Stirred: A Love Story (8 page)

Shit.
Naughty didn’t sound like such a bad idea either.

Chapter Six

S
age spent the morning doing laundry and working her way through the Friday
New York Times
crossword puzzle. The
LA Times
had a crossword too, but her father and her sister Annabelle did that one. Sage subscribed to the
New York Times
because it was more challenging and. . . well, she was probably a head case. She’d been doing some kind of crossword for as long as she could remember; her father always had one at the kitchen table and encouraged his girls to “challenge your brains.” Sometimes, he’d tie money to the first daughter to finish.

Last year, after reading an article about its history, Sage challenged herself to the
New York Times
crossword every day. She started with Monday, the easiest, every week. Each puzzle got progressively more difficult as the week went on, all in preparation for the mother lode: the Sunday crossword puzzle. She had yet to finish a Sunday. It was a goal, something she looked forward to e-mailing her entire family once it was achieved. At the moment, she wasn’t feeling too confident about her less-than-half-finished Friday puzzle and stuck it in her backpack before leaving for work.

Pulling out of her one-car driveway, Sage watched her neighbor, Ms. Beachwood, dragging in her recycle can. She didn’t know much about Ms. Beachwood other than she brought Sage fresh-baked cookies a few times a year, and she had a tiny dog named Smurf with eyes that were too big for its face. As she waved and pulled away, Sage wondered if her neighbor had lived alone her whole life. That certainly wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Sage was only thirty-two, but time zipped by faster these days. It’s not that she didn’t want to share her life with someone, but her parents encouraged school before anything else for her and her sisters. Her mother and father were both architects, well read, and “drinkers of life,” as her mother liked to say. By all accounts, they were happily married and had their children early on. Married young, right out of college, they had Hollis a year later. Her mother had three children by the time she was thirty, Sage realized as she took a sip of her morning shake. It was a new one, called The Green Goddess, and she was grateful for the pineapple she’d added to take the edge off the kale.

Sage rarely thought about children aside from Paige, and honestly, what were the chances of another little girl like that? She was fine on her own—made a point to be—and didn’t
need
a relationship. But, what her parents had was special, and she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t acknowledge there were times she wanted to hold someone’s hand or put her feet in his lap. Sage enjoyed the daily rituals of life, the surprises around every corner, and if she ever found the right person, maybe he would make her journey even better. Maybe. Before she jumped right into playing house, she should probably start with something smaller, like having a boyfriend for more than a month or a goldfish even, Sage thought, laughing in the silence of her car.

She’d dated a couple of guys in college and prior to the man moratorium brought on by her Garrett Rye obsession, she’d been on a few dates in Los Angeles, but nothing ever stuck. Her mother said that her generation was too picky with the scrutiny allowed by social media, but Sage didn’t filter much. She went with her gut, waiting for that click. The click was important; if she was going to share half her closet with someone and make the type of compromises her parents had over the years, she needed the click. Her mind filled with Garrett carrying that damn tree. She reminded herself the click had to work both ways, and she willed her thoughts back to Chapter Eight—“Double Entendre and Other Naughty Doubles,” which she’d read last night before bed. Kenna was right. The titles were pretty funny, but there was nothing funny about Chapter Eight. Sage had a hard time flirting without wordplay, so by the time she’d closed the book and clicked off her light, her head was spinning with where and when she was ever going to practice something so out of her comfort zone.

Garrett was sprawled across the floor as Sage came around the bar to set her stuff down.

“Whoa, sorry. I didn’t see you there,” she said, taking in all six-foot-whatever of him propped on his side on a couple of towels. The hem of his navy long-sleeve T-shirt rode up, teasing her with a tiny glimpse of tanned skin. Sage clasped her hands, as if that would somehow curb her urge to rip the damn shirt right off him.
Wow, that was naughty. Well done, you!

Garrett didn’t look up, head crooked with a wrench in his hand. “I’m almost done. I’ll be out of your way in a few minutes.”

“You’re fine.” Sage forced herself to stop looking, to stop being stupid. Prior to moving to Los Angeles, she had rarely been silly, let alone stupid. In fact, before she ditched the professional world for shakers and olives, she was the smart one among her group of friends. She was the go-to person for advice or when things fell apart but rarely considered for a good time. So it struck her as ironic that Garrett made her stupid. Maybe it was a sign?

Yeah, a sign of stupid. Get a grip.

“Sage,” Garrett said, because, like a magnet, she’d somehow moved closer to him and was now standing on his towel.

“Oh, sorry.” She stepped back. “Are you fixing the ice machine again?”

He grunted.

“It’s the compressor. I looked at it last night. Something’s drawing on the compressor and the breaker’s not tripping, so it blows.” Sage knew she was rambling, but it was a tight space and he was stretched out on the floor for Pete’s sake.

“What’d you say?” Garrett stood slowly, pulling down his shirt and refastening the tool belt around his waist.

Sage didn’t want to be an idiot in his presence, but it was a damn tool belt. Slung loose around his narrow hips, and as much as she absolutely was not one of those silly women, tool belts were a weakness. She left him standing there, question unanswered, and pushed through the door to the back kitchen.

Kenna was unloading their morning order and cursing at her laptop again. Sage grabbed her and pulled her into the office.

“You told him about the tool belt?” she asked, turning on her once she’d closed the door.

“I’m sorry, one more time?” Kenna sat.

“The tool belt—he’s wearing one and being all cool like he knows that ‘let me help you fix something’ routine drives me insane. You told him?”

Kenna laughed and leaned forward to steal a doughnut out of the box on Logan’s desk. “What would that conversation even look like? ‘Hey, Garrett, Sage thinks tool belts are hot, so the next time you save our ass at The Yard by fixing the damn ice machine for the hundredth time because our handyman service keeps bankers’ hours, could you be all sexy for her?’”

Sage stared ahead and then sank down in the chair next to her.

“I’m losing my mind,” she said, resting her head on Kenna’s shoulder.

“Probably. Here”—Kenna shoved the rest of the doughnut into Sage’s mouth—“eat and you’ll feel better. Let me see if I have a gross Garrett story I can share to help balance things out.”

Sage chewed, but she couldn’t taste. Which kind of sucked since she rarely indulged in a doughnut.

“Oh yeah, I have one. When we were little, Garrett was always getting banged up.”

Sage’s eyes must have shifted as she sat up to look at her friend.

“Jesus, cut it out. You’re picturing him all sweaty and bruised, aren’t you?”

She was but remained silent.

“He was a kid. I’m discussing kid Garrett here. Try to focus.” Kenna waved a hand in front of Sage’s face. “Anyway, he had lots of scabs and anytime we were sitting around watching TV or whatever, he’d pick them.” Kenna looked at her with a scrunched, disgusted face.

“And?” Sage asked.

“And nothing. He picked his scabs. Gross, right?”

“That’s all you’ve got? The man is standing in my bar, a little sweaty, a lot woke-up-delicious-this-way, wearing a tool belt, and that’s all you have for me? That he picked his scabs when he was a kid?”

Kenna shook her head as Sage opened the door to the office.

“Jeez, why do I hang out with you?” Sage asked on a huff.

Kenna laughed.

“Fail, Conroy. Complete fail.” Sage mocked exasperation and pushed through the kitchen doors back to her bar.

She
was
losing her mind. She had some kind of obsessive lust disorder, and she’d lost all ability to be normal. She was certified in scuba, instructor level, damn it. Women certified in anything, except maybe the
Naughty to Nice
book, didn’t pant at the sight of a tool belt. Okay, so maybe she’d finished reading that particular book last night. Sage put her hands over her warm face. She needed Alanis Morissette and she needed her right now.

Walking behind her bar, avoiding Garrett, who was now sitting and putting his stuff away, she grabbed the remote for the stereo. She selected
Jagged Little Pill
and knocked the volume up three notches. The mere sound of Alanis’s angsty voice brought her back to her senses. If Alanis could survive being all pent up, so could she.

Kenna entered the bar, looked up at the speakers, and did nothing but laugh as she passed by with her laptop. Garrett stood, wiping his hands on what she should have registered as his faded old jeans, but the man wore them so well they might as well have been a tuxedo. If there were some sort of farmer magazine—there had to be, right?—Garrett would definitely be on the front cover.
What are you even talking about? A farmer magazine? Stop!

Sage leaned against the counter and picked up her Friday crossword. If she could get four across, that would open up a whole section. Wondering if the sound a baby bird made actually had a name, she felt Garrett slide behind her to leave.

“Baler,” he said into her ear as he passed. She almost dropped her pencil as she became acutely aware of every detail, even with her eyes still on the puzzle. The warmth of his breath on her neck, the nearness of his body, even the vibration of his voice as it moved in the small space between them. Sage leaned on the counter to keep herself steady.

“What?” she asked, face still in the paper.

“Sixteen across. Machine that makes bundles. Five letters. B-A-L-E-R. . . baler.”

Sweet Lord.

“You do crosswords?”

“No, but I have a baler.”

“Of course you do,” she said, rolling her eyes, trying to mask the image of Garrett, shirtless, loading. . . bales of hay or something equally manly. She sighed again at her inability to keep her shit together.

Garrett laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing”—she shook her head—“thank you.”

Garrett moved to one of the tables and was checking his phone when Jeremy from Twisted Tree walked in carrying their wine order and looking like he’d recently returned from some tropical vacation. The man was tall and blond and always looked good in a salesman kind of way. Similar to Chris from the plane, he was neat and put together, complete with a great watch and nice shoes.

“Hey, beautiful,” Jeremy said, setting the box on her bar.

Sage looked at Garrett, his attention still on his phone, and saw the difference clearly. Jeremy, and men like him, were open and available. Granted, her palms still felt a little sweaty and she was a bit jumpy around any good-looking man, but none of them made her stupid. She needed to focus on that, focus on them.

The minute Sage was about to draw from the chapter of her book called “Ferocious Flirter,” Alanis wailed her famous naughty line about going down on her man in a theater. Sage closed her eyes.

“Interesting music,” Jeremy said.

“It’s a classic.”

“Sounds a little angry.”

“You can tell a lot about a person’s mood by the music they listen to.”

“Is that so?” Jeremy leaned against the bar.

Sage nodded and bit into the soft wood of her pencil, willing both men to leave her bar before she bit the damn thing in half.

“So you’re angry?” Jeremy asked, all playful and ready to flirt. Well, that figured.

“Me”—she glanced at Garrett and became distracted—“no. This song is about frustration.”

Garrett looked up from his phone as if he’d heard the squealing tires before a car crash while Jeremy’s eyes lit with acknowledgment.

She hadn’t done that, had she? Sage mentally cringed because she knew what was coming.
You volleyed that one right at him, nice girl.

Silence. She and Jeremy had gone to dinner a couple of times, so she knew he liked the chase. Peering up from her crossword, she caught his eyes. His smile would probably make most women swoon, but Sage found herself pissed. Garrett was still watching them, probably waiting for her to fall on her face.

Before she could pretend to be busy, Jeremy said, “Something you need to get off your. . . chest? You frustrated, Sage?”

She was sure she turned red, that she was now entertainment for Jeremy and probably Garrett too, although she hadn’t heard a word from him. All the same, she vowed to take it like a big girl. Her mind raced for a response, a way to turn the tables. Glancing back at her crossword, Sage’s eyes landed on forty-one down: L-U-S-C-I-O-U-S.