Find Her, Keep Her (2 page)

As soon as I arrive at the Stop & Shop, I pull a basket from the cart area and push it through the automatic double doors. The inside looks like a typical Albertson’s or Vons grocery store that we have in Southern California. The first section I go to is produce. I load up on fresh apples, pears, pomegranates, oranges, carrots, broccoli, tomatoes, kale, and salad kits.
 

I’m scanning the packaged legumes when I hear, “What, are you following me?” At the front of my shopping cart is the guy from the café, standing there like a towering inferno of hotness and wearing a devilish grin.
 

“No, I’m not,” I barely say. My brain is still taking a moment to process that that was a joke.
 

“Don’t worry, you can follow me any-damn-where you please. I prefer it that way.” He’s still smiling.
 

“That’s nice,” I mumble.
Why me?
Like I said, I’m not Mr. Type A’s cup of tea. I like my men silent, mysterious, and communicatively challenged. Those are the ones who tend to like me too.
 

“Daisy, do you mind if I share your basket?” he asks to my surprise.

“I guess not,” I say hesitantly.

I would’ve said no, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes it difficult to deny him.
 

He’s holding up a case of beer in one hand and a big bag of tortilla chips in the other. I want to blast him for eating like a frat boy, but I keep my comment to myself. He puts both items into the basket and follows me as I push the cart toward the seafood. This is nothing short of weird.

“So, um”—I forgot his name—“do you live here?”

“Not full time,” he says.
 

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, which leads me to believe maybe I got it wrong. He could be the communicatively challenged sort, which explains why he’s hitting on me.
 

“What about you? Where are you from?”
 

“I thought I asked you first.” I’m surprisingly defensive.

“No, you didn’t. You asked if I lived on the Vineyard, not
where
do I live.”

“Oh, right.” I’m satisfied leaving it like that. I don’t need to know where he’s from and vice versa since we’ll never see each other again after this encounter.

His smile deepens. “When I’m not here, I live in New York, Tribeca. Although I’m from Denver. Now it’s your turn.”

We’re at the seafood section, and I scan the freshly packaged fish. I quickly put a package of scallops, salmon, and twenty-five-count shrimp into the basket. “I live in Santa Monica.”

“You’re a woman who knows what she wants,” he says. When I look at him, he’s observing the items in the cart.
 

“I used to think so,” I mumble as I push the basket forward in search of bread.

“And she’s cryptic,” he says as if he’s keeping a list.

Suddenly this feels extremely odd. I’ve picked up a tagalong in the form of a strange and extremely good-looking man who has me pushing around his case of beer in my basket.

“How long are you staying?” he asks.

“So far, two weeks.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Not this time,” I mumble—again—as we arrive at the bread and baked goods aisle.
 

He sniffs, amused. “So what are you, a runaway bride or something? What’s your story, Daisy?”

“What do you mean?” I snatch a loaf of bread off the rack, incensed by the word “bride.”

The handsome stranger examines the bruised loaf as though he senses he just hit a nerve. He lifts his eyebrows. “What about eggs and milk?” I detect that he’s purposely changing the subject.

“Eggs and milk?” I ask.

“You’ll need them when you don’t eat breakfast with me. Although I’m sure I’ll be taking you to breakfast every morning. Dinner, lunch… whenever you’re hungry, I’m here to feed you.” He’s still grinning, even though I’m showing him the opposite expression.

Really, who is this guy? He certainly is coming on strong, and yet it seems as if he’s a million miles away. Since I travel a lot, I get hit on frequently. It doesn’t repulse me, but I’ve gotten very good at politely letting men know I’m not interested. Right now, I want this guy to go away, but I also want him to stay. He’s nice for sure, but more than that, he feels good. His voice, his energy, his smile, the intrigue in his eyes. He really feels good.

“My boyfriend is marrying my best friend,” I blurt out unthinkingly. “That’s why I feel like crap.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” He sounds genuinely sympathetic.

“Me too.” I avoid eye contact. Confession is supposed to be good for the soul, but I just feel worse. I push the basket. “You’re right. I’ll need eggs, milk, pancake mix…”

“Hey,” he says softly as he takes the basket by the handle to stop my progress. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound disingenuous.”

“No, that’s not it. You didn’t sound ‘disingenuous’ at all.”
 

We’re staring into each other’s eyes, and it feels as though I’ve known him for longer than less than an hour.

“Come to my birthday party tonight,” he finally says. “It’s going to be fun. You’ll forget about this douche who made off with your skanky best friend.”

I sniff and chuckle. Hearing it put like that makes me feel better, even if he’s not a douche. However, she may be a skank. The jury has always been out on that. I shrug. “I’ll try.”
 

He crimps his eyebrows as though he’s thinking very hard. “You’ll need water.”

When we get to the water aisle, he piles three twenty-four packs of sixteen-ounce bottles in the basket. When I tell him there’s no way I can carry that back, he offers to drive me to the house.
 

Now I’m crimping my eyebrows. He’s weighed me down on purpose. The only reason I go along with his little scheme is because I do need the water, and since all the store clerks seem to know and like him, he must be harmless.

Chapter 2

Persistence Pays Off

Of course pretty boy stranger drives a sporty burgundy BMW with the top down. He opens the passenger-side door and insists that I get in and make myself comfortable while he puts the groceries in the trunk. I’m not surprised by how delicious the inside of his car smells; it’s a mixture of brand-new leather and vanilla. I cozy up against the soft leather seat and strap myself in.
 

“By the way”—he leans over as he straps himself in—“you look stunning in that dress. Very sexy, and yesterday in the black jeans and shirt too. And”—he digs into his pocket—“you left this on the table.” He’s holding up the gray card I left behind sort of on purpose. He’s grinning as if I’ve been caught in the act of trying to elude him. “My name is Belmont Lord. You forgot, didn’t you?”
 

I take the card but drop my face, embarrassed. I had no intentions of seeing him again, let alone attending his party. “Maybe.”

He chuckles and winks before backing the car out of the parking space.
 

I’m still so embarrassed. I want to sink into my seat and disappear. For sure he’s through with me now. So I give him the address to where I’m staying, believing this will certainly be the last time we’ll speak because come hell or high water, I will avoid him.
 

“Did you rent a car?” he asks.

“A Mini Cooper,” I reply, still jumpy.

“But you walked to the grocery store?”

“And to breakfast,” I add. “Why drive where two feet can carry you? I’m a travel writer. It’s easier to get a feel for a place if I walk.”

“Ah, so she’s a writer…” he says, adding to that list of details about me he’s keeping.

“Yes, I am. Why did you ask?”
 

“If you didn’t have a car, then I would be willing to chauffeur you around.”

“Oh.” I was not at all expecting that response. We grow silent again. “So what do
you
do for work?”
 

Belmont Lord glowers up the road as if I’ve touched a nerve.

“Is your job legal?” After witnessing his expression, I feel like I have to ask.

He chuckles. “What if it weren’t? What if I were a criminal?” He lifts his eyebrows teasingly.

I shrug. “Then that’s your business. I’ve consorted with criminals before.” It sounds like I’m patting myself on the back for being worldly–which I am. “They make the best tour guides.”

“You and criminals? I don’t believe it. There’s not a bad guy in the world who would be able to keep his hands off of you.”

I roll my eyes. That was supposed to be flattering, but it’s not.
 

He must’ve seen my reaction because he laughs. “I’m an independent contractor.”
 

“What kind of contractor?” I ask, narrowing one eye suspiciously.
 

He laughs again. “Not that kind. Construction. I also do real estate development. And this summer, my brother and I ran a luxury liner from Martha’s Vineyard to Boston. Actually, he started it, and I had to clean up his mess.” He mumbles that last bit.

“Oh okay, that sounds slightly miserable but legal.” Surprisingly, I smile at him. Goodness gracious, he’s making me feel pretty good.

Belmont reaches over to squeeze my hand that’s sitting on my lap. I’m expecting him to remove it, but he doesn’t. Suddenly, I’m nervous again because of how natural his touch feels.
 

This is crazy!
 

He’s crazy!
 

I’m crazy!

“Thanks for doing this for me—taking me home, that is,” I say to remind him where we’re supposed to be going because he turns off of Main Street and heads in the wrong direction.

“Hey, do you mind if I stop off to buy a plant?” he asks, showing me that charming smile of his.

“A plant?” I gulp.

“The nursery’s right off Edgartown Vineyard Haven Road. It’ll only take a second.”

I hesitate. I still don’t understand why he’s trying to drag this out. “Okay.” I sigh.
 

That answer seems to satisfy him. He squeezes my hand one last time before letting go to navigate the steering wheel.
 

 
The drive takes way longer than “a second,” but the twisting and turning roads do help me conclude that Martha’s Vineyard has a lot of colonial-style houses on it–tons of them built on just about every plot of land. Most of them are unoccupied now, but I imagine they’ve been occupied all summer long.
 

I was wrong in assuming that the island is quaint. A lot of the natives drive huge trucks. Traffic is pretty regular too. The fields of forest, which hide the spectacular beachfront homes, could make a car ride like this one feel monotonous.
 

“Getting an eyeful?” Belmont asks to claim my attention.
 

I look at him. He’s still smiling. He does that a lot—smile. I think he’s a happy guy, and that’s great. Adrian hardly ever smiled. He complained a lot, usually about the show runner or producer, or the other writers in the writing room–and me. He used to complain that no one thought he had a girlfriend because he’s always going to functions alone. There were even rumors that he’s gay, which I can definitely believe. He’s in great shape, and he has nice white teeth and fingernails. His cayenne-brown skin is smooth as a baby’s bottom because he uses sunscreen and moisturizes every day. He looks waxed, plucked, and powdered. As Stanford says on the television show
Sex and the City
, “How can anyone that gorgeous be straight?”
 

“Ah, you’re sad again,” he says as the car comes to a stop at a sign.
 

“No,” I reply, but I’m too jumpy for it to be true.

“Good,” he says, leaving it at that.

I think he’s going to hold my hand again, but instead, he opens the glove compartment and takes out a small slip of paper with a list written on it.
 

He makes a right into the parking lot of a plant nursery, parks, and hops out of the car. I’m not sure if he wants me to come with him until he walks around the front of the car to open my door for me. I slide out and we walk side-by-side toward the colorful flowers and robust green plants lined up in neat rows.
 

“What can I get for you, Belmont?” a petite, red-faced woman with a button nose and small eyes asks in the customary New England accent.

“How are you doing, Nance. Looking for this here.” He uses the same regional dialect that I didn’t think he had.

She scowls at the list. Whatever’s written on it seems to puzzle her. “Oh, go to Oak Lanes.” She hands it back to him.

“You’re the best, Nance.” He rewards her with that charming wink of his.

I wonder if he intends to drop me off at the house before he goes on a wild goose chase for the mysterious plants on the list.
 

As we walk back to the BMW, I say, “Well, good luck finding what you’re looking for.”
 

“It’s right up the road. It won’t take long.”

I could insist that he drops me off first, but the key to being a successful travel writer is to go with spontaneous flows. I never know where they’ll lead me. I’m torn between giving in to my natural curiosity and the incessant need to be alone so I can press the resume button on crying my eyes out.

The car is back on the road, passing more dry trees and foliage. I’ve already noticed that the thick forests lining the roadways act as woody fences. I kind of find that disconcerting. It seems residents definitely have to pay for paradise on this island.

“So where have you traveled?” Belmont asks.

I can tell he’s trying to start a conversation, any old conversation. “Just about everywhere. Except here.”

“No?” He sounds intrigued.

I shake my head. “No.”

“There’s a lot of beauty on the Vineyard. I’ll take you around to see it.”

“No!” I panic. “I have to get back.”

He laughs. “Not now—later. But why do you want to get away from me, Daisy? I like this, hanging around you.”

I sniff at how weird that sounds, mainly because I like being with him too. Strange, but I do.
 

“So your boyfriend made off with another girl?” Again, it sounds as though he’s forcing conversation.