Mai Tai’d Up (Cocktail #4)(11)
Author: Alice Clayton

He had someone up there who kept an eye on it, people to come in and clean every so often, and a handyman who made the necessary repairs. Since no one had stayed there in quite some time, my dad had called in a crew to get it ready for me, and now I was moving in for as long as I wanted it. When my father offered it to me, I knew how lucky I was.

“You want to head up north to get some space, that’s fine with me, kiddo. I think it’ll be good for you to be alone for a while. Who knows, you might find you like it up there and want to stay.”

“I can hardly stay there forever. How adult would it be for me to just go from living in my mother’s house to living in my father’s vacation home?” I asked.

He laughed. “It’s not just my vacation home, it’s yours, too.”

“That’s sweet, Dad. I appreciate your letting me head up there for a bit,” I said as I went upstairs, thankful for the lifeline he was tossing me.

“The house is yours for however long you want it.”

“Pardon me?” I asked from the landing.

“Just keep it in mind.”

“I say again, pardon me?” I leaned down to peer through the banister at him.

“Pardon you nothing—take as much time as you need,” he said.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

“I do know that, actually,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

So while I had no real plans to stay up there very long, the idea that I could? If I wanted to? Options . . . kind of a good thing.

And options in a small, beautifully quiet town felt like exactly what I needed. I’d grown up on a stage. With dance competitions, modeling competitions, pageants almost every other weekend, I’d learned very early on that anything worth doing is worth doing in front of people.

As I drove the longer, more scenic route up the Pacific Coast Highway, I realized that for so much of my life, I’d been posing. Literally posing, mentally posing, acting a part, or some version of the best foot forward. Even my engagement was for public consumption. At a San Diego Padres game.

“And as we pause for our seventh-inning stretch, there’s a certain young man in the stands today who has a very special question for a lovely young lady.”

We were in box seats behind home plate. And there was my face on the Jumbotron, just after I’d bitten into a hot dog. A hot dog that was not on my diet, and don’t think that didn’t get mentioned later on. Ladies, if you’re going to cheat on your diet, don’t do it in a place where there’s a Jumbotron.

Also, ladies? Don’t go on a fudging diet.

Back to the flashback.

As I hastily wiped the mustard from my chin, Charles sank to his knees in front of me—angled toward the camera, mind you—and presented me with an iconic blue ring box.

“Oh my God, what are you doing?” I whispered from behind the hot dog—angled away from the camera, mind you.

“What does it look like? Chloe, baby. Will you marry me?”

He opened the box, and the diamond was so large that the blimp flying overhead could have seen it.

“Wow,” was all I could manage.

By that time, the entire stadium began to chant.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

“Yes,” I repeated.

And as Charles swept me up into a hug, then dipped me backward in a romantic fashion for a kiss seen in every romantic movie from the beginning of time, all I could think was: Too Much. Too Public. Too Not Private.

But it was a version of romance, and I let myself be swept away by it. I was only a year out of my reign as Miss Golden State, and now I’d been proposed to with a glob of mustard on my chin not only for the fans in the stands to see, but to be rebroadcast on the nightly news later on. Slow news day.

Slow news day indeed I thought as I turned my stereo to something hip-hoppy. I bounced a little in my seat as I sped up the coast, looking forward to some quiet time with nary a Jumbotron in sight.

Hours later, I rounded the last bend of my journey and saw Monterey spread out before me. Situated on a natural bay, the city curved in on itself as it continued up the coast, the town twinkling in the early dusk. I’d driven all day, I was exhausted, and more than that, I was hungry. Not wanting to come all the way back down from the hills into town after getting set up in the house, I pulled into the parking lot of a small restaurant and slid my car into the last spot.

I stretched as I climbed out of the car, feeling my joints crackle and pop in the best of ways. Quickly braiding my hair and dotting on a little lip gloss so I didn’t look so road weary, I grabbed my purse and headed inside. Wide front windows took in the view of the bay, and cozy candles sat on the tables and booths. Tables and booths that were full, so I elected to eat at the bar rather than wait for a table. As I took a peek at the menu, I sipped a club soda. I still had a twisty, windy drive up to the house that would now be happening in the dark, so I stayed away from the glass of wine I was dying to have.

When the bartender came back to take my order, I looked up and locked eyes not with him, but with a set of baby blues at the other end of the bar. The mirror that stretched behind the bar reflected everyone sitting there, including the guy the baby blues belonged to. Red hair that was just two or three shades deeper than strawberry blond, gorgeous hair. Prince Harry hair. Unbelievably, this guy was better looking that his royal highness, with an incredible tan, and—oh, look, now he’s smiling. Great smile.

While telling the bartender I’d take the daily special of local sablefish, my eyes kept going back to the blue eyes. I tried hard to keep my eyes on the man who was trying to decipher what kind of salad dressing I wanted from my “Hmm?” but I kept finding myself drawn back to the man in the mirror.

When I finished placing my order, those smiling blue eyes were gone. Which was a good thing; I had no business making eyes at anyone right now. I had a car full of suitcases packed with honeymoon clothes, and an engagement ring the size of a quail’s egg on my hand.

Wait. Why was I still wearing my engagement ring?

I looked down at it, stunned as I always was when I looked at it. J. Lo would be impressed, is all I can say. Every time I’d teased Charles about what a big ring it was, he’d told me it was bling for his baby. Yuck. The guy actually used the word bling.

Was he overcompensating for something? I preferred to think no, that this was a very generous and sweet and very public display of how much he cared about me. And yet . . .

I’d take the ring off after I got to the house; it wasn’t right that I still wore it. But for now, I sat in a bar 455 miles away from it all, thinking semi-blushworthy thoughts about the cute guy with the blue eyes.