CHAPTER 1
A man is like wine. Let him age a little to avoid a headache…
— MATCHMAKING MAMAS
Maverick
Happy Hourat Taco Loco was packed.
Upbeat Mexican music poured from the speakers, yet it barely covered the clamor of conversation and laughter echoing through the restaurant.
Silas waved from a table near the bar, catching my attention. Jamie sat across from him, a bright red strawberry margarita in his hand.
I crossed the terracotta tiles and dropped into the empty seat they’d saved for me. “Sorry I’m late.”
“We ordered for you.” Silas pushed a margarita on the rocks towardme.
“Oh, bless you!” I took a gulp, the tart lime flavor bursting on my tongue. “Delicious as always.”
“We plowed through all the chips without you though,” Jamie said, wrinkling his nose. “Sorry.”
Silas hopped up. “I’ll go ask the bartender for more.”
Jamie snorted as he went. “He’s hoping to score a hookup with the new guy in town.”
“Just a hookup?”
“You know Silas. He doesn’t try for anything else.”
“Always the wedding planner, never the groom,” I singsonged.
“It’s sad,” Jamie said, frowning after him. “Silas deserves happiness. We all do.”
“Wishing won’t make it happen.”
“Maybe not, but giving up isn’t the answer, either.”
I glanced over at the bar where Silas was flirting over a bowl of refilled tortilla chips. The bartender was all right, if you went for that sort. His sandy hair was a little long, and the tattoos appealed to some, but he was a little rough around the edges for my tastes. I liked my men to be groomed and cultured.
The opposite of my pain-in-the-ass neighbor, Damon. That man wouldn’t know art if it bit him in the ass, and he had so much stubble on that perfectly square jaw of his that it was venturing into scruff territory.
Still, it would feel delicious rubbing along my neck?—
No. Bad Mav.
I didnotneed to think about my asshole neighbor that way. For any positive attributes he had, he had dozens of annoying ones to counterbalance.
Like that time he put a bunch of plastic flowers into my award-winning flowerbeds after I complained he was letting too many weeds grow along the fence line.
He trampled one of my tulips for that stupid prank! Not to mention the embarrassment if anyone had seen that. I was a florist! I had a reputation to maintain. He could have messed with my livelihood.
And then there was the time he set up the sprinkler so it sprayed all over my side of the driveway—andme—when I headed out to work in the morning. Ugh, and the time he’d filled my yard with pink flamingos! I’d been so confused until I learned it was a symbol swingers used. Then I’d been mortified.
My mother lived in this town, after all.
I didn’t take it lying down, of course. Ihadto retaliate by placing aCaution: Manholesign in his yard. With spray paint and a little creativity, the sign soon readManwhore. Damon stormed over to ask me where I’d stolen the sign from and warn me that I was endangering lives. I’d happily told him that I got it off the Internet, no harm done, and there were plenty more where that came from.
By the end of the week, his yard was littered with construction signs and he’d wanted to ring my neck.
