HAPPY PANTS CAFE (THE HAPPY PANTS SERIES) (3 page)

You’re weird.

Yes. Yes, I am.

“Hey,” she said to the clerk, “do you know anything about the Happy Pants Café?”

The guy shrugged and swiped her card in the machine. “Not really.”

“What’s ‘not really’ mean?”

“It’s some lame coffee shop the tourists go to. Mostly older women. Like your age, ya know?”

Older woman? Me? I’ll poke you in the eye, you scrappy little mutt.

“Do you know anything else? How long the place has been around, or who owns it?”

He shook his head. “I just know that place makes a lot
a dough. They open in the spring and close at the end of summer. And the line is always out the door.”

How very, very interesting. Rents were not cheap in this neighborhood, so how could a café survive if they weren’t open year-round?

Answer: they had other income. But if they were arranging marriages, it was a bit odd that they lacked male patrons. “So, you’re sure? No men?”

“I see some dudes going, but not too many.” The clerk looked at the clock on the wall. “If you’re thinking of checking it out, they close at four.”

“Thanks. I think I will.”

The clerk smirked and then handed her back her card and a key.

“I’m a reporter,” she clarified.

He smirked again. “Have a nice stay,
Miss
Branton.”

Harper ignored the jab. She couldn’t care less what anyone thought of her marital status. She did wonder, however, why she had the distinct impression the clerk knew a lot more than he let on. Well, Harper would find out the truth. After all, she was just as good at doing investigative reporting as she was at doing fluffy social pieces.

“Thanks.” Harper grabbed her suitcase and then headed up to the suite on the third floor. It was actually pretty nice—old cast-iron, clawfoot tub, view of the lilac-filled garden, and king-sized bed.

“
Welp—that’s a waste o’ bed.” She shook her head at the magnificent sleeping oasis and then glanced at her watch.
Dangit.
It was already three o’clock. She needed to head over to that café and start poking around before it closed.

Harper quickly changed out of her stifling jeans and tee into a little khaki dress and sandals. It was hotter than the devil’s left nut today.

Oversized floral purse in hand, she hit the sidewalk and started toward the main road, admiring the cute, well-maintained cottage-style homes with wind chimes and rocking chairs on their porches. They reminded her of the house she’d lived in when she was little, across the bay from San Francisco, in Albany. Her parents had rented the place before buying a large fixer-upper in Pacifica near the beach and just south of the city. Harper had hated to leave, but with another little brother on the way, her parents had opted for more space. Granted, growing up near the beach had been pretty fantastic, but some of Harper’s best memories were living in that little house—playing tag in the yard, making forts from her mother’s clean sheets in the living room, and barbeques almost every weekend during the summer. Most importantly, she’d made her first real friend while living in that house: Austin. It was funny how, even to this day, though she never saw Austin again after they moved, she still thought of him. Not because she harbored any ill will, but because Austin had shaped her life in many, many ways, both good and bad.

One block from the main avenue, Harper noticed a white stretch-limo pull to the side of the street, just before the stoplight. Five young women, all wearing spiked heels, fake tiaras, and short, tight dresses poured out, giggling and snorting. The tallest, a blonde, wore a hot pink satin sash over her chest that said “Bride-to-be.”

Bachelorette party. Here?

Harper kept walking, following not too far behind the girls.

They turned the corner, heading in the same direction as Harper, who was busy reading the addresses on the storefront windows, looking for number 1020.

1012…1014…1016…

The gaggle of tipsy women stopped several doors down in front of a lattice arch covered with bright yellow and white flowers that stood between two buildings. A small hand-painted sign next to the walkway’s entrance displayed the back of a tiny pair of jeans with a yellow happy face on the pocket. A big arrow pointed down the walkway between the buildings.

The café.
Was that where these women were heading?

Harper edged closer, pretending to be window-shopping and texting so she could eavesdrop. They looked genuinely nervous, like they were about to walk the plank.

“Well,” said a full-figured brunette in a pink dress, pushing the blonde with the sash toward the arch, “don’t be a chicken.”

The blonde turned around. “I don’t know if I’m ready. Once it’s done, everything will change.”

Jesus, what was this place? Were they going to sell her into some sort of sex trade? The young woman looked like she might faint.

Harper was about to intervene in the name of happy single women everywhere, but then the blonde started to laugh. “Just kidding! I’m so ready for this!” She turned and faced down the walkway. “Get ready, Mr. Right, ’cause here I come!”

Hmm…that was interesting.
Not wanting to appear too obvious, Harper decided to hang back. Maybe she’d wait at the wine bar across the street until they came out to see if she could get an interview with the girls.

Or maybe I should just
—

Someone body-checked Harper, nearly toppling her to the sidewalk.

“I’m so sorry,” said a deep, male voice. Two strong hands reached out and steadied her by the shoulders.

Harper looked up, up, up and found
herself gazing into the most beautiful hazel eyes.

Hazel eyes…Superman Ken Doll?

“What the hell are you doing here?” she growled.

Super Ken, with his faux bed-tousled brown hair, looked down at her and blinked. He wore a white button-down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, exposing two very muscular-looking forearms, and a pair of well-loved button flies that looked like they’d been stretched out in all the right places to accommodate something very, very large.

Are you staring at his groin, Harper?

No! I just took a quick peek. I’m mean, how could I not notice that bulge? I hope he didn’t notice.

But when she managed to pry her eyes away from his “promising curves,” the look on his face indicated that he most definitely noticed.

Oh. Great. Yay, me.

An amused smile appeared across his unforgivably sexy lips. “Well, well, if it isn’t the bag lady.”

Bag lady.
As in “douchebag” lady. Harper was about to give
his
bags a taste of her knee, but then something non-penis related caught her eye: a real bag. Small, paper, and with a handle. The logo had a smiley face on it.

“Did you go to
my
café?” she asked.

He flashed a judgmental smirk down at her. “Your café?”

“Yes. Mine.”

“If you are referring to
this
café,” he held up the bag, “it’s owned by a Ms. Luci Leon-Parker. For the record, she’s seventy years old. You don’t look seventy.”

“Why were you at that café?”

Super Ken crossed his well-proportioned arms, bag dangling from one hand. Harper noticed that he wore a thick brown leather band on his wrist with an antique-looking watch. “And last time I checked, I work for the
Oakland Examiner
. Not for you.”

Thank your lucky stars for that. You wouldn’t last a day with me as your boss.

“How did you hear about this place?” she asked.

He tilted his head toward his feet, but looked up at her with lifted brows. It was the classic “bad boy” expression.

Aha!
“Christina. Of course. You interviewed her, didn’t you?”

“Well, I had to apologize for the cake incident at her wedding.” He shrugged happily. “She forgave me.”

What could he have possibly done to make her forgive ruining her wedding reception?

Harper gasped.
“You slept with her, didn’t you?”

A spark of incivility flickered in his hazel eyes. “Whoa, lady! I am not that kind of guy.”

“Tell that to someone who didn’t see you grab the bride’s boobs on her wedding day.”

Steam practically flared from his nostrils, and his square jaw flexed with tension. But then suddenly, his indignation shifted into something else. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Yes. From my own personal hell.” Harper snagged the bag from his hand. “This is my story, bride molester, so time for you to go crawl back into your cretin-cave.” She reached inside the bag and found a cookie decorated with a big yellow happy face and wrapped in clear plastic.

They sell cookies and arrange marriages? What sort of people are they?

“You’re insane. You know that?” he said.

“Yes. That’s why you should be afraid.” She examined the cookie. “Are they laced with drugs? Is that the scoop? They sell roofie-chip cookies?”

He cocked a dark brow. “What are you on? Or are you supposed to be on something and forgot to take it?”

Harper glared and then turned back toward the floral arch before storming down the walkway.
No way am I going to let this a-hole steal another story and ruin my life. Who does he think he is?

The sound of Ken’s footsteps trailed behind her. “Hey! I’m not done talking to you.”

“Pound sand, Super Ken.”

“You have my cookie,” he said sharply, as if she’d stolen his car.

She stopped and shoved the cookie at him. “Hope you choke on it.”

“
You
are the cruelest woman I’ve ever met.”

“Just remember: that was my nice side,” Harper called out as he walked away.

That’s right, just keep going, you…you…oh, my God. Look at that ass!
It was like a damned work of sculpted man-art, filling out his jeans to perfection with its round hardness, each cheek flexing proudly as he strutted, not walked, away from her. Then she noticed his back and the way the lines flared out into deliciously broad shoulders. The kind of shoulders a girl could sit on at a rock concert for hours and never get tired of feeling underneath her thighs
. Or underneath your calf muscles while he holds your legs over them, pumping himself into your needy, soft…

You really need to get laid, Harper.

Yes. Yes, I do.

She continued on toward the café and turned the corner, finding a quaint, sunny patio filled with little tables. Large terracotta planters, filled with overflowing red flowers or little grapevine-covered lattices, gave the outdoor café an Italian feel. Harper quickly noted the happy, laughing patrons—mostly women—sipping iced lattes and snapping pictures while holding happy face cookies. A large gaggle of women sat around a table, cheering and howling while another woman took a bite of a cookie.

Oh, Lord. It’s a roofie-cookie cult. And they arrange marriages. They’re all mad.

Harper marched toward the double doors leading inside, past a long line of anxious-looking women waiting to order. On one of the walls, pictures of cheerful couples—hugging, holding babies, or at their weddings—plastered every square inch. There had to be thousands of photos.

On another wall, directly behind the register, was a pair of old jeans encased in glass, the backside showing a faded yellow happy face on the pocket.

This place was like a monument to the insane.

Or the stoned in search of munchies.

The refrigerated glass display cases were filled with neat stacks of large sugar cookies the size of salad plates. Each cookie had a yellow happy face made of frosting.

What is this place?
There were hardly any men, and from what Harper could see, the customers were genuinely buying cookies. And coffee. No private rooms, no forms being filled out. Nothing. Just lots of women, piles of cookies, and coffee.

“The line is back there,” said a man.

Harper turned.
Ugh. Super Ken.
“Look!” She pointed her finger in his face. “I almost lost my job because of you, and I am not about to lose my last chance to keep it. You already got your story, so leave.”

“Excuse me?” he said in a deep, cocky tone that gave her the distinct impression he never let anyone tell him what to do.

Well, he’s never met me.

She leaned toward him and whispered, “You heard me.
Leave.
”

“Why would I do that?” he whispered back acerbically. “To make you happy? I’m pretty sure that’s not possible, and I don’t even know you.”

“Yes. You do. I’m the woman you humiliated in front of the entire world—or at least my colleagues and the entire tabloid-reading community.”

He scoffed. “I beat you to the punch. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

“You used your looks to get a story. That was cheap.”

His eyes dropped to Harper’s chest, and she suddenly felt a rush of sensual tension spark right to the tips of her nipples, as if they seriously appreciated the attention.