Must Be Crazy: (Melissa and Jackson) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 2) (2 page)

I set up my profile, struggling to answer some of the questions. Interests? I’m a teacher, sure, but that’s work. It isn’t like I enjoy giving fifth grade math lessons in my spare time. I don’t actually want to list drinking—that would send the wrong message, although I do enjoy a nice beverage. I throw in a few random things, like reading, beachcombing, and watching movies. I press enter, and it asks me to make sure my information is correct. It all looks kind of stupid, if you ask me, but I hit enter again.

I turn on a random reality show and eat my dinner on the couch. The sun starts to go down and the sound of seagulls carries through the windows. I glance at my laptop screen. The little notifications tab is highlighted on the dating site, so I click to see what it is.

Three replies to my new profile. That’s interesting. I open the first one.

Hey, you’re really gorgeous. Is that your real picture? Will you send me more pics? I need to know if that’s really you. Are you fat?

I laugh so hard that I snort, and have to put my dinner down so I don’t spill everywhere. Is this guy serious? I click on his profile. His username is godsgifttowomen69. This can’t be real. It has to be a fake account, designed to punk people. His profile picture shows a heavyset man, probably in his thirties, with thick glasses and an awkward smile. He’s so cliché, there’s no way he’s legit. I delete his message and open the next one.

Hi. I think we might have things of which are common. Fun times? Send me phone numbers. I text you.

Oh my god. I click on this guy. He has a shaved head and a tattoo on his face, just below his eye socket. His expression makes me wonder if he just murdered someone. He looks like a serial killer. I figure maybe he doesn’t speak English very well, but his crazy eyes creep me the fuck out. I delete his message, too.

I open the third one and shriek, closing my laptop as fast as I can. The dude sent me a picture of his dick. His fucking dick. I shudder and push my laptop to the other side of the couch.

I am officially done with online dating.

I finish my dinner and clean up. I don’t want to spend the night sitting around at home, so I grab my purse, slip on my flip-flops, and head out. I can walk to Danny’s Tavern; it’s only a few blocks away. It might not be a glamorous Friday night, but it beats sitting home alone—again.

And I need to get away from my laptop. I still don’t want to open it. Some things you can’t unsee.

I stand on the balcony of my penthouse hotel room, looking out over the water. This town doesn’t have the sort of accommodations I’m used to, but my room isn’t terrible. The view is amazing, even if the furnishings are rather pedestrian. I watch the sunset with a drink in my hand, the Pacific Ocean spread out in front of me. There’s nothing wrong with that, although I regret not bringing someone along. The spacious room is too quiet, the room too empty.

I should have left town this afternoon. I intended to come down just for the day—I had a quick meeting with the art gallery owners, hammering out the details of the sale. For some reason, I decided to buy the Sunset Art Gallery in Jetty Beach. I spent a summer here as a kid and it’s one of the only places that has good memories from my childhood. I like the idea of investing in the town, making it nice again. I didn’t need to come in person, but I like this quirky little place. And fuck it, it’s a Friday, and it isn’t like anyone in the office can tell me no. A little ocean air sounded like a nice change.

But by about nine o’clock, I’m fucking bored. I figure my options are: drive home late, because I didn’t have a driver take me out here, which sounds shitty; hang out in my hotel room drinking by myself, which sounds pathetic; or go out and see what people in this sleepy little town do on a Friday night.

Not much, it turns out.

I eat a mediocre dinner in the restaurant at my hotel. Alone, which isn’t as terrible as I fear. Of course, the reasonably attractive waitress lingering at my table allows for some light conversation. But the novelty wears off pretty quickly and I find myself restless. I wander around the little downtown for a while, but everything is closed. I’m just about to give up when I see lights. A bar, and it’s open. It looks … dismal. A few cars out front, a neon sign in the window, the dark wood walls and door all blending together. It’s not the sort of place I usually frequent.

But … what the hell.

I push open the door. The inside isn’t bad. It isn’t good either, but it isn’t the disgusting dive I expected. It’s one of the few places in town that doesn’t look like a beachside antique store threw up in it. The light is dim, and a long bar takes up most of the back wall. On one side of the room, people play pool and toss darts. Most of the small tables on the other side of the room are taken. It’s busier inside than I thought it would be, given the lack of cars out front; I guess a lot of people must walk.

I take a seat at the bar, glancing up at the liquor selection. Pretty standard. The bartender is nowhere in sight, so I pull out my phone and wait.

How I didn’t notice the woman sitting down the bar, I have no idea. I look up and there she is. Dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, a tight black t-shirt showing the perfect curve of her breasts. Skinny jeans hug a shapely ass, and a pair of flip-flops dangles from her toes. She has a couple of empty shot glasses sitting in front of her. Her face turns toward me just enough to see the soft lines of her jaw, her full lips, dark eyes. A cute little nose. She’s magnetic. Her tongue runs along her bottom lip and I can’t help but smile. Finally, something in this town worth doing.

I’m just about to talk to her when the bartender appears in front of me. The guy fits the ambiance perfectly. Scruffy beard, shirt with the sleeves rolled up. If he was drying a glass with a white towel, it would be perfect.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

“Highland Park Thirty,” I say.

The bartender arches an eyebrow at me. “All right.”

“Hold on there, Danny. He doesn’t want the Highland Park Thirty.”

I raise my eyebrows and look at the woman sitting at the bar. What the hell? “I don’t?”

She purses her pretty lips and shakes her head. “Nope. Just because something’s fucking expensive, doesn’t always mean it’s better.”

“Then what
do
I want?” I ask, fascinated. I can’t remember the last time anyone contradicted something I said. Except for Tammi. My assistant is sometimes too honest, but that’s one of the reasons we have a good working relationship. Not everyone can handle me.

She scrutinizes me up and down. I love the way those brown eyes rove over me, like she’s undressing me in her mind. Women do that to me all the time, but this one … there’s something different about the way she looks at me. And I won’t lie; it’s a fucking turn on.

“Glenlivet,” she says. “But, Danny, don’t even look at that goddamn twelve-year-old. Give him the twenty-one.” She moves her eyes back to me. “If you want to drop some cash, it ought to be worth it.”

“All right,” I say. “Make it two.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “Thanks anyway. I’m fine over here by myself.”

That sounds like a challenge.

“I insist,” I say. “And I don’t take no for an answer.”

“One of those, huh?” she asks. “All right, captain. Danny, pour up.”

“On the rocks,” I add.

“Oh, no, no,” she says with a maddening roll of her eyes. “Do not pour that lovely Scotch on ice.”

Okay, now she’s pissing me off.
“Why is that?”

“Ice destroys the flavor,” she says, sitting up taller and scooting that hot little ass around on her stool. “The proper way to drink a good Scotch is straight up with a splash of water. A Scottish mineral water like Highland Spring is preferable, but since we’re in Danny’s Tavern, a bit of tap water will have to do.”

I gape at her while Danny pours us each a measure of the Glenlivet twenty-one-year-old, adding a splash of water. I eye my glass while she takes her first drink. This woman wants to tell me how to drink Scotch?

Who the hell does she think she is? And why is this kind of turning me on?

I take a sip, fully expecting to put my glass down and argue with her. It slips down my throat, smooth as anything. Huh. It is good. I’m not sure how to feel about that.

She takes another drink and glances at me from the corner of her eye, a little smirk on her face.

Oh, hell no. She is not getting away with that.

I grab my glass and move down the bar to sit next to her. “Jackson Bennett,” I say, holding out a hand.

She takes my hand and shakes it. Her grip is firm, but her hands are soft, almost delicate. What a contradiction she is, all curves and edges.

“Melissa Simon,” she says. “Thanks for the drink, Jackson.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Melissa,” I say.
The pleasure could be yours, if this goes well.

“So what brings you to Jetty Beach?” Melissa asks. “Since I know you aren’t a local.”

“Business,” I say.

“That’s a very nonspecific answer,” she says. “What sort of business?”

Wait, does she not know who I am? “Development, investments. I have my hands in a lot of different things,” I say. “I’m working on a deal down here, and it could be the first of several.”

“Sounds fascinating,” she says.

“And what is it you do, Melissa Simon?”

“I’m a teacher,” she says. “Fifth grade.”

This just keeps getting better. She’s a schoolteacher? Hot for teacher, indeed. My dick stirs in my pants. “Do you teach in town?”

“Yep,” she says. “Born and raised here. What about you? Where are you from?”

“I grew up in Chicago, but now Seattle. I live on Queen Anne.”

She smiles, but doesn’t look particularly impressed. She’d be impressed if she saw the view. I try a new angle. “So, how do you know so much about Scotch?”

A new smile crosses her face. There’s depth behind that smile. “My daddy. His little girl was not going to grow up to drink Scotch on the rocks. He fucking raised me right.”

“What does your daddy do for a living?”

“He’s a commercial fisherman,” she says.

“I guess that’s why you drink Scotch straight up and have a mouth like a sailor,” I say, imagining that dirty little mouth wrapped around my cock.

“Mouth like a fisherman,” she says. “Sorry about that. My ability to censor myself is eaten up during the school year.” She holds up her drink. “And drinking brings out the worst in me.”

“No need to apologize,” I say. “What kind of fish?”

“Excuse me?”

“What kind of fish does your daddy catch? When he’s being a commercial fisherman.”

People wonder why I’m successful, but it’s pretty simple. A lot of it comes down to being able to read people. Melissa’s eyes light up when she talks about her dad. It will work in my favor to ask personal questions she feels good about answering.

“Crab in the winter, longlining for black cod and halibut in the summer. He goes salmon fishing when they’re in season, mostly just to fill our freezers though. And he smokes it. Oh my god, his smoked fish is to die for.”

“Is it? I can’t say I’m a fan,” I say. I’m lying. I love smoked salmon. But I want to see what she’ll say.

She arches her eyebrow at me. “Oh, captain, you have a lot to learn.”

“Maybe you’ll have to teach me.”

She laughs a little, but I can tell I’m getting to her. I keep my eyes on her, not bothering to hide that I’m staring.

“What?” she asks.

“I was just wondering how I got so fortunate to find you here tonight. Alone.”

Her eyebrows draw together. She looks … amused. “Bored on a Friday night, I guess.”

“You don’t have anyone to take you out?” I ask.

“If you’re trying to find out whether I have a boyfriend, I don’t,” she says. “But don’t get too excited.”

I lean closer to her. Little strands of hair fall around her neck and she trails a finger on the rim of her glass. Long, dark eyelashes frame her eyes, and she wears almost no makeup that I can see. She is absolutely nothing like the women I usually date, with their manicures and foiled hair and fussy wardrobes. The women I spend time with are beautiful. But this woman, she smolders. She radiates sex appeal.

And I have the feeling she has no goddamned idea how hot she is.

“You’re coming back to my hotel with me later,” I say, absolutely confident. When I want something, I get it. And right now, I want Melissa Simon.

She shifts toward me and raises her eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“Definitely.”

She tosses back the rest of her Scotch. “Usually men don’t go straight for the kill like that. Don’t you want to build up to it first?”

“Not particularly,” I say. “I don’t like to waste time.”

She stands up from her stool and shoulders a small handbag. “Sorry to disappoint you, Jackson Bennett, but I’m not going back to your hotel with you.”

She is
not
turning me down. I touch her on the arm, my hand gentle. She’s already on the defensive. I need to coax. Her skin feels exquisite beneath my fingertips, making me want her all the more.

“I think you are,” I say.

She meets my eyes, utterly fearless. “Thanks for the drink, captain.” She turns and walks away, leaving me gaping at her.