water is just what I need.Being out on my boat clears my mind like nothing else can. Well, maybe sex...But boating is the next best thing. There’s no pressure out here, no competition, just me and the water. I stroll down the dock toward my Leopard 40, which was just brought up from Florida late last week. It’s too big a boat for just me, but Victoria hated sailing, so I sold our Cutwater and bought this when the ink was dry on our divorce papers. I’ve taken her out a few times, but I’m hoping to have more time for that now, though that’s likely just wishful thinking. My job hasn’t changed, only my location has. And hell, even that’s temporary.
I hop aboard and set to work, wiping her down and checking that she made the journey intact. I’d gotten a text over the weekend from the Dockmaster, saying she looked good and telling me what slip she’d be docked in. He even sent me a picture, knowing that boat owners are proprietary. Still, there’s nothing like the feeling of being on my boat, even if we’re not sailing just yet.
And from the looks of it, sailing may not be on the agenda for today. I check the time and note that I technically have two more hours of daylight, but the overcast sky begs to differ. Sharp wind whips around the marina, and I can tell that what Molly said on Tuesday is true: it’s cold. Rain begins to drizzle down, and I watch droplets race each other down the hull and into the water.
I wave to a few people mooring their boats, and I know I’ve missed my window. Maybe, if we’d have taken an earlier flight, I could have made it back in time to get a few hours out on the water.
But, it’s only March, I remind myself. There’s plenty of time for sailing. One last swipe of cloth against the metal rail, and it’s time for me to close up.
By the time I’m done, my shirt is soaked and my mood has soured considerably. I walk a few blocks up from the marina to the coffee shop I’ve spotted several times before. Drip sits on the corner of a relatively busy intersection and the large white sign with bright red lettering is hard to miss. It’s a cute name for a coffee shop, I guess, and totally appropriate for the moment, because I’m literally dripping rainwater. I step under the awning and brush off what I can, resisting the urge to shake like a dog to rid myself of the excess moisture.
A bell rings as I step through the door; chatter hums from various patrons, and the aroma of coffee wafts around me. But all those sensations are drowned out by the tall blonde perched at a cafe table in the corner.
The set of her shoulders is tense, and she’s gripping her phone as though squeezing it will make it buzz or ring.
I’ve never been insecure about my looks. Nobody’s calling me to strut down a runway, but I know I’m attractive, I dress well, and I make a good first impression. My 40th birthday came and went last year and the only notable thing about it was the gift from my sister. I needed no fanfare, and I certainly didn’t cry in my beer when I discovered a little salt and pepper around my temples.
So, I’ve never in my life been nervous about approaching a woman.
Until now.
