Waiting for the One, Page 2

  “I suppose I shall take that small victory and leave you be. As always, Logan, it has truly been a pleasure speaking with you.” I raise my hand. “Please don’t say anything, because I understand completely that you are secretly so in love with me that I leave you speechless. My supermodel looks are my cross to bear.”

  Turning from him, I head back to the other end of the bar, but I do chance a glance over my shoulder and, sure enough, Logan is watching me with a slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Harrington has a festival for pretty much everything including Mrs. Cantor’s—daughter of Bob the daredevil—apple pie. I am not kidding. It won first place at the county fair, and so naturally a festival was born. The Swordfish Festival is coming up. When people attempt to create “fair-like” cuisine from swordfish . . . it makes my stomach ache just thinking about it.

  I have been drafted into helping with this festival, but luckily for me I am handling crowd control. Crowd control seems unnecessary in a town of under a thousand. Even the hordes of visitors drawn to our town during festival time tops out at about a hundred. Regardless, I will walk the one main street through town and ensure that the wheelchair folks don’t run over the ones with walkers. As I walk past the post office, I see Gwen and the children just leaving it.

  “Hey, Saffron, how are you?”

  “Hi, guys.” I kneel down next to Michael and Callie. “Are you guys excited about the Swordfish Festival?”

  Even they, both festival freaks, look less than enthusiastic. “No,” Michael murmurs.

  I lean even closer. “Yeah, me neither.”

  “Come to dinner on Friday, Saffron. Mitch is making cod in parchment pockets.”

  I love Mitch’s cod.

  “I’ll be there. Where are you off to now?”

  “The dentist.”

  “Ah, definitely won’t be joining you for that.”

  “You sure? We could both lapse into a coma from the music that’s pumped into the waiting room.”

  “Tempting, but no. I’m on my way home for my car. I need to go grocery shopping. I’ll see you on Friday, though.”

  “Some friend you are: eat my food but let me slip into madness all alone listening to elevator music.”

  Flashing Gwen a smile, I hug her and kiss the little cherubs before I start back down the street in a near run.

  My car—I use the term car loosely—is a 1981 Chrysler LeBaron, held together with duct tape, and it’s a crapshoot if the thing will start. On grocery day, though, I take it into town because it definitely makes lugging my groceries home that much easier. Not even halfway into town, my lovely car decides to break down. Since it does this often, I know that Jake’s response time for a tow is anywhere from ten minutes to three hours. I’m better off walking back home.

  It’s only six in the evening, and even now the road is deserted. As I come along a stretch of road that runs up against the bay, I notice the Harrington Lighthouse. It isn’t a particularly big lighthouse, but it is very well cared for. There is a light on inside and I realize that someone lives here now. The spotlight itself is all done through computers, but the fact that the house part has actually been turned into a home is pretty cool.

  The door opens after a moment and out walks none other than Logan. Logan MacGowan lives in the Harrington Lighthouse. Why didn’t I know this? It’s a small town; you’d think it’d be common knowledge. Maybe it is, probably it is, and it’s just me in the dark. Not surprising, since I seem to be the only one the man doesn’t speak to. I can certainly use this new information in my quest to break his silence. And then the robe he is wearing comes off to expose the James Bond–like swim trunks under it. My face turns red as heat creeps along my skin, but I don’t take my eyes from his body. Hard muscle and sinew bunch and cord under smooth golden skin. His shoulders are huge—his impressive left bicep has a tattoo that wraps around it—his waist narrow, his thighs muscled, and his movements deliberate yet graceful. It’s going to be hard to see him now and not think about the spectacular body he’s hiding under his flannel and jeans. And I thought he was fascinating before.

  I watch him for a few minutes before I realize I am standing in the bushes, in the dark, watching a nearly naked man swimming without his knowledge. Yeah, I believe that is the classic definition of stalking. On a sigh, I turn from the god in the water and continue to walk home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Thursday night is packed at Tucker’s, which is good since staying busy keeps me from obsessing over Logan MacGowan’s body. And that is all I have been doing since I walked away from him last night. In my lifetime, I have never seen a more perfectly put-together body, and isn’t it just my luck that the body belongs to the one man in town who makes avoiding me a full-time job? Life just isn’t fair.

  I need some air so I call, “Tommy, I’m taking a break.” I walk from behind the bar and head outside. It’s cooler tonight and the stars are unbelievably bright. I don’t generally like to take stock of my life, but after my voyeuristic adventure last night, I am willing to admit that I’m in a rut. My three best friends are growing and maturing and here I am still doing the same thing since graduating from college. Do I want to get married and have kids? Yeah, I do, but I am not making any progress toward that when my only prospect is a man who, for whatever reason, has no wish to speak to me. As much as I dislike the idea of online dating, I think that I, Saffron Mills, am going to have to bite the bullet and sign up.

  I’m only halfway back to the bar when Jake stops me. “Hi, Saffron.”

  “Hey, Jake. How are you doing tonight?”

  “I’m good. Hey, would you like to have dinner with me?”

  I didn’t see this coming. Jake Matthews is asking me out? He’s single, I’m single, and who knows, maybe I’m all wrong about him.

  “Sure, Jake, I’d like that.”

  “How about tomorrow night?”

  “Oh, I can’t tomorrow, I’m having dinner with Gwen. Saturday works for me.”

  A smile spreads over his handsome face and his blue eyes sparkle. “I’ll pick you up around seven?”

  “Sounds great. I better get back to work.”

  “See you on Saturday, Saffron.”

  I’m grinning as I make my way behind the bar.

  “What was that?” Tommy leans up against the counter next to me.

  “I have a date with Jake.”

  One of his dark-blond eyebrows arches ever so slightly in response.

  “Is that hard, Tommy, that thing you do with your eyebrow?”

  “You’re trying to get off-topic.”

  “I’m just trying to shake my life up a bit. I’m stagnating, if you haven’t noticed. I don’t have lofty goals like winning an Academy Award or being the Next Top Model, and my social life is lived vicariously through you, Gwen, and Josh, and my only prospect is a man who refuses to speak to me. I need to get a life.”

  “Saffron, it’s not like Logan does all that much speaking to begin with.”

  My shoulders slump. They often do when I feel defeated. “Maybe my spinning his rejection into a game just makes me a loser.”

  Tommy stands straight and grabs my arms. “You are not a loser. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again.”

  “Yes, sir. We know why I’m alone, the male-female ratio of this town does not work in my favor. But you, you must have to beat the women away. Why aren’t you married, again?”

  “Never met anyone I wanted to make that kind of commitment to.”

  “Do you want to get married?”

  “Are you proposing?”

  “You’re a clown, but if I was, would you say yes?”

  “No, and you wouldn’t ask.”

  “That’s true. You refuse to acknowledge that I am the master of the known universe and that you should do my bidding. We would never work.”

  He leans closer. “Now who’s the clown?”

  “So Logan lives in the lighthouse?” Gwen stands against the counter sipping fr
om her glass of red wine as Mitch fillets the cod he purchased at the fishmonger earlier. I am telling them about my stalker adventure from the other night.

  “And he was taking an evening swim?”

  “Yeah, and I have to tell you, Gwen, the man is built . . .”

  Mitch looks up from the cod. “Seriously, I’m standing right here.”

  “You’re not interested in the details of Logan’s very fine form?” I ask innocently.

  He responds by pointing the knife in my general direction.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  Gwen reaches for a mushroom-stuffed puffed pastry that Mitch just happened to have whipped up for us. Man, how lucky is she?

  “Do you guys eat like this every night? It seems only fair that if you get to make a habit of indulging your taste buds that you should both be at least two hundred pounds.” Since I don’t often get to feast on such magnificent fare, I have no problem with taking another shrimp and dipping it into Mitch’s homemade cocktail sauce.

  “We eat in moderation,” Gwen says. I see the smile curving her lips before she adds, “Unless the dish is really good and then to hell with moderation.”

  “All of his dishes are really good, though.”

  Mitch eyes me through his lashes. “We have fast metabolisms.”

  “Lucky bastards,” I mutter. At this moment Michael and Callie come running into the kitchen.

  “Come play,” Michael squeals as he reaches for my hand.

  “Okay, I’ll be in the living room.” I see the look that passes between Gwen and Mitch. “I’ll keep the little ones occupied.”

  Mitch reluctantly turns his attention on me. “That would be very much appreciated, Saffron.”

  And then his smoldering gaze is back on his wife. To be on the receiving end of a look like that . . .

  When we reach the living room, I notice the toys everywhere, even though the room was immaculate when I arrived. Michael and Callie have been very busy.

  “What are we playing, Michael?”

  “Cowboys and Indians.”

  Cowboys and Indians, which makes me the horse. My back is going to protest this tomorrow.

  “All right then, giddyup.”

  After Mitch puts the kids to bed, the three of us sit at the table nursing our glasses of wine.

  “I have a date with Jake tomorrow night.”

  Neither says it out loud, but I can hear it anyway: no freaking way.

  “Really?” Gwen asks, eying me over the rim of her glass.

  “Yeah, he asked me last night and since I haven’t been on a date with someone my own age in . . .” I stop talking and try to think of my last date and am having a hard time bringing the memory into focus. “I can’t remember the last time I was out on a date.”

  “It has been a while,” Gwen says softly.

  Mitch adds, “You haven’t been on one, outside of Frank, since I’ve known you.”

  I just stare, openmouthed, at Mitch. It can’t possibly be that long ago, can it? “Six years is a really long time.”

  “You graduated college and then your parents moved to Florida to retire. That was a bit of an adjustment for you. Six years isn’t really all that long.”

  I smile at Gwen. She is trying, and I really love her for it, but there is no denying that six years without a date is pretty damn pathetic. But, chin up, little lady, because I am going on a date tomorrow night with a very handsome man. Life is good.

  I want to kill myself. I want to take my butter knife and work on my wrists until I bleed out. My initial assessment of Jake Matthews was spot-on. The man can’t stop looking at his own reflection. The first time he gazed longingly at himself was in the foyer of my house. As I attempted to get my coat on, no help on the Jake front with that, he stood admiring himself in my hall mirror. I felt as if I should give him and his reflection some alone time. The looks he was giving himself were rather steamy. For dinner, the place Jake selected for our date was none other than Tucker’s.

  Now, I work there every night of the week. On my occasional night off, especially on a date, don’t you think the gentleman would offer to take me somewhere else? Anywhere else? Nope, doesn’t even dawn on him. What is worse is that there are no available tables, so we have to sit at the bar. It’s just a stroke of dumb luck that I am wearing wide-legged black pants and a silver silk tank or I’d be extremely uncomfortable on a barstool in a skirt.

  This isn’t even the worst part of the evening—no one seems to be able to tell that we are on a date and that includes my date himself. Every woman that comes up to flirt receives a welcoming smile, and when he isn’t flirting he’s looking at himself in his spoon.

  Tucker’s is really busy tonight and since Tommy has his hands full, I might as well help out since the date is a complete dud. To my surprise, Jake takes notice when I walk behind the bar. “What are you doing, Saffron?”

  I just stand there a moment, because he can’t be that stupid. “Really, Jake, you need to ask?”

  “We haven’t even had anything to eat.” Or maybe he can.

  “You know what? I’m not that hungry.” After witnessing his actions all evening, his good looks pale before his vanity.

  At this moment, a table of single ladies calls him over.

  “Well, then I’m going to go hang with them.”

  “Please, go.”

  He stands, clearly confused by the turn of events, before he moves on to greener pastures. I walk over to the shelf and pull down the Jameson. I pour two fingers into a glass and kick it back.

  “What happened?” Tommy’s voice comes from just behind me. The whiskey burns its way to my belly.

  “My last date preferred men, and while this one prefers women in general, he doesn’t prefer me in particular.”

  “Well, he’s a fool.”

  “I’ll stay and lend you a hand.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yup.” Across the bar, Jake is chatting up the ladies, completely undisturbed by the fact that his date just dumped him. “Suddenly my evening is wide open.”

  Around half past nine, the door opens and in walks Logan. Immediately the image of him on the beach in the moonlight dressed in only a pair of swim shorts fills my head. You’d never know what he hides under those baggy clothes.

  He starts for the bar, but seeing me, he stops. Those green gems take a leisurely journey down the length of me, but his expression doesn’t give any clue as to whether he likes what he sees. It’s silly, this attraction I have for him. For all I know, he hacks people up in his basement and eats them for dinner. He might prefer sleeping with goats, or be as dumb as a post, but it doesn’t matter, because every time I see him, my body tingles.

  The sound of Tommy’s voice breaks the spell. “What will you have, Logan?”

  “A Guinness,” comes the response in a sexy deep baritone, and then it hits me that I have just heard Logan speak. He takes a spot at the bar and turns his head to engage in conversation with the man sitting next to him. His deep timbre cuts through the other noises in the bar. I get back to work, but a part of me is still focused on that voice, so I hear him laugh some time later: a sound that causes shivers along my nerve endings. In that moment, an unexpected pang of anger spikes my shivers. Why won’t the man speak to me? What have I done to be so singled out? I’m already circling the seventh level of hell coming from the worst date of my life, so why not put myself out there and ask him?

  Building him another Guinness, I walk to him and slam it down on the bar in front of him. “So what’s your problem?” Logan’s head jerks, first to the glass and then up at me.

  Silence.

  “Are you three? I mean, why do you give only me the silent treatment? Have I offended you in some way?”

  Nothing, no reaction at all. Frustration causes my face to flush, but I’m not about to stand there and blush in front of him. I have some pride left, even after a humiliating evening.

  “Fuck it.” Turning, I grab my purse from
under the bar. “I’m going home, Tommy.”

  I don’t wait for his response before I walk from around the bar and out into the dark night. I’m so annoyed, but I’m also a little hurt. After being so completely ignored by Jake, and unable to rattle Logan out of his silence, I can’t help but wonder if the problem is with me. The walk home soothes my nerves, but what’s now abundantly clear to me is that I’m really going to have to resort to online dating.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I spend the next few days setting up my profile online. I can’t deny it’s a bit strange trying to market myself. Has my dating life come to this? Once I confirm my profile, I’m surprised at the number of responses, though many are so far away that they really aren’t practical. However, within a sixty-mile radius, I have twelve interested men and so I set up a few meets.

  The first man on my list is Daniel Caine. He works as a manager in a department store—strong features, dark hair, blue eyes. Based on his profile, I have the sense that he’s the silent type. Since Harrington’s only social outlets are The Harbor, where Mitch works, and Tucker’s, I decide to meet Daniel in Bar Harbor, where he lives, which is an hour’s drive away. I don’t need the entire town knowing that I’m online dating.

  The day of the date, I ask Gwen if I can borrow her car.

  “Sure, but I want all the details. Spare nothing, Saffron, I even want to know what he wore.”

  “As long as you don’t tell anyone, including your husband.” Gwen is about to protest, but I stop her. “No deal otherwise.”

  “Fine, even though I don’t keep anything from Mitch.”

  “Yes, well, this is my private life, so you really aren’t.”

  “Fine. You look beautiful. The teal in your blouse matches your eyes.”

  I smile absently as I rub my sweaty palms over my black pants and reach for my purse. “I’m a bit nervous.”

  “It’ll be fun and, if nothing else, you can spend the day in Bar Harbor shopping.”

  “True. All right, I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “Good luck.”