Chapter One
Phoebe
“This is the worst idea I’ve ever had,” I mutter as I zip the too-tight black sequin dress up my back.
“If this is your worst idea so far, you need to live harder.” Ella, my best friend shouts. I can hear gusts of wind through the phone.
I pick up the phone and turn off speaker mode. “You live hard enough for the both of us. Where are you? It’s so loud.”
“Indonesia. I’m on a bus headed… Fuck, I don’t even know where. Wae Rebo, I think.”
Turning sideways, I look myself up and down in the floor-length mirror of my hotel room. “God, I look ridiculous, Ella.”
This feels wildly over the top. From the heels to the makeup to the overpriced dress, this really isn’t me. In fact, this might be the first time in almost a year that my hair has seen anything other than a messy bun.
“Send pics,” she demands. Sighing heavily, I snap a selfie and send it to her.
“Holy tits, Batman,” she crows. “Where did those things come from?”
“It’s the dress,” I moan. “It’s smooshing everything around.”
“Well, finding a bed or two to surf won’t be a challenge when you look like that.”
I shudder.
“God, I hate this assignment,” I mutter. “I’m not really bed surfing. You do remember that part, right?”
“Look, I’m not telling you how to live your life. God knows I’m not out here reeling in that bratwurst on the regular.”
I almost choke on my tongue.
“I’m just saying, maybe it’s time to live a little. Make a mistake. Do something wild.”
“Uh-huh. And are you following your own advice or just dishing it out like little seeds of smutty wisdom?”
Ella laughs. “Just preaching the gospel. Look, I’ve gotta run. I think we’re almost there. You’ve got this. The tits are poppin’. Just be brave. Love ya.”
The line goes dead.
Be brave. Ha.
This assignment has barely even started and I already despise everything about it. The entire premise is just yucky.
A week ago, my editor slapped a popular women’s magazine on my desk. She stood over me, drumming her blood-red nails on the cover, right over the article title that set this whole misadventure in motion.
There, in bold, white font, right underneath a blurb for 39 New Ways to Spice up the Bedroom, was the article that sealed my fate: Bed Surfing: How liberated women are traveling cheap this summer! Below that was the horrifying tagline: 11 tips and tricks for getting around (and getting off) for free.
“You’ve seen this, right?” Rachel had asked, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow.
I stared at the cover and shook my head.
“Well, apparently, women everywhere are going on vacation and instead of booking a hotel, they’re finding guys to hook up with and crashing with them. You’re our Try-It Girl, so you’re going to try it.”
“What? No. No-no-no-no-no. I can’t—”
“Relax. You don’t actually have to hook up with them. Legal would have my head if I asked you to do that. Just hit on them. Get them to invite you back to their place and whatever you choose to do after that is up to you.” She followed that with a wink that nearly brought my breakfast back up.
That’s how I ended up in Sugar Creek, Maine with a per diem, a cheap rental car, and an anxious knot working an ulcer into the lining of my stomach.
As the resident “Try-It Girl,” for the website Hottr, most of my assignments are stupid beauty fads, new workout apps, trendy foods and miracle products that no one expects to work.
Is it serious journalism like what my photographer bestie Ella’s doing? Hell no. But it pays the bills. Sure, the charcoal wax wasn’t fun, but at least my skin healed after a couple weeks. The baby food diet was gross but in all reality, not much worse than my college meal plan. And I actually kind of enjoyed the week of skateboard pilates, right up to the moment where my hair tangled in a wheel and nearly scalped me.
But this...
This is almost enough to make me quit. Rachel gave me a daily stipend, let me pick from a handful of cheap-ish summer destinations, and sent me off to do some first-hand investigation on the sleaziest travel plan ever.
Maybe if I were more… adventurous, my walk down Main Street would feel less like marching toward my doom. But here’s the thing, I’m not adventurous. Every choice I’ve made my entire life was the safe one. Safe boring boys, safe, boring major.
I mean really, if I wanted a flashy lifestyle, I could have majored in something sexier than Romantic Era Poetry, right? And once I graduated, it turned out that ‘flashy’ was even less of a concern than being employable. It wasn’t my first choice, but when Hottr offered me the “Try It Girl'' job, I couldn’t say no. Literally. I was days away from having to move back in with my parents.
Wandering down Main Street in my new heels, I pray to the Gods of Bodily Coordination that I won’t biff it in these stupid shoes. As nervous and awkward as I feel right now, I can’t help but appreciate the charm of this little coastal town. A warm summer breeze kisses the tips of my hair, and a deliciously salty ocean spray lingers in its wake. Twinkling lights span the width of the small street, illuminating red, white, and blue decorations. In the distance, a beam of light flashes from the top of the old lighthouse.
Based on my research from the past two days, it appears that Riptides is the best chance I have of finding a potential hook up. Last night, I tried the restaurant and bar at the ski resort, but it was packed out with families and middle-aged couples escaping the city for the Fourth of July. Not exactly prime man-hunting territory. My internet search also turned up a sports bar called The Pub on the other side of town, but the ratings were so abysmal I was genuinely concerned about getting food poisoning. That leaves this mid-level bar as my only viable option.
I reach the door and stare at the heavy wood with its antique glass window. Taking a deep breath, I flutter my hands by my side.
“I can do this.” I mutter under my breath. “It’s not real. I can do this.” I wish I were even just a teeny bit convincing to myself. I’ve never hit on a man in my life, and I can safely say Rachel chose the absolute worst woman for this job.
Pushing the door open, I step into the dimly lit bar. Rustic wood beams run the length of the ceiling. Pictures line the worn, red brick walls, faded in their dusty frames. There are only a few patrons spread out at old wood tables, but one glance is enough to know I’m insanely overdressed.
A pair of men in loud swim trunks and tank tops eye me speculatively from one corner, but I get the impression it’s more judgmental than interested. Sitting at the bar, an older man with a grizzled beard stares at me like I have three heads.
It’s early. More people will come in after dinner. These are the things I tell myself as I head to the far end of the bar, sitting as far as I can from the old man that smells like fish. A ridiculously good-looking bartender approaches. He doesn’t bother to look up at me as he grabs a napkin and slides it toward me, resting both hands on the counter in front of him.
“What can I getcha?” he asks, staring down at the bar with little frown lines between his eyebrows. His unwillingness to meet my eye is annoying, but it gives me the opportunity to ogle him in a way I really shouldn’t.
And oh, lord is there a lot to ogle. Scruff covers a hard jaw line, about two or three shades darker than the messy blond hair on top of his head. My eyes drift down over shoulders so wide I wonder if he has to turn sideways when he goes through narrow doorways. Bulging muscles stretch the arms of his t-shirt.
I hesitate too long, and he raises a hand in slow motion, running it through his hair. Piercing blue eyes meet mine. He’d be indescribably handsome if it wasn’t for the hard set of his mouth.
If I hadn’t walked in here five seconds ago, I’d say I must have offended him, but unless the sight of a woman in a dress is disgusting on a personal level, I don’t see why he needs to glare at me like that.
“R- rum and coke. Please.”
“Huh,” he grunts, eyebrows jumping once before settling back into that frown as he walks away to make my drink.
Huh? What does that mean?
He sets the drink down on the napkin in front of me and holds out his hand, his lips pressed together. The dull light of the bar catches the blond highlights in his tousled hair as he stares at me. “Tab?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” I say, digging my card out of my little purse. “Why’d you say ‘huh’ like that? When I ordered.”
He takes my card, holding it between his first two fingers as he leans his elbows on the bar and looks me up and down.
“You just looked like a vodka cranberry kind of girl.” His voice is flat, but the way his eyes travel my body leaves invisible trails of electricity arcing over my exposed skin. My body thrums with awareness, a little curl of excitement twisting in my stomach.
Oh, what the hell?
It’s like I suddenly picked up a new kink for grumpy, dismissive men. Because that’s totally healthy, right?
“I hate cranberries.”
His eyebrows shoot up and he exhales in a disbelieving snort. “You’re in Maine, you can’t say that.”
“But I just did.” I whisper back.
He shakes his head at me as another bartender steps out of the back with a plastic rack full of glasses. He sets it down and throws a towel at my grumpy bartender.
I sip my drink, nursing it for the better part of an hour, waiting for the bar to fill up and trying to ignore the way the bartender’s eyebrows wrinkle when he looks in my direction. Jesus, from the looks he’s giving me, you’d think I was taking up valuable real estate here. But even when more people show up, there are plenty of seats.
Eventually, I cave and order another drink. I already know this one is going to have to hold me until I’m ready to go back to the hotel because I’m a total lightweight. Much more than this and someone will have to pour me into a cab.
There are plenty of men in the bar now, but most of them are old enough to be my father. And I don’t mean that in a sexy, ooh-look-at-his salt-and-pepper-chest-hair way. I’m talking socks with sandals and bucket hats with fishhooks stuck in them. One guy is even wearing overalls. Nope. Even in the world of pretend hookups, I have standards.
There’s one promising group of guys in the corner. Promising is relative, obviously. There are a lot of backward baseball caps going on but they all look relatively clean. Plus, my bartender just dropped off a pitcher of PBR and most of them are pounding the beer in a way that would suggest they won’t notice how socially awkward I am. Bonus.
Sliding off my barstool, I straighten my spine and metaphorically pull up my big girl panties. I can do this, I chant in my head as I walk toward them. It’s just a game.
I put on a smile and pray that it doesn’t look forced. When I reach them, one of the guys hands me his empty glass and, without even making eye contact with me, says, “Be a doll and get me a refill.”
I clear my throat, trying to hand it back to him. “I’m not a bartender.”
He eyes me and shrugs. “Why are you dressed like that if you’re not angling for tips?”
My heart’s pounding with rage. The nerve. Slamming the glass back on the high-top table, I stomp back to the bar.
“Asshole,” I mutter to no one in particular. The bartender watches me, frowning as I slide back into my seat. His lips pull to the side, one eyebrow lifted so high it’s hiding under his messy hair. A knot twists in my stomach as I realize he watched every humiliating second of that.
Fabulous.
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