Bookishly Ever After Page 2

  Of all the occupations I’d used to answer the What do you want to be when you grow up? question, special event coordinator was never one of them. To this day, I wasn’t quite sure how I ended up here, but I was glad I did. I believed in the foundation I worked for, one that strove to build awareness and help provide services like housing, counseling, and prevention to youth and their families within the city. Mostly I planned the fundraiser events, but at least once a quarter I shed my office and shadowed those more in the trenches, so to speak. Unfortunately, now was not one of those times.

  I stepped into the building and rode the elevator up to the eighth floor. Morgan, the receptionist, smiled a greeting, which I returned before heading to my office near the back. A long day loomed before me. One with endless phone calls, waves of people making their way through my office like a current, bringing fires to be put out and details that had been missed and needed to be fixed.

  I patted my purse, thinking of the copy of A Bride for the Duke resting among old receipts and my plethora of fountain pens. By the end of this day I’d be peopled out, brain dead, and in need of being whisked away to Regency England to watch a reluctant peer of the realm fall in love with a compassionate country girl.

  A man in a business suit rounded the opening of my office and stepped inside. Mr. McCormick crossed his arms over his chest. One of our wealthiest donors, he wasn’t a man to be crossed. Though he gave tens of thousands of dollars, it grated on me that he did so for the tax write-off and not from the goodness of his heart. I held in a snort. As if there were such a thing—either the goodness or the heart.

  “A word, if you will, Miss Blake.”

  The tone of voice, one of judgment, of disappointment, rested on my shoulders like a time-traveling cloak, transporting me back to a time and place all too familiar and not even a little welcome. The voice reminded me of my father.

  Maybe I’d need to be rescued from this day sooner than I thought.

  In Wednesday night tradition, I took the bus across town to where Tate would be singing. It was a cute restaurant with a vast outdoor patio. Exposed bulbs hung in a loose crisscross pattern over the tables. The place was packed during the summer months, when the constant mist of rain took a vacation and the sun gained residence and sported a perfect view of Mount Rainier. That, coupled with its award-winning food and live entertainment, made it a hub in the city outskirts.

  I waved to Tate where he stood on the small stage, connecting wires from an amplifier to his acoustic guitar. Just a man and his guitar. Like Bing Crosby…but with a guitar. And without the ears that stuck out. Or the blue eyes. Okay, now that I thought about it, scratch that image. Bing Crosby and Tate had nothing in common. Except maybe how, when Tate sang, his voice was like velvet and he could turn your insides into a puddle. A single stanza and you melted into your seat, mesmerized by his ability to touch your heart with a simple song.

  And like Crosby, when Tate sang, he was sexy. Not that he wasn’t sexy at other times and not like I’d admit that to him in a million years—after all, we were just friends—but when he sang, it was like watching a person experience complete joy. Do you know how attractive complete joy is? As if he forgot everything else that was happening in life—his sister’s battle with cancer, the threat of losing his job as his company downsized, the neighbor with the colicky infant whose screams through the night half the building could hear—and the only thing that mattered was that moment, that song, and for him it was…well, anyone could see it was his life.

  I watched from a back table as he smiled at the crowd, dining over fresh seafood caught just outside our backdoor, and launched into his first set. He strummed the introduction, then leaned toward the mic, eyes closed as he sang the lyrics, his heart into words amplified and shared with all who’d listen.

  I liked music as much as the next person, but I could never be called a connoisseur. I couldn’t list all of Bon Jovi’s hits and more often than most mixed up Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly. Or Gene Kelley and R. Kelly, for that matter. But even to my untrained ear, I knew Tate had talent. More than that, he had passion. So what held him back from pursuing his dream?

  Two women, whom I recognized as having come out to hear Tate play numerous times, sat near the front. They twisted their bodies and held out their phones, mouths pressed to form duck lips as they took a selfie with Tate playing in the background.

  I didn’t even try to hide my eye roll. Wouldn’t have even if those women were right in front of me.

  The Twitterverse would be buzzing tonight. I could see the hashtags now, the ones starting out normal and ending on the subjective: #livemusic #singer #hottiealert #hecanstrummyguitaranyday. I wasn’t exactly sure what that last one meant, but I was pretty sure it was a sexual innuendo and highly inappropriate. Tate laughed at me when I told him he should address some of these crazies. Not my problem. Got it.

  I sipped my Shirley Temple as he faded from one song and started the next. Funny how I wasn’t dying to get a book in my hands. When I’d left work, tension had worked knots into my body. I’d daydreamed of a long soak in a hot bath, just me and the duke. But the music flowed through me now, releasing the pent-up anxiety that had built throughout the day. I watched Tate, nearly mesmerized by his ability, feeling relaxed and not at all itchy to escape into the pages of a fictional world.

  He smiled at the crowd and set his guitar in the stand next to his stool before announcing a break. The two women stood and blocked his path, touching his bicep and practically fawning all over him. He posed for a picture with them, his smile tight, and then excused himself.

  I held out the ice water with lemon and smirked as he drained the glass.

  “They’re pretty,” I said even though it wasn’t true. One had on entirely too much makeup, and the other, well, I guess she was okay looking.

  Tate looked over his shoulder, then turned back to me, his half grin in place. “Jealous?”

  Yep. I laughed in his face. “You wish.”

  His smile fell for a second before hitching back up. “Anyway…” He inspected the table. “No book?”

  “In my purse.”

  “Ah.” He said it knowingly and smugly. Like he knew and was proud of the fact that he and his songs were more mesmerizing and attention grabbing to me than even my beloved books. That irked me. What irked me even more, however, was the fact he was right. I hadn’t needed an escape from the real world to unwind. I’d just needed to listen to his voice and watch him do what he loved. He should have taken it as a compliment, although I didn’t hand those out to him very often. Maybe because if I did, his head would grow too big for his body. The image of Tate’s head inflating like a balloon filled my mind. Wouldn’t his adoring fans fawn all over that.

  “Where’s this one take place?”

  His question popped the balloon-head cartoon, and I refocused on the real man across the table. The one with perfect head-to-body proportions, perfectly messy hair, perfectly disarming smile, perfectly—

  “Regency England.” My answer came in a flash flood of words.

  That infernal right brow cocked. “Trying to make it hard on me?”

  I grinned. “Why would I make it easy?”

  His smile widened from half to full. “What about the others?”

  “Just one other right now. Africa. Contemporary setting this time though, if you think that will help.”

  Eyes narrowed across from me, and I tried to hide the smugness I felt. He was the one with the great idea of this bet. Maybe he’d call the whole thing off.

  My stomach flipped. Okay, weird reaction. I did want him to call it off, didn’t I?

  He stood, palms flat on the table’s surface. “Sunday morning, seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up.” He turned to head back to the stage.

  “Wait—where are we going?”

  Shoulders rose and fell, but he kept walking. “Hakuna matata” floated back to me.

  No worries. My fingers touched my lips as I chuckled. Just how was T
ate going to take us on an African safari in the middle of a temperate rain forest? I shook my head. Bluffing. He had to be bluffing.

  Three

  A knock sounded on my door at 6:55 Sunday morning. I opened it, Tate on the other side with a thermos in his hand.

  “Ready?”

  I took the stainless-steel travel mug and tilted its contents into my mouth. French vanilla. It would do.

  Tate’s face screwed up tight. “Yeah, sure. You can have a drink of my coffee. Thanks for asking.”

  I closed the door behind me and locked it, then stepped past him toward the stairs. “You make me leave my house before seven in the morning on a weekend, you pay the price.” I took another long draw. “And the price is caffeine. Should have thought of that, Sherlock.”

  His laughter filled the stairwell. “Noted. And I thought Cumberbatch didn’t have anything to worry about.”

  “He doesn’t.” One last drink before I handed the thermos back to him. My mom had taught me to share, after all. “So where are we going? What are we doing? Who else did you wrangle into this scheme?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He opened the door, and we stepped out into the morning sunshine. A hand to my back propelled me to a silver minivan parked by the curb.

  I eyed him and then the soccer-mom car. “Sweet ride.”

  The side door automatically slid open as I stepped closer. A woman I’d never met before smiled at me from behind the wheel. A man sat in the passenger’s seat. Another man and woman grinned from the back, leaving the two captain’s chairs in the middle empty. Ducking, I stepped into the van and sat in the middle, tucking an unruly curl, which had escaped its ponytail, behind my ear.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  Tate climbed in, and the door automatically slid shut behind him. “Everyone, this is Emory. Emory, this is Carla and her husband, Jim.”

  The two in the front waved.

  “And behind us, Landon and Sydney.”

  Who were these people? Yes, I now knew their names, but I’d never seen them before. I’d already said good morning. Should I say something else? What else? Grabbing my book would be beyond rude, but my skin was beginning to itch as the silence took on a personality of a wool sweater.

  “Carla and Jim actually live in our building.”

  Tate rescued me, and I felt myself exhale.

  “Oh?” It wasn’t worthy of an Oscar, but at least I’d gotten a word out, and the inflection on the end posed it as a question. Therefore I was off the conversational hook for the moment.

  “Yeah, we live on the second floor. Two kids, five and seven. Maybe you’ve seen them playing around? Or at least I’m sure you’ve heard them. They aren’t exactly quiet.” Jim smiled at Carla as he said it.

  I shook my head. Outside of Tate, I didn’t really know anyone in the building.

  “Anyway, they’re staying with their grandparents in Tacoma for the weekend. They’re going to flip when they find out where we’re going.”

  My gaze zeroed in on Tate. No matter how many texts I’d sent him, he hadn’t told me our destination for the day. “Just where are we going?” My eyes flicked to Jim.

  “And these two back here are friends from work.”

  Carla looked at me in the rearview mirror and smiled conspiratorially at Tate’s interruption.

  So that was the way it was going to be. I turned to shake the hands of the couple in the back. Were they actually a couple? Sydney had pretty hair, blond and straight. I bet she didn’t have to worry about frizz control. Could probably even run a brush through the strands without breaking a handle or ripping half her hair out. The guy, Landon, fit the Pacific Northwest perfectly. Trimmed hair on top, scruffy beard on bottom. His red plaid shirt had a lumberjack vibe as well. They didn’t scream couple to me, but who was I to judge?

  The tick, tick of the blinker light added background noise as Carla pulled the minivan out into traffic.

  Landon leaned forward, his head just over my shoulder. “So what do you do?”

  Let the torturous small talk begin. I turned so I could look at him, my shoulder digging into the backrest of the seat. “I’m an event planner.”

  “That’s cool.” He nodded. “Like, any events? Or are these special types of events?”

  “Mostly fundraisers for a nonprofit.”

  Landon nodded again, and my mind squirmed to come up with more elaboration.

  Nothing.

  I planned fundraisers…which I’d already said.

  My gaze sought out Tate, and I gave him a pleading look. He’d rescued me from conversational suicide before—surely he’d do it again. These were his friends, after all. His stupid idea.

  But instead of opening his mouth to help, he merely smiled and dipped his head my direction. Blast it all, I didn’t need encouragement—I needed a way out! I couldn’t turn the question back on him since I already knew that he worked with Tate.

  Think! I moved my leg, and my foot brushed against my purse. The duke’s tale had ended splendidly a few nights before, and I hadn’t wanted to leave the time period or locale so had started another Regency. This time about a governess to a wealthy family. She rarely interacted with her employers, but when she did, she kept it to safe topics. Weather, family.

  “Great weather we’re having, right?” Even I cringed at the false cheeriness in my voice. Someone just shoot me now.

  “Love the area in the summer.” Sydney’s cute face scrunched. “Winter, not so much. Too drizzly for me.”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I kind of like the rain.” Perfect reading weather.

  The city zipped by, traffic light this early on a weekend. Carla slowed and turned into the ferry terminal. I sat up straighter in my seat, peered at Tate. “We’re taking the ferry?”

  He bumped my nose with a curved finger. “Now who’s showing off their powers of observation?”

  I made a face at him so I wouldn’t laugh. Held his gaze, then bribed the entire van. “Starbucks on me for anyone who’ll tell me where in the world we’re going.”

  Tate stared straight back into my eyes. “Can’t handle the tension?”

  It was a dare, another one. A way to goad me. And yet beneath that surface layer, there seemed to be more hidden beneath.

  I liked words. Loved them. Immersed myself in them every day. Tension stuck to me like a mussel on a pier at low tide. It wasn’t the right word. Not for this situation. Suspense, surprise, waiting, not knowing…there were dozens of other words he could have used. But tension?

  Tate held my gaze, his eyes searching, looking through me. What was he looking for?

  His mouth turned down, his eyes instantly hooded before he broke the connection.

  My gut twisted. Somehow I’d disappointed him, but I didn’t know how or why. Had I done something? Or not done something?

  The van moved forward, the first clue that registered the big ferry boat had docked and was boarding passengers. Had it not blown its whistle, or had I just missed it? The tires clanged over the empty ramp before Clara followed the direction of the attendant and pointed the van to the left ramp to the upper loading deck. She navigated between the yellow lines, parking behind a Mini Cooper and a Chevy Silverado. Both side doors whooshed open, followed by Jim’s passenger door. The ignition died, and we exited the vehicle.

  I hadn’t caught which way we were going, to Bremerton or Bainbridge Island. Either way we were in for at least a thirty-minute ride. I filed in line behind Tate, Jim, and Carla, with Landon and Sydney behind me, and mounted the stairs from the auto deck to the lounge.

  “I’ll meet up with you guys.” Carla pointed to the restroom, then disappeared behind the door.

  Jim rubbed his hands together, eyeing the galley. “Coffee time.” Tate and Sydney followed him, both saying they were craving some type of baked goods.

  Perfect. My opportunity to sneak off to an empty booth and kill the time with my governess.

  Landon surprised me by appearin
g by my side. “You like puzzles?” He indicated the pieces laid out face up on the table to our right, sliding into the booth.

  I kept my sigh internal while forcing my lips to bow. “Sure.” At least I’d have the distraction of searching for the right pieces, an excuse for the silence of the awkward conversation ahead.

  “Tate’s told me a lot about you.” He picked up an end piece and poked it into place.

  “Oh?” How many times would I use that word today? And what exactly had Tate said? We hung out a lot, sometimes on his fire escape or mine, watching the lights on Seattle’s Great Wheel turn, dots of lights from boats on the water, the silhouette of the Olympic Mountains in the background. He’d go with me to distribute necessities to the homeless in the city and then regale me with stories from his crazy childhood. None of that seemed like things he’d talk about with friends from work though.

  “Yeah. At first I thought he was making you up. Too good to be true, you know?” He looked up, his green eyes soft yet sparked with interest. “But he wasn’t exaggerating.”

  How did a person react to such a statement from a complete stranger? I should have accepted the compliment and moved on, but the words were like a battering ram to my brain, each hit with more force and fracturing my perception, leaving it in splinters.

  What had Tate said that wasn’t an exaggeration? Something this guy could see without even having a real conversation with me, obviously, and for some reason that creeped me out a bit. But why was Tate talking about me at all? An unpleasant heat pooled in the pit of my stomach, and the puzzle piece I stared at went out of focus. Was that what this whole thing was? A setup? Tate had been talking me up to his friend Landon in hopes that the guy would be interested? Poor pathetic Emory Blake, the bookworm who couldn’t get a date. That was how Tate saw me? Thought of me?