Summer Ever After

One day, he was playing Frisbee on the beach with a beautiful Labrador dog that wasn’t Bella, and that was fine—until he threw it my way, causing the dog to jump on the blanket I’d been sunning myself on. It was infuriating. I refused to inquire about him. He seemed like a jack of all trades—bringing suitcases to the newly arriving guests at Maddie’s bed and breakfast during the week, delivering mail, walking dogs, and serving tables at the best lunch spot in Gold Beach, which I missed out on while trying to avoid him. It was simply infuriating that I couldn’t escape him, and, at the same time, the one man I wanted clearly didn’t want anything to do with me. I hawked my phone for messages from Lucas that never came and ignored the calls from my dad and sister weekly. This was supposed to be a great summer; however, nothing seemed to be going according to plan. Sadly, my life was in no more order than when I had left LA.

ROMAN

When I get the phone call from Bonnie’s husband that she’s going into labor and they need me to babysit the sandwich shop, I don’t mind. Waiting tables was something I did as a teen, and it’s hard to forget how to take lunch orders. Besides, I get to leave the cooking to Myrtle. However, I don’t expect to see Blondie sitting at one of the outdoor tables I’m serving.

She’s wearing flashy sunglasses that look new and I’m guessing they’re not the ones she lost earlier at the beach. Staring at her cellphone, she taps her foot in the air impatiently like a spoiled sovereign ready to give orders with her haughty attitude. I grab a pitcher of ice cold water and pour myself a drink. The cold ice diverts my attention and I focused once again. I need to go out there and take her lunch order without getting slayed, and I’m little nervous to interact with her again. Looking at her long legs—although I know from standing up next to her earlier that morning, she barely reached my shoulder—about does me in. I drink the water down. Hoping to cool the rise in my shorts, I think about old Myrtle in the kitchen, but I can’t keep my mind off the woman outside.

Blondie’s skin is smooth and pale. It’s odd, but I have these expectations of California girls having a fried golden tan with frosted hair. Instead, I get this little mouthy monster who I want to pin under the boardwalk and thrust into until I no longer hear her complaints, just breathy little moans as she claws my skin, begging for more.

Gah! Who am I kidding?

I want her out of my head. She’d tried tipping me—millionaire boat builder—a five-dollar bill and frequently sends me on my way with my tail between my legs. I’m not about to subject myself to being toyed with by some LA girl who thinks the sun rises and sets at her slippered feet.

Walking up to her table, I stand over her, blocking out the sun. I can clearly see down the front of her sundress to the pale blue lacy bra she is wearing. The color matches her eyes and reminds me of the little blue flowers that bloom around the banks of the Rogue River—or at least when she isn’t trying to throw icy daggers of insults my way. Everything about her seems to distract me and screw me up.

Taking advantage, I taunt her. I’m having a little innocent fun, watching her chest heave angry breaths and getting a closer look at the breasts—I’d never otherwise see—as I lean over to pour her water.

Lucky for me and my dick, the ice princess replies in her conceited manner enough to sink the Titanic boner in my pants. I imagine the icy shards stabbing me repeatedly with her sour attitude. I sure this encounter alone will turn me off forever, until I see the wounded look in her eyes. I don’t believe her demeanor is in any way related to me. My bets are on the shithead boyfriend.

I make one last taunt, pinning her to her seat and leaning over her. Once I give her the final perusal and she notices my eyes travel a bit further south of her lips, I get the cock-blocking ice freeze, ending any chance to identify the sweet smell I catch when I get close to the sea banshee.

She bursts from her chair like her tail is on fire, and due to my proximity, she has to brush against me to leave. Sure, I could step back from her, but really, where is the fun in that? Our bodies touch ever so briefly and it’s the tease in our movements that makes me want her still. My cock goes hard so quickly, I swear my balls disappear.

The majority of our encounters resemble this dialogue: me being my charming self and the ice princess biting back with her frosty lips. It’s a no-win situation I’d happily surrender, but she’s summarily checkmated me for life.

I can’t lie and say I’m not the tiniest bit curious about the bratty blonde princess from LA. I can’t even deny I discreetly inquired about her as week one of her arrival merged into weeks two and three. We keep running into each other, as fate would cruelly have it. After all, Gold Beach is about a square mile of actual town, with less than three thousand residents, so it isn’t like we can go far without tormenting each other. We’ve been reduced to exchanging stinging barbs or just eye-balling each other curiously before walking away. It would appear, I have a talent for irritating her. It actually delighted me to see her so peeved when I bought a whole group of kids some ice cream just so I could pay for hers.

She’s beautiful when angry; her face flushes and her voice pitches. Maddie keeps warning me to behave—frankly, she told me to go up to Seattle and tend to my boat business like I should—but this is far more interesting, seeing what makes her so bitchy.

I use to think I was somewhat easy on the eyes, but this woman makes me question my appeal to the female species as a whole. Her capacity to ignore me is cutting my ego to shreds. I want to know what made her come all the way to Gold Beach by herself. Seems her rich lawyer boyfriend is on the outs with her, and while I have no desire to come between the two of them, I can’t understand why he is leaving such a beautiful, if bratty, girl on her own. I sure as hell wouldn’t if she was my girl—but she isn’t, nor do I want to saddle myself with one. I came to Gold Beach to exorcise a few demons of my own. I really don’t need Blondie here to add to my troubles. I’ve made it a rule to not get involved with out-of-towners here in the sanctuary of where I grew up. I save that shit for Seattle.

Chapter Four

ABIGAIL

“Are you shitting me?” Sitting down on the metal barstool, which been bolted to the floor, I dump my small purse on the polished wooden bar of the Ship’s Bottom Bar and Grill. I look up into familiar gray eyes and light brown hair highlighted by too much sun these past few weeks—not that I’ve noticed his hair or anything. I contemplate throwing the stool at him, and with how offensive he’s been, I’m sure I’m not the only female who’s had the same idea. Hence, the bolted stools. His hair is mussed over his head like he just rolled out of bed, and I wonder just how many women in Gold Beach get cozy with the lewd postal-sailor-waiter-barkeep. Not that he’s crossed my mind once in the last week.

Nope.

Nada.

Okay, maybe a little.

“I shit you not, ice princess,” he chuckles, the sound grating on my biased ears as I watch him run a soft rag over the bar, keeping it free of spills and sticky liquid. The sound of his laugh filters through my rigid body like warm honey, relaxing me, and I sit back on the stool, making myself comfortable. I’m tempted to leave, but I’m here and there’s not much he can say or do to me in a public place, right?

“Jesus, you’re the barhop too?” My tone is snide and I wince, breaking eye contact with the cocky stranger and owner of the most incredible smile. I keep bumping into him. The more I try to buck the universe and avoid him as much as possible, the more he keeps showing up. I decide to settle in for a long night of trading barbs. Anything is better than holing up in my cottage alone, again, listening to waves break the surf outside my window and my phone ever silent.

“Jesus ain’t got nothing on my skills, sweetheart. Now, name your poison, ice princess. Arrrgh!” He grins at me, making a ridiculous pirate accent. I’m pretty sure he’d whip out an eye patch if he could. I struggle to remain immune, rolling my eyes at him and reminding myself how much I hate men. I hate them. Really hate them. Most of them, anyway, since Lucas is too busy to take my phone calls and his infrequent texts stall our reconciliation.

“You can stop calling me that name, you know,” I state, folding my arms over my chest. I hate his nickname the ‘ice princess,’ which he has taken to calling me after several of our encounters ended up with either glares or us just shouting at each other for no real legitimate reason. I mean, it wasn’t my fault entirely that we got asked to leave the library after I yelled at him for staring at me in my sundress the second time I went there. The elderly volunteer at the desk just clucked at me and pointed to the door. Apparently, Roman was legitimately dropping off books from the senior center, and a ‘visitor’ like me was being disruptive. Fine. That’s why I brought a Kindle, anyway—so I could avoid public places.

“Now whose fault is that, Miss ‘I shoot daggers of ice at unsuspecting males between the ages of sixteen and seventy’?” All right, he got me there, but still… His smile makes my lips tug, but I want to resist it as long as possible—based on principle, you know.

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” I insist, finally. I might get to appease my curiosity, since I shot down Maddie’s questions about my ‘run-ins’ with him. Part of what made the fun last this long was I didn’t know his name, or rather, he hadn’t told me his name, but now my curiosity is finally winning me over.

“Roman Winters. Much to your dismay, I’m local, so you’ll keep seeing me around, if you haven’t caught on yet.” Yeah, I sure bet I would in this town—and likely in my dreams, too. “I’m really not stalking you. I actually live here,” Roman leans over the bar to whisper at me, smirking. He’s big, tall, muscular, and a cocky SOB with more confidence than the best defense attorneys I’d ever met. That said a lot, considering my dad owns a prominent firm in LA. “And you would be?” he asks, leaning closer over the counter and prompting me to end my idyllic dreaming. My girl parts squeeze deliciously together like a champagne bottle building pressure ready to pop. Not even L

ucas gets me this hot this quickly. Embarrassment floods my face and I hope the dimness of the bar conceals my flush.