Page 21 of Brewbies
A part of him longed to join them.
Most of him recoiled at the very idea.
If every twit with a trust fund wasted all his time on a boat, who would run things? Who would keep communities together when Main Street small businesses were shuttering all over the country at an unprecedented rate?
This time, he cruised the touristy thoroughfare of Water Street as the daylight made its gradual departure. The Victorian-style streetlamps powered up in an attempt to take over, though they were no match for the graphic colors of day’s end. Damp brick buildings gleamed after a savage five-minute cloudburst. Windows glowed with anticipation for the advertised boat, music, art, and various upcoming festivals and events that flooded the town with summer cash.
Though it could have been a peaceful scene, a certain flamingo-haired problem kept popping into his mind’s eye.
Darby Dunwell.
Darby Dunwell, who was supposed to be in town tonight at Cady’s now infamous Bare-Naked Book Club.
Darby Dunwell. who could be currently describing his (gulp) bait and tackle to a group of women he’d known since birth, one of whom was sort of his ex.
Tossing his head back against the headrest of his unmarked SUV, he let out a rare groan of mortification.
Darby Dunwell, whom he’d donepretty fucking well, if he could say so himself. Though since their very salacious—very slippery—encounter, he hadn’t been able to think of anything but her pink hair in his clenched fist.
Her pink sex in his mouth.
Her pink lips around his cock.
Even…when driving her out of his town.
He was off duty. Had no reason to patrol streets all but deserted before the summer deluge. All was peaceful. He should head home.
After another three rotations around the downtown area, the doors to Nevermore Bookstore burst open and a man in a dingy coat plunged into the blustery evening.
Visible through the shop window and glass door, a dozen women spilled down the stairs to the Nevermore foyer like a litter of unruly kittens. They ricocheted off and reached over each other for goodbye hugs and kisses, exchanged food and phone numbers, books and squeezes.
Which was why they didn’t notice him parallel-park two doors down in front of The Mean Bean Coffee House behind a VW bus with a mural of a peacock and a yin/yang on the side.
Ethan stepped out onto the pavement, doing his best to shut his car door gently, though he couldn’t fathom why. It wasn’t like he was hiding from anyone. Or lurking. Watching.
Hell no. He wasn’t the kind of guy who lurked.
Lurkers were creepy, problematic motherfu— Uh oh.
He stepped back into the shadow of the bus when Nevermore’s doors opened again. Better to let the tidal wave of libido-laden ladies scatter to the wind in search of wealthy werewolves or bodacious billionaires or whatever the fuck they got off to in those romance novels.
But not because he was hiding or lurking. He needed to make that very,veryclear to himself.
“It’s freezing out here.” Cady Bloomquist pulled her cardigan around her generous frame as she pushed her glass door open with her hip and held it. She eyed Darby’s antique bike with a dubious expression. “I can drive you home and Fawkes can bring you your bike in the morning when he comes back from cutting trails in the Hoh Rainforest.”
“No need.” Darby breezed out of the bookshop and dumped an armful of what he could see were leftovers and books before turning to crush Cady, Gemma, Vee, and Myrtle in a hug. “I’ve ridden old Lola down side streets in Ann Arbor, where the snow drifts were taller than me. Compared to that weather, this is just a little PNW pizzaz.”
Shesquonka squonkedher little bugle horn to everyone’s delight, and stood stubbornly until the others had moved on, and Cady sought refuge from the water-chilled evening breeze.
Ethan watched in silence as Darby turned her gaze back toward the bookstore, a contemplative expression on her face. Her dazzling, painted smile faded, shoulders lifted and fell, lips parted on a beleaguered breath.
Lonely.
The word would have tripped him if he’d been walking.
Her loneliness must be bland for her to dress it up with such vibrant colors and season it with an outlandish lifestyle. She belonged to the violent throbs of light and rhythm that kept big cities alive. Hell, that kept them awake past nine p.m.
His loneliness was, in a word, vivid. Palpable. It screamed through the cavernous halls of the Townsend manse. It shivered in the cold press of his sheets. Pulsed through him now as she bent to unlock her bike.
