Chapter 2

Two

D ahlia

Blake Pritchard has no idea how cute he is.

Never did. Not even when we used to date.

And now, two years and some later, when he walks away from me, it’s an even better view. Too bad the last time he walked away from me I was cussing him out. Not my classiest move.

Blake mounts the steps at the back of the dunk tank and starts to unbutton his flannel shirt.

What I should do now is walk away.

What I should not do is think about the last time we were alone together, and how I helped him unbutton that very same shirt. Because as much fun as we had, all those good memories are intertwined with the feelings of how badly he hurt me. He broke my heart, though I wasn’t exactly an innocent party.

And now, he’s about to pick at my scabbed-over feelings by taking off all his clothes in front of the whole town.

Wait a minute, why is he taking off all his clothes?

Blake already removed his flannel and undershirt while I was standing there spacing out, and it looks like he’s about to undo the fly of his jeans.

I flail my arms to get his attention. “Wait, no. What are you doing?”

He turns to glare at me and it does things to my body. My cheeks turn beet red, an impulse I’ve trained myself to control—almost—since moving back to town. I had to—his is the only bar that plays decent music and I can’t have him thinking I want to get back together with him.

But now, my body doesn’t care about my carefully controlled reactions to his bare bicep—the one that grazed my boob accidentally just moments earlier. Or to his broad chest, rippled stomach, muscled back. Oh god. I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping out loud. His bare skin is golden under the autumn sun and shows a glorious layer of fuzz. The way he’s glaring at me, my body’s reaction is going to get worse in a second.

“This is a family-friendly event. You have to keep your clothes on, Blake, as much as everyone appreciates the view.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I don’t want to get my clothes wet.”

I shake my head like I’m speaking to an obstinate teenager. “You can change afterward.”

Blake is not happy. Not that it’s easy to tell when he’s happy or mad. He basically has two expressions: mad and annoyed. “It’s laundry day. This is my last pair of clean jeans and shirt.”

I blink. “You mean you actually have other jeans and shirts? What did you do? Buy a half dozen of the same plaid flannel shirt and change them out?”

“No. I have one in each color.”

Another man’s voice interrupts us. “If you two are quite finished…”

I turn and I see Mayor Pete Hall thumping a baseball into a well-worn glove on his left hand. Under his arm is tucked a small megaphone, which he used to open the festival earlier today with a super-boring speech about his precious clock tower. It was full of unnecessary compliments toward the builder, Mason Construction.

“Oh! Hi, Mister Mayor,” I say. “I see you brought your own baseball to throw out the first pitch!”

Usually fairly gregarious with me, the mayor seems a bit peeved. I can’t blame him. It’s easy for Blake and me to get caught up in our banter, irrespective of what’s going on around us.

“Let’s get on with it,” he says, “And please tell Mr. Pritchard to get dressed. This is a dunk tank for the kids, not Chippendales.”

I grin at Mayor Hall as everyone milling around us laughs at his corny comment.

I turn back to Blake, whose eyes shoot flaming daggers at me as he slips his t-shirt back on and tosses me his flannel.

When I catch it, I get a whiff of booze, brass polish and the signature, undefinable masculine scent of Blake. But there is also something new I’m not expecting: wood shavings. I wonder what that’s about. And I wonder why I like it so much. I have to control myself from lifting the shirt to my nose and inhaling him into my lungs. The only reason my eyes don’t roll up into my head at his scent is that I also remember that Blake is insufferable and actively dislikes me.

I watch as he seats himself on the wood plank over the water-filled tank. Once he’s seated, he looks over at me with a dark expression I can’t place.

I walk over and place my palm on the plexiglass of the tank, look up at him, and give him my brightest smile. “Thank you for doing this, Blake. It shows that underneath your crotchety facade, and despite everything that’s happened between us, you’re a good egg.”

He mutters something, but I don’t hear it. I turn around and ask the mayor if I may borrow the megaphone.

“If I may have everyone’s attention! Blake Pritchard is in the dunk tank. I repeat! Pay a dollar and get your revenge on Blake Pritchard. All for a good cause! Come on, everyone! How many of you haven’t wanted to throw a baseball at the guy who waters down your drinks?”

“Hey!” I hear Blake say. “I don’t water down my drinks!”

I am on a roll. “How many of you have been tossed out of the Southpaw for asking for a Wi-Fi password? Or for wearing a flat-brimmed ball cap? Or asking for a craft beer? Or asking to turn on a game he’s not interested in? I know a lot of you want to watch this sorry son of a biscuit eater get wet!”

By the time I’m done having my say, the dunk tank line stretches all the way back to the craft bazaar.

I think my job here is done for now. I hand the megaphone back to the mayor and turn to give Blake a wink and a thumbs up.

“Hey! P.T. Barnum. How long am I expected to…”

Blake doesn’t get to finish that sentence, as the mayor’s baseball nails the target on the first try.

Judging by the audience’s reaction, Dunk-a-Blake is going to raise a boatload of money for the children’s library.

I have to go check on a few other things, but I turn back for a second to take a last peek. The now very wet bartender is mounting the little plank again, looking mad as hell. I can hear him using his anger to egg on everyone in line.

This makes me happy. Yes, he was a good choice. The perfect choice.