4. The Slippery Dipper

Juliet

Last night while I was packing and repeating my mantra—I'm regrouping while moving forward into my best self—I had a fun little vision of this trip. I pictured myself looking all movie-star glamourous with cherry-red lips, big sunglasses, and a laugh like bells as the souped-up convertible flew along the Pacific coast, my hair blowing in the breeze.

That's how you road trip. You do it right, all dolled up, as your best self. So, for a hot hour, that was my plan.

Until it hit me—I didn't want to look like I was trying too hard, dressing up like I might for a date, especially after the other night's dating fiasco. So last night's me deserves a big thank-you for my travel outfit—jeans, a crop top, and a freaking hoodie because Monroe's electric car is like a freezer.

After we left the city, Monroe put the roof up and the temp of the air con down to somewhere between frigid and Arctic. He's not even cold. Of course not. The man's impervious to temperature. But if I ask him to raise it, he'll tease me relentlessly.

At the moment, though, my biggest problem isn't the subzero temp. It's connecting my phone to the car speakers so I don't have to subject my ears to any more news. I'm careful, though, as I try to get the Bluetooth working. I don't want the car to develop a mind of its own and start broadcasting my plethora of self-improvement podcasts. From You 2.0, to Happier Now, but especially to shows like Up Your Dating Game, I do not want Monroe to know what's in my ears on the reg. It's deeply personal, my devotion to bettering myself at love, dating, and being human.

"And in breaking news in politics today, Congress once again?—"

I stab the dashboard. "I can't. I just can't. The news is the devil. I need show tunes, and I need them now."

Why does this Bluetooth connection require an advanced engineering degree?

"Show tunes," he groans as I fiddle with the buttons. "Are you trying to kill me, Juliet?"

"If I were trying to kill you, I would not give you any advance warning, trust me."

"You just did though."

I shoot him a look as he drives. "Show tunes won't kill you, buddy."

"It's been known to happen."

"Only among the weak."

He scoffs, shaking his head, but a damn smile teases those lips. Behind aviator shades, his eyes stay fixed on the road. "Then play the brassiest, most can-can show-stopping number you want."

I pat his arm. "I knew you'd see it my way," I say, when the phone finally connects to the dashboard, displaying a text from my brother.

Sawyer:Hey, knucklehead. Can you grab some of that citrus beach lotion from The Slippery Dipper? Katya is asking for some more.

I reply, Yes, since it's for your girlfriend and not you, adding a winky face, of course, because I'm not a dick. Then, the dashboard switches to the album art from Moulin Rouge. "Yes! I am victorious!"

"I see you've passed the car's entrance exam."

"I feel like I just built a rocket. Also, who doesn't have music on their phone?"

He points a thumb at himself. "This guy."

"Why? How? Are you even human?"

"Flesh and blood, baby."

"So why don't you have music?"

"Too hard to keep up on it," he says as the car hugs the curves on the road toward Darling Springs. "The musicians, the names, who they are, and so on."

"Let me get this straight. You don't listen to music because you don't want to have to research who sings it?"

He nods. "Yup."

"You don't have to know everything, Doctor." I usually only call him that when he's being obsessive about information. Which he often is. "Especially since you're missing out. Music is one of life's great pleasures. Right up there with good food, chocolate, and dogs." Then, in a whisper, I add, "and sex."

His lips twitch in a grin. "Sex and music on the same level?"

"Sometimes," I say.

He scoffs. "Sex should be better than music."

I shrug, doubtful. "It isn't always."

"You're having the wrong sex then."

I stare sharply at him. "Remember when I said you don't have to know everything? You also don't have to be a know-it-all."

He laughs lightly. "Fine, then tell me what music I should listen to. What's the musical equivalent of sex?"

Ooh, this will be fun. I rub my palms together and start at the beginning. "So many. You've got Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music. They'll put you in the mood. Then there are the stalwarts. Marvin Gaye doesn't hold back. Ella Fitzgerald is seriously sensual. You can go old school with Usher. It's hard not to feel sexy when you're listening to Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga. Don't even get me started on Beyoncé or The Weeknd or Drake. Or Frank Ocean. Or Halsey or Janelle Monáe." I rattle off the names, not sure I can stop. There are so many. I may need to listen to some of my faves tonight. "Need I go on?"

Monroe swallows, a little roughly. "I believe you've made your point."

I shimmy my shoulders, preening a little. "Good. Want me to play some now?"

I kind of hope he says no. I don't need to get in a sexy mood in the car.

"No. Let's continue with the show tunes torture," he says.

Thank god. I hit my playlist, and the big, opening number to the jukebox musical fills the car. "There you go."

He grits his teeth. "I can handle it. I can handle anything."

"It'll make you stronger," I say. "Build your immunity."

"Excellent," he grumbles.

As the catchy music plays, I get down to business. "All right. What do you think we'll walk into in this house? I looked up the link you sent me, but do you think the interior is still the same as in the pictures?"

"As in shag carpet seventies? Neon eighties? And grunge nineties?"

"Yup."

"The decor might have changed since she bought the home. The pics were pre-sale to Eleanor," he says, always the measured one.

"Did she even live in it?"

"The attorney didn't say. He just said everything inside it was ours—the furnishings and whatever else is there. And Eleanor's at sea, and she didn't mention any more details in her note. Maybe it was an investment property of hers all along? And she felt it was time to offload it?"

"Perhaps." I clap my hands together. "Oh, I wonder what the beds will be like. I packed my pillow in case hers is uncomfy."

"I'm not sure we should stay in the house, Juliet. The inn still has plenty of rooms. I checked before we left," he says, and he sounds tense. He likes to know what he's getting into.

"Of course you did," I say. But I'm not concerned yet. There's plenty of time to make that call. "Let's see what we're dealing with, and then we can decide. We were just gifted a house. It honestly seems wasteful to book a room too."

He sighs heavily. He's probably picturing army-green shag rugs, old curtains, and musty closets. I should let him stew on those images. But I'm not that cruel to Mister Likes His Routine. "It'll be fine. Whatever's in the home, I know we can handle it. It'll be like when someone calls into the show for advice. We deal with it on the fly."

A laugh seems to burst from his chest.

"What's that for?" I ask.

"You. You prep for dates but not for life."

"Because I can't control what's in a house."

"But you can control a date?"

"Yes. Absolutely. You talk to someone. Get to know them. Figure out what they like. And, obviously, you carefully plan your outfit," I say.

As we near the small tourist town where he grew up, we pass a wooden sign rising up in the hills, declaring, You're Entering Darling Springs.

Just like that, I'm thinking of our first date.

Eight years ago, I spent the summer working at the local bookshop in Darling Springs. I'd just graduated from college, and Sawyer had hooked me up with the job since he knew the owner. While there, I used the time to trek along the beach, and try to figure out what I wanted to do with my life and my marketing degree.

One day in August, I bumped into Monroe, Sawyer's best friend from college. Monroe had just finished medical school and had returned to town to see his father in the few weeks before he left for his residency in New York.

I'd met Monroe once or twice when he'd stopped by the house to pick up Sawyer for nights out during college breaks. But I'd been in high school then and hadn't paid much heed to my brother's friends.

We met again by chance one afternoon at The Slippery Dipper, a handmade soap shop on the main drag. I was reaching for the last of the heart-shaped vanillaand honey soap, and he was grabbing the shea butter and rosemaryright next to it. I didn't see him at first, but when our fingers brushed, I jumped back.

Maybe I was startled to meet skin instead of soap, but definitely my fingers buzzed when they touched his. I met his gaze and drank in those blue eyes, the light stubble, the thick brown hair, a little messy on the top, and the playful smile.

Most of all, I noticed his devotion to soap.

He held up the shea butter and rosemary bar. "You can have the last one, Juliet," he said, offering it to me.

"Oh, I actually wanted the vanilla and honey. I must have reached for the wrong one," I said, thinking, Chivalry is not dead.

"That's a good choice too."

"Thanks. I'll let the vanilla and honey know."

"I'd appreciate that."

We bought our soaps from the friendly and delightfully loud store manager and left together, pausing outside the shop under the awning with its cheeky logo of a woman enjoying a sudsy shower in a claw-foot tub.

I had a hunch he'd felt the same spark I did, but I wasn't sure what to do next. Was I too young for my brother's friend? I was twenty-two to his twenty-seven.

But the man didn't leave me wondering. "Want to get a drink, ice cream, soda, coffee, bowl, anything, everything, whatever you like?"

It was already the best ask-out ever, then he added, "Tonight."

Clearly, being his friend's little sister wasn't an issue—to him, or to me. That date at the local arcade turned into a fantastic week ending in an unforgettable night. The way he kissed me, touched me, talked to me, both dirty and tender…It was thrilling and arousing all at once.

But as we roll into his hometown eight years later, I have to shove away those memories. I don't want to linger on that summer, given its inevitable end and the hurt I swallowed and shoved into a corner where no one—not Monroe, not Sawyer, not anyone—would ever see it.

Besides, it only lasted a week, and I'm over it, one hundred percent and then some.

Monroe turns down the AC at last, and I steal a glance at him. He looks stoic as he drives along the main drag. He's probably not thinking of that time we shared. Like his dad, he's probably thinking of…work. Monroe's good at his job, and he helps people, so it's not the worst thing.

But it's for the best, then, that nothing came of our brief summer fling. We'd have been terrible for each other long-term. We want different things.

I want it all. He doesn't.

I roll down my window and breathe in the fresh seaside air, letting go of the bittersweet memory as we cruise down Main Street. It smells like warm days and breezy nights as we pass The Slippery Dipper, its awning freshly laundered, its sketch of the woman just as cheeky as it was that day eight years ago.

I half expect to see the store manager outside, sweeping the sidewalk like she did back then, offering boisterous hellos and pieces of life advice to everyone passing by.

If she saw us, what would she say?

I whip my gaze away, just in case. But as the shop fades in the rearview mirror, there's a tinge of something else in my chest.

Not sure what though. A bittersweet feeling? Maybe regret? Or is that a hint of longing?

Whatever it is, I'm not going to think about it too much. We have too much to do in the next week.

Like get a house ready to sell.

Soon, we're driving down a winding road into the golden California afternoon, the sunlight reflecting off the water as the GPS announces we're two hundred feet from our destination.

I'm antsy and excited, especially when the home comes into view. It's stinking adorable.

Thank god. I sigh in happy relief. This will be the perfect place for my dating regroup. I bet while I straighten up the house, I'll figure out the best path forward when it comes to romance. All that cozy will be good for my soul.

"It looks so much better than the pictures."

"It's a charming California coastal cottage," Monroe says, shoulders relaxing, white-knuckle grip on the wheel loosening slightly.

He slows the car on the gravel driveway. As soon as he turns it off, I fling open the door, then dart up the wooden steps to the quaint wraparound porch before propriety gets the better of me.

I really should wait for my…co-owner. "C'mon. Let's check out our home," I say, giddy now that it's real. I've only ever rented. I don't own a single square foot of space in the city. San Francisco real estate is far too expensive for me. And this cottage is Pinterest perfection with its freshly painted exterior, its picturesque wraparound porch, and its bright white door with the gleaming brass knocker.

When I turn back to urge Monroe to hurry, he's right behind me, trotting up the steps. Seems he's eager too. He swipes open the screen on his phone, taking a moment to find what he's looking for. As he reads, I study the knocker. Is that a couple twisted around each other in an embrace? Aww, that's sweet.

"Here's the code," he says. "Six-nine-six-nine."

My fingers hover, poised over the keypad, and I look up, arching a brow at the naughty combo. "Sixty-nine, sixty-nine?"

"Yes," he says, completely deadpan.

"Okay," I say, then punch in the number, bouncing in my Converse as I swing open the door.