So I’ll go have cake with Monroe, thank him for trying to cheer me up, and then I’ll suck up my pride and go home. Let Rebecca have her laugh at my expense. I’ll survive. I’ve dealt with meaner girls than her.
The bike slows as we cruise down a road lined with eclectic shops and a few bars—South Congress, I realize. Or SoCo, as most people refer to it around here. This is the part of town where the city keeps its Keep Austin Weird motto going strong. Caleb has always hated it, declaring that this was Texas, not California. But there’s one breakfast place a few streets over that he likes enough to brave the “hippy and hipster” zone on occasion.
Monroe parks in a lot between buildings and helps me off the bike. Before I can ask where we’re going, he clasps my hand and guides me around a building and toward another parking lot. This one has lights strung everywhere and colorful picnic benches half packed with people. Food trucks line the edges of the lot, and a guy with a guitar is playing in the front corner.
My stomach growls at the combination of smells drifting from the lot—funnel cake, tacos, bacon. All the happy food groups. “I think my stomach just realized I never fed it dinner.”
“You and me both. Some high-maintenance chick kept me late at work and made me skip dinner.” I poke him in his side and he laughs. “Come on, let’s not live by cake alone. That bright orange truck over there has these Korean pork sandwiches that are so addictive I’m convinced they’re laced with crack. And we’ll need to grab a fish taco from Bueno’s. And then I know the girl who owns Sweet Revenge, the silver one over there. She will give us the cake hookup.”
His enthusiasm is so open it almost looks out of place on him—biker dude getting excited about cake. But I find myself smiling back. “A closet foodie?”
“Closet culinary student.”
My brows lift. “I never would’ve guessed.”
“That’s because you’re wildly judgmental and put me in the box of former convict or potential meth dealer the minute you saw me.”
“Riiight, says he who has called me sorority girl and princess nonstop.”
“Fine. Are you or have you ever been in a sorority?”
My lips press together. I don’t want to answer, but I know he’s not going to let me off the hook. “It was only freshman year—”
“Ha!” he says, and tugs me further into the lot.
“But I’m no princess. No fairy godmother ever saved me from anything, there’s no inheritance waiting, and my prince just ditched me for a girl who thinks keeping up with the Kardashians is a solid life goal.”
He slows down at that and I bump into him. The humor in his expression softens into something more serious. “That asshole was not a prince. He’s a punk. The way he talked to you . . . like he wanted to manage you. Like you were a task on his Day Planner to handle. Fuck that. I’ve known you for three hours and know better than to try that shit with you. You’d castrate me.”
I blink, a little stunned at his spot-on assessment of how Caleb talks to me. I’ve never put it in those terms, but manage is the exact right word. And I’d let him. Maybe part of me had felt like I needed to be managed, like he’d lead me to some holy grail of fitting in with the “right” people.
“That dude was more concerned about what a dining room of strangers was thinking than he was about what you were feeling. If he really cared about you, he should’ve gotten on his knees and begged you to forgive him for being such a dick. But no, he tried to make you feel stupid and put you down instead. Your fairy godmother did show up tonight—with blonde hair, a fake tan, and a designer bag. She saved you from continuing that bullshit. You deserve better than being some guy’s Stepford girlfriend. Let Blondie take on that job.”
I can feel my eyes filling up, my emotions, which are already running high, trying to spill over because now I’m embarrassed. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
His brows scrunch. “What? How did you get that out of what I just said?”
“He’s a jerk, but I was stupid enough to stay with him.”
Monroe groans and releases my hand. “Stay right here.”
“Where are you going?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he heads toward the guy who’s been playing guitar.
I panic, frozen for a moment, and then hurry after him. But my heels slow me down and by the time I get there, he’s already talking to the man and taking the microphone from him. What the hell? Monroe plants his Chuck Taylor on a nearby bench and propels himself up and onto the picnic table.
“Attention, everyone!”
I’m at the edge of the table now, ready to pull him down by the pant leg if necessary, but everyone is turning our way. “What are you doing?”
He smiles down at me but doesn’t answer, just gives me the one moment motion with his finger. He looks out at the crowd again. “Listen up, today is my friend Natalie’s twenty-first birthday.”
“Oh my God.” Where’s a shovel so I can dig a hole in the dirt and crawl in? I try to scoot into the shadows.
“No one has sung to her yet. She’s had no cake. And worse, no alcohol. In fact, so far today she’s survived being broken down on the side of the road in the heat, has caught her boyfriend cheating and knocked that boyfriend’s nuts into his throat in public, and turned the purse of the chick he was with into a designer punch bowl.”
Eyes swivel toward me. I want to die. But someone claps, and there’s a You go, girl from an elderly lady at a nearby table. That makes me smile.
“And yet she still looks this hot after all that,” Monroe declares.
A wolf whistle comes from someone on the far side of the lot. I laugh and put my hand over my face.
“So”—Monroe raises his hand in a mock toast despite having no drink—“happy birthday to Natalie, one badass bitch!”
The crowd toasts back and then the guy with the guitar starts a rendition of Happy Birthday. A chorus of diners serenades me.
Monroe hops down from the table, singing along with them and grinning. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Nat-a-lie . . .” He leans over. “So, in answer to your question, no, I don’t think you’re an idiot.”
My hands go to my hips, and I give him my are-you-out-of-your-mind face. But I can’t help the swell of emotion that comes from the simple act of being sung to by a large group of people. There’s some weird power in that. I never really had birthday parties—even as a kid. Mom wasn’t organized enough to put something together. So I’d get a few presents and a trip to McDonald’s with my cousins. This is so much better.
I close my eyes. Because I will not cry, dammit. “If you think this is going to get me to kiss you again, prepare to be disappointed.”
“As if I would have ulterior motives,” he says, and I open my eyes to find him watching me with an amused expression.
And son of a bitch, I do want to kiss him. Because he looks so damn good standing there. Because unlike Caleb, he isn’t afraid to look silly in front of other people. Because he called me a badass and meant it.
I make a sound of frustration. “I’m still not sleeping with you.”
I step into his space, and I’m not sure who kisses who first. All I know is that before the birthday song ends, his hand is in my hair and his lips are on mine and my body is melting against his.
My lips part and his tongue is stroking mine, devouring any remaining resistance. Hungry sounds escape me, and my fingers seek something to hold on to, eventually knotting in his T-shirt. There’s a frantic edge to both our movements, like we don’t know which way to go next, like we want to do everything all at once. We’re going to bump noses; I know it. But somehow we work it all out. His hands slide to my waist, and I’m pushing onto my toes. My arms loop around his neck, and we’re kissing, kissing, kissing.
Somewhere in the background people are clapping and catcalling. And finally my mind registers where we are. There are people. We’re being watched. I break away with a panting breath. My cheeks are on fire, and I pres
s my face into his shoulder. “Oh my God.”
Monroe seems a little blitzed for a moment, too, but takes a breath and seems to come back to himself. He releases his tight hold on me and keeps his back to the crowd. “Uh, yeah. That wasn’t exactly my plan. Should we take a bow?”
“I think we’ve done enough.”
“Right. Pork?”
“You’d better be talking sandwiches.”
He laughs and loops his arm over my shoulder. “Come on, birthday girl.” He gives a wave to the crowd. “Show’s over, people.”
There are a few boos.
Half an hour later, my cheeks have finally cooled, and I’m happily finishing off the last bits of a taco. “You were right. This is freaking delicious.”
“Right? Who needs Madrid when you can get this wrapped in greasy paper?”
“Word.”
“And now for the finale. Cake!”
“You rang?” A girl with spiky, bright orange hair and possibly more tattoos than Monroe stops at our table. She sets down two cupcakes in front of us. They’re as big as softballs and smell like baked heaven.
“Wow,” I murmur.
She nods as if to say, Yes, I know they’re beyond fabulous.
She pushes one toward Monroe. “Blue Velvet for you because it’s new, and I need your honest opinion. Cory says people are naturally freaked out by blue foods, but I think he’s making shit up just so we put his newest creation on the menu instead of mine. It may stain your teeth blue for a while, by the way, but I think it’s worth it.”
Monroe eyes the bright blue cupcake with the fluffy cream-colored frosting. From the looks of it, he may be one of those people freaked out by blue foods.
The girl sticks a candle in the other cupcake. This one has deep red frosting. “And Blood and Chocolate for your girl because getting cheated on requires chocolate.” I must look worried because she adds, “Don’t worry, no real blood. It’s a dark chocolate cupcake with Blood Orange Buttercream frosting.”
“Right. Got it. Thanks.”
“Tyra and her brother like naming their baked goods after movies. Preferably horror films,” Monroe says, swiping his finger through the frosting on his cupcake and taking a lick. His eyebrows lift. “Damn, that’s good.”
“Right?” She seems pleased and adjusts the candle in my cupcake. “I want to bathe in that frosting.”
“Well, I’m not sure I’d go that far,” he says, but he’s taking another swipe.
Tyra holds out her palm to him. “Give me your lighter for your girl’s candle.”
“No can do. I quit smoking, heard it screws with your taste buds,” Monroe says, breaking off a piece of his cupcake. I try not to get distracted by the way he licks a gob of icing off his thumb.
“Taste buds,” Tyra says dryly. “Because the cancer thing just wasn’t that compelling?”
I decide I like her.
“Thanks for the cupcakes, Ty,” Monroe says, his teeth already turning a pale shade of blue. “I owe you an oil change. Just bring it by before Thursday.”
“Cool. You hitting the road after that?” she asks.
“Yep. Three months. Try not to slit your wrists from the grief of missing me.”
She sniffs. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”
I want to ask questions, participate in the conversation. But I feel a little on the outside looking in right now. So I bite into my cupcake. I can’t keep the groan of pleasure from escaping, though.
Tyra’s face lights up. “You like?”
My mouth is full but I manage a garbled, “Ohmigod.”
“Look at that, the girl has good taste, despite her questionable choice in men.” Tyra gives Monroe a pointed look.
“Hey,” he says, putting his hands out, affronted. “I’m a good guy.”
She taps the spot in front of me with her palm. “Have fun tonight, sugar. Remember, birthdays are like trips to Vegas. Whatever happens doesn’t go on your permanent record.”
I laugh. “Did he pay you to say that?”
“Didn’t have to. I saw that kiss.”
With that, she strolls off, leaving me blushing all over again.
Monroe leans onto his elbows and smiles. “Ready for alcohol now?”
“God, yes.”
Chapter 5
Natalie
I stare out at the smooth surface of the lake, leaning back on my elbows and soaking in the view. I’m still a little buzzed from the big-ass margarita I had at the bar we walked to after the cupcakes, but the fresh air feels good and the park is quiet. I’m feeling more relaxed than I have all night. I turn on my side.
Monroe is on his back in the grass, looking up at the stars. His eyes are half-mast, and I realize it’s two in the morning and I’m keeping him up after what was probably a long day at work. “You can go home, you know.”
“Don’t try to bail on me now, princess,” he says, his voice sleep-soft. “We’ve still got four hours left until sunrise.”
“You’re not going to make it four minutes.”
“Talk to me then. Keep me awake. Dance, monkey, dance.”
“Where are you going for three months?” I ask, folding my arm under my head and resting on it.
“A little bit of everywhere¸ hopefully, but eventually I’ll end up in South Carolina.” He closes his eyes fully. “A buddy of mine has a place on Myrtle Beach, and he needs someone to house-sit and take care of his two cats in August while he does some contract job overseas. I volunteered.”
“And before August?”
He crosses his arms behind his head. “I’m going to see as much of the eastern part of the country as I can. I love dive restaurants and regional food. Those are the kinds of dishes I want to put twists on if I ever open up my own place. But I haven’t eaten enough of the real thing out in the wild. So I figured I’d do my own Americana culinary tour.”
“And you can just leave your life for three months?” There’s a judgmental sharpness to my tone that I hate, but I can’t help it.
“School’s out for the semester. And my brother’s getting a part-timer to pick up the slack at the shop while I’m gone.” He rolled to face me. “So, yeah. I figured when else in my life am I going to be able to pick up and spend a summer doing exactly what I want? Driving through the Smoky Mountains, seeing the coast, eating like a king, then kicking up on the beach for a month at the end—what’s not to like?”
I stare at him, the concept of chasing some whim so completely out of my realm I can’t even wrap my brain around it. “What are you going to do for money? Where are you going to stay?”
“I’ve got some savings, so I’m good for a while. Once I get to South Carolina, I’ll probably find something in a restaurant part-time to get more kitchen experience and to add to the funds. As for where I’m staying, I’m bringing camping gear for when the weather’s good enough. But when it’s not, I’ll be driving a conversion van I refurbished. It has a bed in the back if I need it.”
“Wow, so just get on the road and figure out what’s what after you get to wherever you’re going?”
He smiles like I’m being cute. “You make it sound like I’m hopping in a spaceship to venture to Mars without supplies. This is America. If I need something, I’ll go to the store. I can make do wherever. I don’t need that much to get by.”
I consider him. He’s being totally serious. “I can’t imagine jetting off to wherever for the summer just for the hell of it.”
“How come? What do you usually do for the break? You taking summer classes?”
A breeze ruffles my dress and I smooth it down. “Usually I go home to Oklahoma and stay with my mom, get a waitressing job, and do my best not to commit matricide.”
He lifts a brow.
“It means killing your mother.”
“I know what it means, smarty-pants. Believe it or not, mechanics read books on occasion, too, even ones with big words.”
I grimace and look down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. God, I do co
me off as a judge-y bitch sometimes, don’t I?”
“Hey.” He reaches out and taps me under the chin to get me to look up. “I’m just messing with you. And why do you go home if you and your mom don’t get along?”
I snort. “Because she’s the master of guilt trips and it saves me money to stay with her. I actually was going to break tradition this year. I wanted to stay here and take this creative writing intensive thing, but my scholarship doesn’t cover it. I thought . . .” I stop myself and blow out a breath. “Never mind, it’s not important.”
“Sure it is. You thought what?”
I sigh. “I thought Caleb was going to ask me to move in with him tonight. Since he wouldn’t have charged me rent, I could’ve used the money I saved to sign up for that workshop. Work on my writing during the day, waitress at night. But obviously that plan’s not going to work. And the cash I saved will need to go to fixing my car. So I’m thinking it’s back home for me.”
He frowns. “The part you need for your car will probably be about four hundred bucks. I’ll make sure you don’t get charged for labor. And my brother would probably work out a payment plan with you. He does it for friends, so I can vouch for you.”
I shake my head, touched by the offer. “You, Monroe . . . Hell, I don’t even know your last name.”
“Hawkins.”
“Well, you, Monroe Hawkins, are a sweet guy.”
“Oh, God, please don’t let that rumor get out,” he says with mock horror. “And maybe this is all still a massive ploy to get you to sleep with me.”
I laugh. “Sexual favors in exchange for car repairs?”
“I’m totally not above that kind of bartering system. Let’s see, what act would be equivalent to a two-hundred-dollar labor charge? I’m thinking a blow—”
I shove his shoulder before he can finish and he rolls onto his back, chuckling.
“You’re terrible.” I straighten my bra strap, which has slid down my arm. “And believe me, I’m worth more than two hundred, mister. I’m at least in the two fifty range.”