The Sweetest Thing (13 page)

“Yeah, I’m listening.” Ford rubbed his belly. “And
ouch
.”

“
Sharp
, I tell you!”

Like he didn’t know that. Like that hadn’t always been the problem, that he wasn’t exactly up to Tara’s standards. Something
that had been slammed home to him anew now that he’d actually met Logan and seen the slick, polished ex up close. Not only
that, he’d sensed a still-obvious chemistry between Logan and Tara.

Sawyer was taking all this in with his usual quiet calm. “What makes everyone think our boy here is interested in the girl?”
he asked Lucille.

She cackled and slapped down her empty shot glass, indicating she wanted another. “Oh, he’s interested.”

Sawyer looked at Ford, studying him thoughtfully.
After a beat, a slight smile curved his lips. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“Thanks, man,” Ford said.

Lucille smacked Ford upside the head.

“Okay,” he said. “Stop that!”

“You need to stop. Stop messing around. It’s time to get serious now, Ford. For once in your life.”

What made this all worse was that in a way she was right. Ford knew what people saw when they looked at him—a guy who’d never
had a serious commitment in his life, except maybe to sailing. And other than Tara and that long-ago summer, he’d never really
been with a woman with whom he’d truly been friends as well as lovers. In his mind, the two were separate things. His life
went day to day. His sailing. The bar. Friends. Sure he was good to his grandma but she didn’t require anything much from
him. Money was easy to give once you had it.

The truth was for the past six months now, he’d been… restless. Unsettled. Unhappy.

Six months. Since the day Tara had come back to Lucky Harbor. Which was especially stupid because neither of them wanted to
go down that road again.

And yet there was something undeniable between them, something far more than what had happened in her bed. Something that
made him itchy to both run like hell and go after her at the same time.

The door of the bar opened and in strolled…
shit
.

Logan Perrish.

He was dressed more for a hot nightclub than a smalltown bar, and looking pretty damn expensive while he was at it. Ford wanted
to hate him on principle but the
guy stopped to sign an autograph for anyone who wanted one. Hard to hate a guy like that. When Logan got to the bar, he was
clearly surprised at the sight of Ford. “Hey. You’re a bartender?”

“Yep. A drink?”

“Sure.” Logan scanned the list of beers available on the blackboard behind Ford. “I’ve heard about something called a… Ginger
Goddess?”

From the next barstool, Sawyer grimaced. “You’ve gotta be within fifty feet of a swimming pool in order to drink a fruity,
girlie-ass drink like that. Otherwise, they revoke your guy card.”

Logan smiled, unconcerned. He looked at Ford. “So you make them or what?”

“Yeah.” Ford made them. For women. Sawyer was right; it was a complete pussy drink.

Logan laughed at his expression. “I know, I know. But if it has the name of a soda pop or any sort of female connotation,
I’m hooked.”

Ford went back to hating as he picked out a kiwi, a pear, and a cocktail shaker, and got to work. On a damn Ginger Goddess.

“Well, if it isn’t the famous Logan Perrish,” Lucille said in her craggy voice.

“Hello,” Logan said with an easy smile. “You a racing fan, darlin’?”

She simpered. “Oh, yes.” She pushed her napkin toward him. “Autograph?”

Ford shot her a level are-you-kidding-me look over his shoulder, but she just grinned at him before turning back to Logan.
“And isn’t it something to have you here
in Lucky Harbor? Nice finish in Talladega. Sorry about the subsequent crash.” She touched his brace. “I hope it’s not too
painful.”

“I’m healing up just fine,” Logan assured her, turning to include the two women who came up on his other side. They held out
their napkins for him to sign as well, which he did with a flourish.

Ford added ginger, vodka, and ice to the shaker, catching Sawyer’s eye.

Sawyer was back to smirking.

With a scowl, Ford strained Logan’s drink into a flute, then topped it with sparkling wine.

By now Logan had half the bar circling him like he was the best thing since sliced bread, and he’d turned away from the bar,
completely surrounded by fans.

“A real live celebrity,” Sawyer noted to Ford. “People can’t resist that.”

Ford could. “I don’t see what’s so great about him,” he muttered. “In his last eighteen starts, he’s never so much as led
a lap. And he dresses like he believes his own press.”

“I think you missed your dose of Midol today.”

“And what the fuck,” Ford went on. “Driving isn’t even a damn sport.”

Sawyer was cracking up now. “Really?”

“Really what?”

“You’re going to finally make a move for the woman you’ve been mooning over for what, six months now, because her ex-husband
is in town? Lame, man.”

“Who said I was making a move?”

“You’re gearing up, I can tell,” Sawyer said.

“You can not.”

“I’ve been watching you make your moves since middle school. You haven’t changed your technique much.”

“Whatever.” Ford slammed around a few shot glasses to look busy. “And technically, I made my move
before
Logan got here.” He felt someone pat his hand and looked down at Lucille.

“Don’t you worry, honey,” she said in a stage whisper the people in Seattle could have heard. “We’re going to help you get
the girl.”

“We?”

She gestured to four women that looked even older than she, all in an assortment of bright lipstick and blue hair. “We’re
going to tip the scales in your favor,” she said. “But it’d really help if you’d ever been on TV for winning a race.”

“I have!” Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. “Listen to me, Lucille. No meddling. Do you hear me?”

But Lucille had already turned to her posse. “It won’t be easy, girls,” she was saying to them. “But we can do it. For Ford,
right?”

“For Ford,” they all repeated.

Sawyer was grinning, the asshole.

“Okay, that’s it,” Ford said to Lucille, pointing at her. “I’m cutting you off.”

“Hush, dear,” she said with a dismissive wave. “We’re working here. And while you’re standing there looking pretty, we’re
going to need a pitcher of margaritas.”

Jesus.

Ford was halfway through that task when Logan sauntered back up to the bar for another drink.

“Don’t tell me,” Ford said. “Another Ginger Goddess.”

“Nah.” Logan grinned. “I just wanted to see if you knew how to make a sissy drink. It was good though. Thanks.”

Sawyer, still sprawled back in his chair, laughed.

Okay, that was it. Ford was cutting
everyone
off, the fuckers.

Lucille asked Logan for his autograph again.

“Didn’t I already give you one, darlin’?” Logan asked.

“Yes, but that was for eBay.” Lucille patted his arm and pointed to Ford. “Have you met our own local celebrity?”

Logan looked at Ford. “Yes, but I didn’t know he was a celebrity.”

Ford waited for someone to announce his two American Cup wins or maybe the ISAF Rolex World Sailor of the Year award. Or hey,
how about either of his gold medals?

“Yes, sirree,” Lucille said proudly. “Ford here makes the best margaritas on the West Coast.”

Sawyer choked and indicated he needed water. Ford ignored him.

“And oh!” Lucille added. “He’s real good on a boat, too.”

Ford was sure that he could feel a blood vessel bursting behind his left eye. He took a deep, calming breath. It didn’t help,
but it wasn’t worth the breath to point out that he’d also once been featured in
Sports Illustrated
.

Sawyer continued to cough, and Ford hoped he swallowed his tongue.

Lucille waved her glass around as she spoke. “Why,
just the other day Ford was working on Lucky Harbor Inn’s rentals for them. Such a good boy.”

Logan grinned. “That’s nice.”

“Oh, our Ford is
quite
the catch,” Lucille went on, and her blue-haired posse all nodded sagely. “Tara thinks so, too, seeing as she pulled him
into her meeting the other day and made him take off his shirt for the ladies.”

Now it was Ford’s turn to choke. “Okay, that’s
not
what happened. I—”

“Don’t be shy, dear. You look good without your shirt.” Lucille glanced at Logan. “Though I’m sure you look good without yours
as well. In fact, maybe we could have a contest right here.”

Jesus.

Lucille’s posse all sat up straighter and nodded their blue-haired perms.

Logan laughed, but he looked Ford over for a long beat.

Ford looked right back. In Logan’s eyes, he saw the light of challenge. No, they weren’t going to have a shirt-off contest,
but they
were
competing.

Game on.

T
ara spent the next few days organizing and then reorganizing the inn’s kitchen.

They were going to open as a B&B.

Maddie had handled the paperwork for the license and inspection required, Chloe was working up ideas for special baskets for
guests that could be ordered if they wanted meals on the go, and Tara was working on menu planning, recipes, and the additional
supplies needed.

It could actually come together and work.

Tara could hardly believe it, both that she’d agreed and that the more time passed, the more she liked the idea. It was exhilarating
to finally do something she’d always wanted—cooking for a living in her own kitchen.

It was terrifying as well, because the opportunity for an epic failure had never been greater. It wasn’t as if she had a great
track record succeeding at… well, anything.

But there was always a first time. This was what she told herself. It gave her hope. With the phones starting to ring and
bookings coming in, and with Chloe still coming and going and Maddie feeling in over her head, they’d put out an ad for another
part-time employee. They already had interviews set up with a few high school students hopefully willing to do grunt work
relatively cheaply.

Plenty of the Lucky Harbor curious stopped by: Lucille toting recipes, Lance and Tucker proposing the possibility of delivering
ice cream on the weekends from their shop, Sawyer to mooch coffee—the inn was on his way to work and he preferred Tara’s coffee
to the station’s.

If nothing else, the distractions soaked up some of the terror over the upcoming opening, and took up all of Tara’s available
brain space, leaving none for her other problems.

Such as her man problems.

That she could even think that phrase—
man problems—
was as amazing as it was ridiculous. She never had man problems.

She never had men!

To her surprise, Logan had been serious about staying in town. He’d rented a small beach cottage a few miles up the road and
had come by each day. Tara had no idea what to make of that. Her entire marriage had been about
her
chasing
him
. It felt odd, to say the least, that things were reversed.

As for Ford, he was around. He’d served her drinks the other night when she’d gone to The Love Shack with Chloe and Maddie.
He’d been at the marina yesterday working on his boat.

But there’d been no one-on-one conversations between them. And given that she knew he was all too aware of Logan being in
town, she got the unspoken message.

He wasn’t going to press, push, or fight for her. Shock. Ford never pressed, pushed or fought. Things either came right to
him, like moths to a flame, or they didn’t.

Not being a moth, Tara was on her own to do as she pleased. She just wasn’t exactly sure what would please her.

Okay, big fat lie. She knew what would please her, and that was one Ford Walker, served straight up. But hell if she’d go
through that again….

A week after their not-so-awkward morning after, Tara headed out at the crack of dawn to return his crepe pan, which she’d
used and loved. She needed to buy herself one the next time she had a couple hundred bucks lying around.

It took ten minutes to drive to his house, ten minutes she told herself she didn’t have to spare. She should have given him
the pan back at the marina. That would have been the logical and reasonable thing to do. Except as it applied to Ford, Tara
didn’t have a logical or reasonable bone in her body.

At least his house was easy enough to get to. He lived on the bluffs above the inn. As the sun rose over the mountains, casting
a pink glow over the morning, she parked and headed up his walk. A small part of her secretly hoped she caught him in bed.
But that really was a very small part.

The bigger part hoped he was in the shower.

She looked around and realized that she didn’t see his car, which pretty much rained on the waking-him-up
parade. Wondering where he was—or who he might be with so early—put a hitch in her step.