I’m polishing a wineglass on a sleepy Tuesday at Midsummer Nights. Jodie rambles a mile a minute about a new yoga class she signed up for, and I’m half-listening—in fairness, Jodie talks so much, it’s impossible to catch every word. She keeps me company, though, on these lonely, sleepy days. I know Mom would’ve loved her. She’s got the same spirit. Maybe, in truth, that’s why when Jodie Ellison wandered in here and asked for a job last year, I said yes within ten minutes of talking to her.
Jodie just finished a half-hour rant about Liam and what an asshole he was and how his dick really wasn’t even that big, if she were being honest. I just let her go, ignoring the shocked look from the single guy at the end of the bar who is listening to every explicit word and detail. As Jodie turns her rant to a gush about the hot instructor at yoga class with ease and I nod at the right places—turns out I was completely right about Liam, and she caught him at the Marooned Pirate with another redhead—the door swings open. I glance up to see what familiar face will wander through the door. I stop polishing for a second because the face, the person coming through the door, isn’t familiar.
Hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, he’s wearing a button-up shirt. There isn’t a single button undone, and one of the first things I note is that he looks like his shirt is strangling him. Eyes appraising the place, he tiptoes inside, turning to shut the door quietly behind him. The precision of the move informs me he’s feeling more than a little uptight.
“Hello, sorry, are you open for a while yet?” his warm voice asks, and I put the glass down on the bar. Despite his strangling shirt and clear level of discomfort, I can’t help but notice the depth in his dark brown eyes, the perfect jawline jutting out, the strong physique he’s sporting. I take a deep breath, trying to fight the ridiculous grin spreading on my face.
Get your shit together, I tell myself. So what if he’s good-looking? Gorgeous even. You’ve been through enough to know the gorgeous ones are most definitely straight. Or assholes. That’s just your luck.
And it’s true. Over the years, besides finding a whole lot of men who are interested in nothing but a hot fling, I’ve seemed to have what Jodie calls the straight curse. Every man who wanders into Midsummer whom I feel even mildly attracted to is most definitely and utterly not gay. I’ve made a fool of myself enough times to be just about done even trying. There are, of course, tons of gay bars in town, which are great for a fun time. But anything else and you can just forget it—most of the guys at the bars I’ve come across aren’t looking to settle down into a two-bedroom townhouse and plan a life together. And a man can only have fun for so long before suddenly fun just isn’t really enthralling or fulfilling.
“Yes, we’re open,” Jodie replies, smiling. “Right this way, handsome. Are you just stopping by? A tourist?” she asks, leading him in with her typical Jodie exuberance that electrifies even the gloomiest, loneliest room.
The man seems to take a breath, settling in.
“No, I actually just moved here. Do I have the tourist look?” he asks, smiling for the first time.
I busy myself with another glass after nodding in greeting.
“Well, there’s no fanny pack, so that’s a good sign,” Jodie says, handing him a menu.
From the back of the kitchen, Georgette’s singing loudly to some Foreigner music. There’s one elderly couple in the corner of the restaurant sipping on coffee and doing some crosswords. Other than them and the still stunned single guy at the end of the bar, the place is bare.
Which means I have an excellent spot to spy on the newcomer, who apparently isn’t just swinging by—another problem with my finding love situation. Even if I do find someone I’m attracted to and he’s not straight, he’s usually in town for a total of a week before moving on.
A beach town isn’t always the most conducive spot to find love.
“Do people really wear those godawful things around here?” the man asks, and Jodie nods.
“You better believe it. But listen, if you just called a fanny pack godawful, then you’re going to fit in just fine around here, right, Lysander?” she calls, and I startle, realizing they both are looking at me and seeing me staring.
“Right. This is a no-fanny-pack zone,” I say. And then I cringe. What the hell was that? Why am I so corny right now?
But the man grins, looking down at the menu Jodie handed to him. “I’ll give you some time to look over the menu. I’m Jodie by the way, and this is Lysander. He owns the place.”
“I’m Reed. Reed Wilder.”
“We’re so glad you’re here. Hope you like the food. I recommend the Down and Dirty Demetrius. It’s basically a twist on a regular burger, but it’s the boss’s favorite.” Jodie winks.
“Down and dirty? Sounds like fun,” Reed replies, smirking. He looks up at me, and I feel myself blush.
Jodie turns around and walks over to me. Her face is in an unmistakable leer.
“I’m heading back to check on Georgette,” I announce hurriedly, more enunciated than necessary perhaps.
She shakes her head. “Sure you are. What, does she need help belting out the solo?”
I parade back to the kitchen, acting like I’m on a mission.
Jodie follows me, cornering me near the sink past the swinging doors. “Uh-oh. I’ve seen this look before. But listen, I can’t blame you, boss. Reed Wilder is pretty damn hot. If he weren’t gay, I’d go for him.”
I shake my head, eyeing her. “He’s not gay.”
“Oh, he’s gay. I can sense it.”
“Really? You think you have better gaydar than a gay guy?” I ask, scowling.
“He’s gay. And you two are going to be perfect together. His last name is Wilder. What could be more fun? And he’s not just a tourist. It’s perfect. Perfect, I tell you.”
“Just stop. Like I said, he’s not gay.”
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to see. Now excuse me while I go see what he prefers. My bet is on the down and dirty.” She winks at me, and I shake my head as she pushes the swinging doors to the kitchen open, singing along with Georgette.
I lean on the sink, taking a deep breath before mentally scolding myself to stop acting crazy and to stop getting my hopes up.
Love hasn’t worked out for three decades for me. What the hell makes me think it’s going to work out now?