Apparently, I wasn’t the only one affected by our conversation.
I waited until she disappeared around the corner before heading back toward the field, trashing my untouched cup of coffee along the way.
One thing was for sure—it was the best six bucks I’d spent all week.
Dani
Roasters 10–7
Iwas more baked than a potato—and not in the fun, legal in twenty-four states kind of way.
It was one of those criminally hot afternoons that only came around every so often in Oregon, even in the springtime. To think, just two days ago, I had been wrapped in a fleece blanket, huddling next to my space heater like a Victorian orphan. Yet here I was, clad only in sunglasses and my favorite black-and-white bikini like Wednesday Addams, sipping something vaguely citrusy and nonalcoholic.
Only in Oregon could you go from seasonal depression to sunscreen in under forty-eight hours.
“This is the life.” Nessa beamed from the neighboring chair.
“You’re telling me.”
“I wonder what it would take to convince Pink to put in a pool at his place.”
My lips curved up in a small grin. “Oh, probably just whatever it is you do that makes him groan your name like he’s praying to a goddess every other night.”
Clarke nearly spit out her drink. All Nessa could do was laugh.
“Do you really want to know—”
“No!” Clarke and I shouted at the same time.
Pink was the closest thing to a sibling I had ever known, and sure, I was thrilled that he and Nessa had found each other, but that didn’t mean I wanted to hear about all the nasty things they did to each other.
The three of us had curled up on the daybeds beneath the covered pergola while the guys got in the pool, alternating between conversation and whatever books we were reading on our Kindles. Nessa had talked Clarke and me into joining the monthly book club she hosted at her store, but between my surging hormones and the fact that the main character was a tattooed, single father, I had had to set the book aside.
I could only take so much torture.
A few of the guys were engaged in some sort of hyper-competitive water volleyball match. The rest were scattered amongst the luxurious outdoor kitchen, taking turns manning the grill and margarita station like dads at a neighborhood block party.
And then there was Matty, our esteemed host.
The entire team had thought he was nuts when he’d first purchased the 1920s farmhouse just outside of town, and rightfully so. The place had looked like something out of a true crime documentary—peeling wallpaper around every corner, creaky floors that screamed “unresolved murder,” and more than a few questionable stains. Even the Zillow listing had come with a disclaimer that said,“For legal reasons, we advise against this.”
Six months and a hundred grand later, and the place was nice enough to make any HGTV show host cry. Warm wood accents, black window trim, and rustic-modern everything. If the baseball thing didn’t work out, Matty could probably make a pretty penny flipping houses for Pacific Northwest hipsters—he had done most of the renovations himself.
“Yo, Matty,” Bennett called out from the patio. “Your dog ran off with my wiener.”
“Mo,” Matty drawled from the pool. “Don’t you dare.”
The dog froze in a stance I could only describe as cartoon villainish, long ears dragging on the tile, tail straight out like a periscope. Sure enough, her tiny teeth were wrapped around a hot dog, bun and all.
And then, she lunged.
Half the team erupted into shouts and laughter as Mo barreled across the lawn, launching herself—and Bennett’s hot dog—into the pool.
Matty groaned. “That dog is gonna be the death of me.”
“Only because you spoil her rotten,” I shouted across the lawn.
“She’s not rotten,” Matty said, dead serious, scooping Mo up into his arms like she was a precious jewel. “She’s just a Daddy’s girl.”
