Somewhere on Maui (an Accidental Matchmaker Novel) Page 5

  Dammit.

  But this was better, actually. She just had to spot some random dude coming in, acting like he was looking for someone—and if he was interesting, she could say hi. If he wasn’t, she could pretend a no-show and slink out the back.

  No rose was genius, actually.

  The bartender was a grizzled escapee from the sixties whose red-rimmed pot smoker’s eyes brightened at the sight of her. “What can I get you, pretty lady?”

  “A mai tai, thanks.” She still loved the pineapple wedge and little umbrella that said “Hawaii” like nothing else. Fiddling with her napkin, she turned partway so she could see the two entrances. One was almost directly behind her. Its flapping Western half doors evoked the sound of jingling spurs. The other was a broader opening into the main area of the restaurant.

  She turned back as the bartender slid the mai tai in front of her.

  “Thanks.”

  “You from around here?” the bartender asked.

  Zoe stirred the drink so that the drizzle of rum on top melted into the bright yellow pineapple juice. “I live here in Paia.”

  “Nice to know.” A man slipped onto the stool beside her without her seeing him come in. “My name is Philip.”

  Zoe turned. “Hi, Philip. I’m Zoe.”

  Philip was short. Even on the stool beside her, he was short, shorter than her five foot six, and balding. His beard was trimmed into a fleur-de-lis on his cheek.

  She had to peek at it twice as he ordered a beer.

  “So, do you come here often?”

  “No.” Her stomach curdled with disappointment. She used the stir stick straw to inhale a good portion of the drink. Now was not the time for restraint. A fleur-de-lis in his beard? Really? Another ridiculous date for her research, and in that moment, she realized she really had been hoping to meet someone she liked.

  “Well, I come here often. And if you did, I would have noticed you, Zoe.” Philip grinned. Yikes. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted someone. A man with his hands on his hips, glancing around the bar. He was backlit, but she could already tell he was an improvement over Philip, and it suddenly occurred to her that Philip might not be her date.

  “Are you on a Crazy Blind Date?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at her companion.

  Philip grinned again. There was indeed a gap in his yellowing bicuspids. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  The man in the doorway had advanced to the bar, sat three stools down. “Hey, Manny. Heineken,” he said to the bartender. He seemed a tiny bit familiar—something about the dark hair waving back from his forehead, the way the silky aloha shirt he wore hung from tanned, muscled arms.

  Philip leaned forward to block her view. “I’d like to think fate’s a little crazy, and if you want this to be our first date, I’m game.”

  Zoe went panicky—this definitely wasn’t the right guy. Where was the damn rose when you needed one! “I’m meeting someone. I don’t think it’s you.”

  “Wow.” He clutched his chest as if struck by a blow. “Ouch.”

  “No, really. I’m on a blind date, and I’m meeting someone. It’s not you.” She felt her voice rise. She had to get rid of this jerk so she could meet the man three stools down.

  He must have heard her, because he turned his head—and she recognized Mr. Tool Belt. His light brown eyes widened with recognition. She felt an electric something zing her like nothing she’d felt since that terrible crush on Mike Pennington back in high school.

  Philip leaned in again and broke the connection between them. His face was congested with anger, and she realized how hurtful her words must have sounded.

  “Bitch, really?” He pulled his wallet out, slapped down a bill. “Good luck with that.” Philip left, stomping through the restaurant and pushing the exit doors wide. They flapped dramatically in his wake.

  Zoe gazed miserably into her drink. What a fiasco. She was terrified to look up.

  The man from three stools down slid in beside her. “I’m sorry about that guy. I was a little late, or that never would have happened.” He smelled ever so faintly of surf wax, a subtle vanilla that her oversensitive nose picked up and immediately wanted more of.

  She couldn’t look at him. She was afraid of what she’d see. What she wouldn’t see. Being wrong again. Being right. Her nipples tightened, and she thanked God she’d worn the bikini top.

  “I forgot my rose,” she muttered into her drink.

  “You can have mine.” He slid his rose over, and she glimpsed his hand, large and capable, a few dark hairs sprinkled across the wrist. The rose was multipetaled and old-fashioned; the variety she’d heard called “Hawaiian roses.” More magenta than red, it was round and the size of a small tangerine, with hundreds of tiny petals. It was so fresh that there was a pearly drop of moisture in the center. She picked it up, held it to her nose, and smelled cinnamon.

  She closed her eyes, letting her hot cheeks cool, breathing it in. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Picked in my yard on the way here.”

  “I can tell.”

  Somehow she didn’t feel awkward; she felt instead as if, side by side, without seeing each other, they were moving into sync. She was still terrified to make eye contact, to feel that zing again, to feel her own falseness and her own longing.

  The story. This was about the story. She wasn’t looking for anyone. She wasn’t ready for anything, and she already knew she couldn’t “be true” like he’d said he wanted.

  “I’m Zoe,” she said to the rose.

  “I’m Adam.” His voice was low, and there was a cadence to it, the rhythm of the islands—a backbeat of what they called “pidgin,” though every word was perfect English.

  “How crazy is this blind date thing?”

  “Not so crazy. I saw your picture and liked it. I’m glad it’s you.”

  She felt rather than saw him lift his beer glass, sip. She sneaked a glance, and it was, indeed, a wide, strong throat moving and a handsome profile. Almost-black hair, damp with comb marks, swept back from a high forehead. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. He turned his head, and her eyes glanced off his and away. He rubbed his chin; she heard the papery rasp.

  “I meant to shave, but ran out of time. Today didn’t exactly go as planned.”

  “What do you mean?” Zoe turned the rose in her fingers, and scent lifted from the bowlful of petals to tickle her nose with spicy scent.

  “Oh, it just didn’t. Tough day.”

  “Well, I’m new here on Maui. I can tell by this rose, you aren’t.” Stick with what she could truthfully say.

  “You aren’t that new if you can tell that from this rose.”

  “I’ve been here six months. These are antique roses descended from plants the missionaries brought over.”

  “I nevah knew dat.” She heard the smile in his voice as he let a little pidgin out. “Pretty soon you going be one local girl.”

  “I hope. Someday.” She stayed serious. Realized she liked him too much for the charade. Liked him too much not to tell him the truth. She had to be honest about the article.

  “Listen.” She turned to him, leaning on one hand. The shawl slipped off, exposing her shoulder and naked back.

  Adam blinked. His eyes wandered, came back to hers. Color rose to stain his high cheekbones.

  “Listen,” she said again, but couldn’t get her eyes off his. They were golden, with a deep brown ring around the iris, deep-set under bold black brows.

  She thought of the eyes of hawks.

  He seemed as stunned as she felt. “I’m listening.” His lips barely moved.

  “This is all wrong. I have to tell you something.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I—” She felt ridiculousness strangling her. A flush rose up from her navel, sweeping up her body and over her face in a flash of heat. She turned away, stabbed the straw into the drink. “I’m not sure I can go out with you.”

  “Why?” It was a whisper. She felt his eyes on the
curve of her back like a touch—gentle, exploring, delicious. She wanted to tell him about the article, about being a journalist, but now she found she couldn’t make herself say the words.

  “I’m still getting over my ex.” An excuse could buy her time. Time to get to know him better. Time to find a way to tell him about the article.

  “Oh.” He straightened up, turned away, took a drink. “Isn’t that always the way.” His voice was clipped.

  “I’m sorry. I like you. That’s the problem.”

  He seemed not to hear that part. “You’re probably still married or something.” He sounded angry. She didn’t like angry; it scared her.

  “Divorced. Recently and badly.” She hurried, spitting the words into her drink like the bitter fruit they were, and only part of the truth.

  Adam lifted his beer again for something to do.

  Still getting over the ex. Her words rang in his ears, feeling like rejection. His belly clenched reflexively. If only she weren’t so perfect. He sneaked another glance at her just to make sure.

  Her face, in profile, was pretty rather than beautiful as she stirred her drink—tidy lips, a round chin, a little bob of nose. But her jade-green eyes reminded him of the deep places in the ocean where whales lived. Her lashes were so long they brushed her cheeks.

  The turquoise shawl had drifted toward the floor, emphasizing the long line of her back ending in a sweet, round rear end. The tumble of her hair touched the top of her hips. It was all sorts of colors, like a shiny saddle and also full of gold. His whole body tightened. His hands opened and closed reflexively, longing to tangle in that hair.

  As if he weren’t wound tight enough.

  “Getting over the ex.” He said the words out loud to make sure they were as bad as they’d sounded in his mind. They were. “Too bad.”

  “I’m telling you because I—I don’t want anyone to get more hurt. I remember that from your profile—you want to meet someone who can be true.” She gazed at him then, and those eyes were swimming. The moisture made them huge, and even brighter. The green had gone from jade to the color of new leaves. He just wanted to keep staring at them to see what they would do next.

  “I was pretty sure this Internet dating thing wasn’t for me.” He stood. Reached in the back pocket of his jeans, took out his wallet. Dug a bill out. Caught the bartender’s eye. “Put hers on mine, Manny,” Adam said.

  He’d known Manny for years, and right now Manny’s eyebrows had climbed right into his graying hippie hair with surprise that Adam was walking out on such a beauty. He set the twenty down deliberately, smoothed it. “Now I know Internet dating isn’t my thing. Good luck, Zoe. Hope you get over him soon.”

  He didn’t look at her again. He turned and walked out, every fiber in his being aching to turn back, every hair on his body raised as if struck by lightning—and the bile of bitterness filling his mouth.

  He got in his truck. He found his eyes straying to the swinging doors of the bar, as if she’d chase him out, begging him to stop—and he would have.

  Hell, what was wrong with him? He hadn’t had a reaction to a woman like this in forever—not since that awful crush on Malia Jones in high school. He’d walked around with a boner all day back then and persisted in asking her out until she’d caved. She’d been his girlfriend until halfway through senior year.

  He turned the truck on and threw it into gear. And pulled out, wondering when he’d become so mad at women he’d walk away from one he wanted without even trying to change her mind.

  Chapter 7

  Zoe walked into Dr. Suzuki’s office the next morning. Her head was still thick from the three drinks she’d consumed in rapid succession after the debacle with Adam. She hardly remembered walking home, but she must have and hadn’t, apparently, wandered into traffic.

  “How have you been?” Dr. Suzuki asked from her chair as Zoe went to the couch and lay down on it, propping her head on a throw pillow.

  “Hung over, thanks for asking.” Zoe spoke to the ceiling. It was easier than seeing the psychologist’s sharp eyes. “I don’t drink much, but I had three strong ones last night and forgot to eat.”

  “What brought that on?”

  “A bad date. A crazy bad blind date.” Zoe felt tears welling up. She dashed them off her cheeks. “I really liked the guy. I didn’t want to fake him out with the research article. But when I went to tell him I was a journalist, I chickened out and told him I was hung up on my ex instead.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He wished me luck, paid for my drink, and walked out.” The tears spilled. Dr. Suzuki passed over a box of tissues. Zoe pulled some out, patted her face with them, and honked her nose. “So much for being true.”

  She told Dr. Suzuki about Adam, his tool belt and architecture degree, and quoted his profile.

  “So when I recognized him, I felt something. Like, this sizzle. It was amazing. And I wanted it to be real. And he left.” Only, the last sentence came out more like, “And, he—he—he left” on hiccupping sobs. “He left. Like they all do.”

  “Hmm,” Dr. Suzuki said. “Maybe this guy had problems of his own. Maybe he just wasn’t ready for anything, either.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s done. It’s over before it started. I haven’t had chemistry like that… since high school.” Zoe honked her nose again. She built a little pyramid of balled-up tissues on her stomach. “I don’t think I can finish this story.”

  “Don’t you think it’s been a good thing to find out you can still have that kind of chemistry with someone?”

  This was a new idea. Zoe bit her lip and rearranged the tissue balls into a square. “I guess. But to have it just end—I didn’t expect it to hurt so much. And then there was the other guy. I really hurt him, I think.” She told about the misunderstanding with Philip. “I don’t like hurting people.”

  “Things happen. You aren’t responsible for all of it. And I don’t see that it was necessary for Philip to call you a bitch.”

  The unexpected forcefulness had Zoe glancing up at Dr. Suzuki. There was a line between the psychologist’s precise brows.

  “Okay. Philip did have a fleur-de-lis in his beard.” Zoe felt helpless giggles rising up from deep inside, and she laughed as hard as she’d cried. “This is as bad as when I was on those hormones getting ready for in vitro.”

  She sat up, did a final nose honk. “I guess I just didn’t expect Adam to just walk off like that.”

  “As a psychologist, I see it more than most. People have a lot more going on than initially meets the eye. A healthy psyche doesn’t take rejection to heart. You offered him what you could in an attempt to make a genuine connection. If he rejected that, it was for his own reasons.” Dr. Suzuki’s dark eyes sparkled with conviction. “Now, what’s next for your article?”

  “Oh God. I hate that article.” Zoe sighed. “At least I have it outlined. Need to do more research on the stats of success and failure, et cetera, and I think I’ll leave this awful aborted meeting out entirely—though Philip almost preempting my date is kind of a twist that’s worth mentioning.”

  “Okay, homework. I want you to get into your profile and consider being honest. Put yourself out there. You met a man you were willing to date. You learned something from this. You learned you can still meet someone and have chemistry with them. If you can do that with Adam, you can do it with someone else.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for that, but I’ll think about it.” Zoe stood up. “Thanks, Dr. Suzuki. I needed to hear that.”

  “Yes, you did. I’ll see you a little later in the week. Consider what I said—going honest on your profile, disclosing the article you’re writing. You might find there are still plenty of men willing to go out with you, even knowing about it.”

  “Okay.” Zoe stepped out the door, picked up her shoes. “See you soon.”

  She slid her feet into her shoes and walked out to the car. Her head still felt muzzy from drinking and all that crying and laughing, bu
t the tight, bruised, about-to-burst feeling was gone.

  Thank God. She got into her little VW Bug, parked in the shade with windows halfway down because Sylvester was waiting for her, paws on the dash, his tongue hanging out and whole hind end wagging with excitement to see her, as if she’d been gone for days instead of just fifty minutes. Now, to drink a bottle of water, go home to take a nap, and start the day over.

  Adam combed his hair with his fingers in the truck before his meeting with Dr. Suzuki over his lunch break. He’d gone back to the job site that morning, deciding to act like nothing had happened the day before with Boss Lady—perhaps if he pretended nothing was wrong, she’d want to save face and wouldn’t act on her threats.

  All was normal on the job site. Bobby, his second cousin and decent framer but a great drywaller, reported that Boss Lady had come out of his trailer after he’d roared out yesterday and announced that she’d sent Adam off on a special errand but that he’d be back the next morning.

  “So what was really going on?” Bobby asked, frowning.

  “Yeah, I had to go on special assignment,” Adam said, rolling with it. If she’d decided to handle it that way, so much the better. He hoped it meant she was going to leave him alone. “What did you get done yesterday?”

  They’d gone on as usual, and to Adam’s relief, Alixia Lepler didn’t visit the job site. If she was gearing up her machinery to fire him, at least he would do everything he could to make it hard for her to show any wrongdoing.

  He got out of the truck and dusted down his work shirt and pants and took off his boots, replacing them with rubber slippers before he walked up the little pathway to Dr. Suzuki’s cottage office with its little porch.

  “Hey, Doc.” He put his slippers on the rack and came into the office. He’d brought his lunch. Yesterday, after a morning in bed with what Charl called “the vapors,” Kalia Rodrigues had gotten up and carried on as usual. This morning, she’d packed two homemade musubi, a thermos of his favorite juice drink, and an apple. “Is it okay if I eat while we talk? I have to be back at the job site in an hour.”