Chapter Five

We walked into the Rusty Pelican and my first thought was, Club? This was what they considered a club around here? My God, this place was a cross between a dive and a honky-tonk.

L.A. had clubs, and they looked nothing like this. But I decided to think of it as a bar in my attempt to be a part of the culture of my fellow Martha Pointers, as I’d heard locals refer to themselves. Being from Martha’s Point and all. Classy, I know.

The motif was distinctly seafaring, with heavy rope nets holding plastic crabs and seagulls. The tables were high, like you’d find in a club, but there the resemblance ended. On top of a ship’s wooden steering wheel, turned on its side, similar to the one Captain Jack manned in Pirates of the Caribbean, sat a round of glass. The table was certainly unique, and the grips of the wheel stuck out a couple of inches past the edge of the tinted glass. Please, please don’t let me start out the night by impaling myself on one of them, I thought.

Smoke and dim lighting obscured the other patrons. Used to California laws, I had completely forgotten Virginia didn’t embrace the no-smoking-indoors thing. This would be a pleasant night, complete with my mascara running from my smoke-sensitive eyes. Yay.

I followed Bella to our very own round wheel table in the corner and thanked my lucky stars there was a vent directly over my head. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Ten minutes later, I knew my stars were out of whack. The vent pulled the smoke our way and yes, indeed, my eyes were starting to stream. We’d been approached by a couple of guys, but Bella shooed them away. After they moved off, she’d lean over to tell me their flaws, which ranged from married to inbred.

But then the door swung open and it was like one of those kooky movie moments. A man walked through the front door and stood silhouetted in the muted light of the bar. He was tall and, from my vantage point in my very attractive captain’s chair (no lie, I swear), he looked good. Of course, throughout the evening I’d met and been wrong about Will, the fisherman with the wandering eye, and Chuck, the jobless drifter—and not in a sexy, Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise way. Bella leaned over again and I prepared myself for the inevitable, “He’s not right for you. He has slimy hands, syphilis, a wife, etc.”

So I was shocked when she said, “Now this is a man who is worth knowing.”

What? A man worth knowing? As in biblically? Or because he could build me an ad campaign that would bring in more customers? So I asked. No sense being in the dark if I had a line to the flashlight. “He doesn’t have some strange disease or defect I should watch for?”

“No,” she yelled in my ear to be heard over the awful ’80s cover band wailing out Van Halen, and I waited for the rest. “He’s really sweet and kind. I think you guys will hit it off great.”

What? again. Hit it off great? So why hadn’t she mentioned this fine example of maleness prior to now? Bella had made it a point to let me know I’d have to go outside our small town to find anyone even remotely interesting. So what bushel had she been hiding this one under? And why?

The why wasn’t answered immediately, but the bushel thing became clear after she told me where he worked. “He’s the food critic for the Martha Herald, our local weekly paper. The paper sucks, because it’s pretty much all gossip and how to sauce your apples, but he’s pretty witty at spotlighting the local restaurants.”

So what took up all his time if he only did reviews of local places to eat? I mean, that can’t take all day, every day. Can it? Bella’s clairvoyance reared its head again, and it was spooky.

“It doesn’t take up all his time. He’s also doing some online correspondence course work for his private investigator license.”

“Online? Seriously? To be a private investigator?” I yelled. And of course, because my stars were in whacked mode, he walked up to the table at the precise moment the music stopped and everyone in the place heard me. I fidgeted in the chair, then leaned forward to whisper my embarrassment to Bella. As my stiletto-shod foot slipped off the circular rail, I lost my balance and fell face first into a solid wall of muscle.

Swallow me whole, floor. Open up and take me away. Or was that Calgon?

“Yes, online,” a voice as smooth as scotch said right next to my ear. So not only did he have the silhouette thing going for him, but the voice was a potential puddle factor.

Bella, bless her smug heart, jumped right in and made the introductions. Which in no way detracted from my embarrassment like everyone always thinks a change of subject will. Oh no, it just hastened the creeping blush making its way from my chest to my ears. I tried to find the positive here and came up with, “At least it’s dark and smoky.” Lame, but I so did not need anything else to be mortified about.

“Ben, this is Ivy Morris. Ivy, Ben Fallon.” On the first pass, I thought she’d said Fallen. That wouldn’t have been far off the mark in features, now that I could see him up close. Too close for a first encounter. Could he see my gigantic pores I’d tried so hard to hide with foundation?

He set me back on my chair like I weighed nothing, and let me tell you, that is some kind of feat. My insides went all fluttery, as though I’d harvested a bunch of cocooned caterpillars.

I finally got a really good look at all of him, and he was the embodiment of my every wish of a fallen angel. Dark hair brushed the collar of his chocolate (see, not a bad color, at least not on him) leather jacket. Moss-green eyes stared into mine, hard cheekbones and a square jaw boxed in a set of lips that should have been illegal—perfect, full lips I wanted to bite. “Uh, hi, Ben.”

Brilliant.

Jeez, get it together, Ivy. I didn’t even know this guy and already I was wanting to nibble at him? And sounding stupid while I dreamed up my fantasy? Celibacy was obviously not for me when faced with broad shoulders and—if he’d just walk away, I’d put money on it—a fine ass.

In the interest of testing out my theory, I drained my fruity drink and said, “Ben, would you mind terribly getting me another drink?” Which would have been smooth if we weren’t sitting two feet from the bar, but he seemed to take the hint. Falling for my lame attempt at a Southern twist on my words, he walked away. Yes, yes, yes! I seriously would have won that butt bet.

“Christ on a crutch, Bella. I thought you said no eligible men. And thanks so much for letting me yell as he walked up.” My inner voice sure was coming out more often. Three weeks ago, I would have smiled demurely and let the words run through my head. Or I would have come up with them three hours later and wished I’d said them at the right time. Now I seemed to be blurting out whatever came to mind. I would need to seriously consider investing in a filter between my brain and my mouth. There was certainly something to be said for a little tact.

Bella had the nerve to laugh, a big guffaw, and pat me on the hand. I wanted to smack her, but fortunately the link between my brain and physical abuse had a strong filter of its own.

“Calm down,” she said. “From the way he was looking at you, you probably could have yelled out what kind of underwear he wears and he still would have gone to fetch you a new drink.”

“Somehow I doubt Ben would appreciate a public discussion of whether he wears boxers or briefs.” The music was still loud, so I felt safe in my response. Except my stomach did a slow dive and shivers danced down my back when “Boxers” was whispered into my ear. Hello, God, anytime now, floor opening up, earthquake, anything?

Of course, none of those things happened and I had to wait while the blush I was positive flared on my face went from a burning red down to a faint tingle. I used the time to shoot daggers at a smiling Bella.

Ben placed our drinks on the glass table and pulled up a captain’s chair for himself, not a self-conscious bone in his body. He plopped into the chair in a decidedly masculine sprawl and threw me a wicked grin.

Sheesh, was it suddenly very hot in here for a late autumn night?

“So, Ivy, Bella tells me you’re running The Masked Shoppe now.” The ’80s cover band was taking a welcome break from their ear-splitting renditions of “White Snake,” “Damn Yankees” and “G-N-R,” so we could actually talk at an almost normal level. Well, a little louder than normal in order to compete with the other patrons, because it seemed like the whole town was here.

“Gertie was my great-aunt,” I said. Duh. I mean, everyone must know that little tidbit in a place the size of Martha’s Point. I cleared my throat and plunged on. “I love this town. I’m sorry that Gertie passed, but it got me out of my dad’s house.” Oh. My. God. I was an idiot. I did a little half-smile and waited for Ben to pick up his glass and move to another table to get as far away as possible from the lunatic who didn’t get out of the house unless someone died. Add on the embarrassing fact that it was my dad’s house and Ben should be running like a bat out of my hell.

But, surprisingly, he stayed and started telling Bella and me funny stories about the food critic business and local gossip he picked up around the newspaper.

I tried my hardest not to snort at any time and had nearly made it through the first half an hour without embarrassing myself when he said, “So this guy comes in to the paper and wants to place an ad. Not my department, but I was the only one there on that Saturday. So I gave him the template to fill in and waited while he labored over the four lines allowed. He hands the sheet back to me when he’s done and I skim over it to look for any misspellings when the words ‘crotch’ and ‘humping’ jump out at me. I take a closer look, because I wasn’t really reading it for content.” Ben took a pull on his beer, then continued, “It turns out this guy found a dog on the side of the road and other than the fact that it’s a mutt, the guy put in distinguishing characteristics such as the dog likes to stick his nose in every female crotch he comes in contact with and likes humping hedges.”

And I lost it. Just like that, I started laughing so hard I was snorting and then the snorting turned to almost gagging, which is always attractive.

Bella, friend that she was, whacked me a solid one on the back, and I nearly fell off my chair again. This time straight into Ben’s lap. Without thinking, I put my hand out to stop my forward momentum and ended up with my fingers grasping a purely male characteristic.

“Holy hell,” I said in the silence following my fall. Every eye in the place was on me. Even the bartender had stopped wiping the long, curved bar to look my way. It was the final straw. I awkwardly lurched to my feet and, despite three of the fruity drinks floating in my system and clouding my brain, hightailed it to the ladies’ room.

The fake wood door banged shut behind me and I was surrounded by that special scent of public restrooms everywhere—a mix of disinfectant and the last patron who sat on the toilet.

How was I going to face Ben again? He was a lot of things I always told myself I would look for in a guy if I ever met any outside of my old job. Cute, sexy, intelligent, with a hell of a sense of humor. Why, oh, why, did I have to touch his doodads on the first meeting? I totally copped a feel, and while I was embarrassed about the impromptu groping, let me tell you, girls, that had been some serious package to get my hand on. Faint-worthy, even, if I hadn’t been so busy turning bright red.

With another loud bang of the door against cheap fabricated wood paneling, Bella came steamrolling into the bathroom and stood before me with her hands on her hips. “You’ve been gone for ten minutes,” she said. “That’s long enough. Ben is not annoyed or turned off by your mistake.” I’m telling you, she was clairvoyant. I didn’t care what she said anymore. “He’s out there waiting for you.”

“Yeah, waiting for me to come out and make a bigger fool of myself,” I said. “You do realize that I am three for three.” I ticked items off on my fingers. “I insulted his education, speculated on his underwear choices, and almost made my own in-depth study of the latter right through his pants. What reason, other than further embarrassment, could he possibly have for waiting?” I was close to tears. A burning started in the back of my throat, and my eyes felt itchy. Never a good sign, because I was so not one of those pretty criers who dab at their glistening eyes with a fine handkerchief. I was the puffy-eyes type, snot-honking into plain tissues.

So now I had a choice to make. I could go out and face Ben and see if Bella was reading all the signs right, or I could find an exit that didn’t pass by our table and hope to never see the magnificent Ben ever again in my natural life. The Pre-Inheritance Ivy would have run like the devil was on her ass. But the new Ivy... Well, I took stock of myself, swiped a quick hand (not the one that had landed in Ben’s crotch—I thought I’d wait to wash it, or maybe I’d never wash it again) over my chunky highlights and told myself I really had nothing to lose. What was the worst that could happen? He could laugh at me and tell me I was a joke. Well, that would be his loss. And since I’d already copped a feel, I was all the more interested in pursuing something that would get me skin to skin with him, without the denim in between.