Page 14 of Flirting with the Stranger

“Will someone tell me what’s happening?” My heart rate spikes as my gaze pauses on each and every person in the room, waiting for an answer.

Olivia moves to sit next to me. “After you left the club, a guy showed up who was the real stripper we hired. Apparently, he got stuck in traffic and couldn’t get to the club on time. He wanted to call, but his phone was dead.”

My head snaps back so fast to face her I’m surprised I don’t get whiplash. “Wait, so the guy I slept with last night wasn’t a stripper?”

“Yay! You didn’t sleep with a stripper!” Olivia enthusiastically throws her arms in the air, shaking her hands like a cheerleader with pom poms.

“Were you guys going to tell me I took a complete stranger back to my room!?” I screech.

“I mean, either one was a stranger.” Parisa shrugs her shoulders.

“Were you guys going to tell me?” I shriek.

“What were we supposed to do? Pound on your door while he was pounding you and say what? ‘He’s not really a stripper. Carry on,’” Olivia deadpans.

“Yes! That! You should have done that.” The decibel level of my voice is so high I’m sure only dogs across the city could hear me.

“Let me ask you this. Did you have a fun night?” Olivia crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at me, waiting for an answer.

I glance everywhere but at her. I can’t deny that it was one of the best nights I’ve had in…forever. But it was all under false pretenses.

“I will take your silence as you did.” A smug smile graces Olivia’s face.

I exhale a huff. “But he lied. He lied about who he was, and he stole money from us.” I jump to my feet and stomp toward the door. “He can’t get away with this.”

“Where are you going?” Charlie asks.

“I’m going to confront the stripper. Or fake stripper. Or whoever the hell he is.” I throw open the door. It slams behind me as I stomp down the hallway. My hands shake as adrenaline courses through my body. Who pretends to be a stripper? And I’m the idiot who slept with him. This is why I don’t do one-night stands with strangers.

Once I reach my room, I lift the key card up to the door and the green light flashes. I press the handle down, throw open the door, and charge into the room. Quickly, I glance around to find the dark-haired stranger. “Van!” I shout. “If that’s even your name,” I mumble under my breath. Stomping through the suite, I get to the bedroom, the door partially ajar. Pushing it open, I storm in and yell, “How dare you!” My stomach clenches into a giant knot when my gaze fixates on the empty bed. Then I glance down to the floor. No jeans and no black shirt. I whirl around and my heart jumps to my throat. A sliver of light shines through the crack of the bathroom door. I bolt in that direction and push the door fully open. I blink once. Twice. Empty. He left.

EIGHT

ONE MONTH LATER

THE SWEET SPOT

Van

I pull up to the curb in front of The Sweet Spot. The same neon cupcake sign hangs in the front window. Five years have passed since I’ve been here. And if I think about it, it’s five years too soon. I turn off the ignition and sit in silence. I never imagined I would be here, especially under these circumstances. But here I am.

When I got the phone call from Keith Goldberg, my mom’s friend and lawyer, my gut told me something was wrong. That’s when he said Mom was in the hospital. She’d suffered a brain aneurysm. I dropped everything and drove two hours north to Harbor Highlands. I made it to the hospital just in time to spend a few hours with her before she passed.

Now a few days later, I’m parked outside the bakery she opened when I was two years old. Well, technically, it’s my bakery now. I throw open the door of my fifteen-year-old sedan and step out onto the blacktop. As the sun dips into the horizon, I pull my shades off my eyes and hang them from the collar of my shirt. Slamming my car door, crumbles of rust drop to the ground, and I stroll to the entrance. I shove the key into the lock and twist. The bell above the door chimes as I enter. Vanilla and sugar assault my nostrils. Smells like home. Or what was my home, at least.

I glance around to find a light switch when a clatter from the back catches my attention. My head snaps toward a dim light that shines from the end of the hallway. With careful footsteps, I slink down the narrow hall. When I come to an open doorway, I stop dead in my tracks. Before me stands a woman with auburn hair tied up in a bandana, a red flannel shirt, and a bowl tucked into the crook of her arm. She whisks the contents inside, all while swaying her hips back and forth quietly singing “What’s Love Got To Do With It” by Tina Turner. A slight smile tugs at my lips in amusement. Clearly, she isn’t breaking in to steal everything. But instead breaking in to bake a cake? Interrupting the show, I rap my knuckles on the wall. She doesn’t turn around, so I knock a little louder. This time, she jumps and whirls around, and instantly her eyes go wide as recognition sets in.

“Oh. Shit,” she gasps. The bowl of melted chocolate tumbles from her grip and splatters on the floor. She yanks her earbuds from her ears. “Fake stripper?”

“Holland?”

“Who?” Her eyebrows scrunch together.

I tilt my head. “Holland. You told me your name’s Holland.”

“Oh.” Her eyes go wide. “Yeah. No. Hollyn. My name is Hollyn.”

I point to my chest. “I’m Van. Not fake stripper.”

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