“I will...when I come back in an hour. I want to make sure you’re still here when I get back. This,” I said, holding up the bottle, “will ensure that you are.”
The huffing sound she made was loud enough for everyone on the beach to hear. “I can’t believe you’re holding my wine hostage.”
More like I was helping her sober up before she started drinking again. She’d thank me early tomorrow morning when she got up to bake without a raging hangover. “Not hostage,” I insisted, holding it to my chest. “I just don’t want you to drink it all without me.”
“I have to get to the bakery and bake,” she mumbled, struggling to stand but wobbling more than anything before she fell to her knees.
“God, no,” I exclaimed, grasping her upper arm and helping her sit on her butt again. “Promise me you won’t go to the bakery. That’s a dangerous place to be in your condition.”
Haylee tossed up a hand and let it drop to the sand. “I can’t go anywhere. I forgot my keys and anyway, you have my wine. I’m forced to sit here and watch your surprise,” she yelled, throwing those air quotes around again.
People were looking at us, but I didn’t care. I was having too much fun with drunk Haylee.
“Remember, eyes out there,” I said, pointing her head forward.
She started ooh and ahhing over the gorgeous blue water that she’d seen her entire life. Happy she’d forgotten about the wine long enough for me to escape, I darted over to the dock. After I stripped off my shirt and wrapped it around the wine, I tucked it away and strapped on a vest.
“Did you get lost?” the team captain asked when I was ready to go. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Sorry,” I said, even though I wasn’t. “I had to help a friend. I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
The motor started, the crowd let out a ferocious roar, and I primed myself for the best sixty minutes of my week. At least it used to be the best sixty minutes of my week. Suddenly, the idea of sharing a bottle of wine with my cupcake filled that slot.
My cupcake?
Oh, boy.
WHAT A SHOW-OFF. THERE he was up there on top of that pyramid of water skiers like he was God’s gift to women. Okay, so maybe he was, but still, it was annoying. I brushed some sand off my thighs and tried to avoid watching the waterski show out on the lake. Unfortunately, my damn disobedient eyes kept going back to Brady in that ridiculously tight wetsuit. Was it even a wetsuit? It was more like a leotard that was waterproof.
My loud, drunken laughter had people turning their heads to look at me, but I didn’t care. The thought of Brady Pearson in a leotard was worthy of a few looks. His loaf of bread was prominent in it, and I was getting a little hot under the collar watching him up there, even from this distance. What must that be like up close and personal, I wondered. I shook my head and contemplated how he was going to get down from there. Wait. I peered closer with my hand to my eyes. Is he holding a flag with a strawberry on it?
I fell over onto the sand, laughing silently, my body shaking at the idea that the hot, ripped guy who’s always taking up all the space in my bakery was wearing a skimpy wetsuit and flying around the water holding a flag with a strawberry on it. Sure, it took a massive amount of skill and muscles to pull off a pyramid on water skis without falling on your face, but a strawberry flag?
I grasped the paper program someone had given me at the start of the show and read the fine print. Sponsored by the Lake Pendle Strawberry Festival. Okay, now it made more sense. I grasped my knees to my chest and focused on the rest of the show. Brady did a backflip off the shoulders of the two guys he was on and landed in the water, waving to the crowd who all stood and cheered, yelling his name like he was Prince.
I glanced around embarrassedly when I realized I was also standing and yelling his name ridiculously loud. So much for playing it cool and not liking his surprise. I better find my poker face before he swims ashore and notices me ogling his hot body in his fancy suit.
While everyone else wandered away with their towels and beach chairs under their arms, I sat back down on the sand. I watched the sunset in the late evening breeze and waited for my bottle of wi—Brady. Sure, I had to work in a few hours, but if I stayed drunk the whole time, I wouldn’t even care that I didn’t get any sleep. The sun had set significantly lower in the sky by the time Brady showed up with his hair wet and a bag thrown over his shoulder. Unfortunately, it looked like his skimpy suit was no longer on his body. That was a disappointment.
“Hey there, cupcake. You’re still here.”
I stood and brushed the wet sand off my ass. “Of course. You took my wine. I would have appreciated you spending less time with your adoring fans, though. I’m thirsty.”
All he did was smile, and that annoyed the crap out of me even more than usual. “It’s a tradition that we talk to kids who are interested in potentially joining the team. It’s called community service and recruitment. You should try it sometime.”
“My life is community service and recruitment,” I insisted, walking beside him. “I depend on the community to buy my cupcakes, so I recruit the very best ingredients.”
Brady shoulder bumped me as we walked, and I nearly fell over. “Girl, you’re still drunk.”
“I don’t remember the last time I was this drunk. For a little while, there were two of you on that pyramid. Color me surprised when I realized it was you out there doing all those fancy swirls and twirls in a skimpy leotard.”
Brady’s laughter could be heard the full length of Main Street. “It’s called a wetsuit.”
“I call it a tight suit. I’m not complaining,” I said, holding my hands out in front of me and waving them around. “Your loaf of bread was definitely the highlight of the show.” I slapped my hand over my mouth. “I mean, it was a great show.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Brady said, laughter in his voice. “I’m surprised you’ve never seen the show before. We perform twice a month during the summer and at every Strawberry Festival.”
“I don’t go to the beach much,” I said with a shrug. “Besides, I’m usually sleeping by the time the show starts. I have a business to run. I can’t be out gallivanting around all night like some people.”
“It’s barely nine p.m.,” he answered, laughter coating the words. “Why are you out gallivanting around tonight, anyway?”
“You!” I said, tossing my hand up. “And where’s my wine.”
“In my bag. I thought it would be smart if you were home before you started drinking again.”
“Shows what you know. Hand it over.”
“What are you going to do? Swig it straight from the bottle?” he asked with one brow in the air.
“Absolutely.” I made the gimme fingers until he pulled it from his bag and handed it over.
“Fine, but you might get a reputation if people see you staggering down Main Street drinking from a bottle.”
“Can’t be any worse than the reputation I already got,” I muttered, my words still slurring. I brought the bottle to my lips and took a long pull of it, handing it back to him and wiping my lips on my arm. “Ahh.”