Aroused (The ABCs of Love Book 1) Read online

  “Maybe we have different definitions of ‘fine,’” Barry says, matching me stride for stride. “Because tell me again — why the fuck are we here?”

  “Because this town has a lot going for it. It’s an up-and-coming city, and Full Circle Technologies can get in on the ground floor before anyone else does. Believe me, from what I’ve researched, this is a nice place.”

  “Only if you like waking up in the middle of the nineteenth century.”

  “You’re grousing again.”

  “I’m being realistic. While you, my friend, tend to look at things through those rose-colored glasses of yours.” He gestures toward the clear, wire-rimmed Ray-Bans I wear.

  I shrug with a grin. “Has it ever occurred to you that my twenty-twenty sight is why you’re the chief financial officer of FCT and I’m the visionary?”

  “Your vision better be twenty-twenty on this location.”

  As Barry goes into the terminal, I take a backward look at the tiny runway and all the green mountains behind it. The air is still, and everything around us seems as if it might wake up soon, but only if you give it a good shake.

  I hope I’m right about Cherry Valley. But that’s why we’re here — to give it a look for our startup. Barry won’t admit it, but he’ll give it a shot, too.

  Just not for long.

  From what I’ve seen, the parts of Cherry Valley we’re interested in don’t seem to be all that spread out, so we’ll be able to walk most of the time. To get us away from the airport, though, I call a Lyft. The driver is new and unrated, and I hope that’s not a bad thing.

  It becomes one when I see that the Ford Crown Victoria at the curb obviously had a previous life as a police car — it’s even still tricked out with a bullbar on the front.

  I utterly ignore Barry’s newest version of a laser stare after we get inside the car, where bucket seats, a cassette player that’s currently thrashing some hair band rock, and a hazy-eyed, scruffy driver have been installed.

  “I’m Dirk,” he says with a gap-toothed smile.

  Dirk. Shit, I can’t even look over at Barry, because there are so many ways to use the name “Dirk” in a joke. I’m starting to feel like the biggest joke of all as I face forward and take in the bobbling monkeys attached to the dashboard. They’re mounted on bananas with manic smiles on their faces, and when Dirk puts pedal to the metal, they start to hump the fruit with giddy thrusts.

  And there we are in our luxury ride while our new buddy begins a scenic tour of Cherry Valley on the way to our Airbnb. First, Dirk points out a dirt road that leads to some newish vineyards as well as the side of town where the ranches and farms are located.

  So far, so good.

  Then he actually turns himself around in the driver’s seat to face us as he motions toward the mountains. “And that’s where I grew up!”

  Barry and I cringe as a pickup roars by us on the opposite side of the road. Dirk turns back around to grab the wheel and right the car before we become Cherry Valley roadkill.

  Unfazed, Dirk shouts over the music and looks at us in the rearview mirror. “Do you two like booze?”

  “Very much so,” Barry says. “I foresee drinking a lot of it in the near future.”

  Dirk only nods. “Well, we’ve got a distillery or two high up in those mountains if you get the itch for some hard stuff.” He winks in the mirror. “They’re not officially there, you understand.”

  And he just isn’t stopping.

  “The truth is, we really do know how to party. Last time we had a good shindig was when I found this job Lyfting. It’s the only thing I could find around town that pays some bills. But I’m sure we’ll find an excuse to crack open more rotgut again. You two should really come on over to whoop it up with us sometime.”

  I intercede before Barry can eviscerate him. “Thanks. We’re strictly here on business, though.”

  Dirk gives a thumbs-up in the mirror. “Got it, hoss. But the option’s always there.”

  Whip-quick, he turns the Shitmobile onto Main Street, and Barry and I brace ourselves in the back.

  “You look like the types who’ll go to the health food store,” Dirk says, speeding by a crowded market and pointing at it. “Or eat a fancy meal or two!” He blasts by some rustic storefronts with wooden tables and benches out front. “Or get some fancy coffee!”

  “Coffee and moonshine aren’t going to be strong enough,” Barry says underneath his breath as we head toward the end of the street at light speed. “I might be in need of some heavy drugs.”

  I shove him less than subtly.

  “I can’t say much about that,” Dirk and his bionic hearing say. “But lots of the newbs in town are makin’ noise about legalizing pot. As much as I’d be on board with that, I just don’t know. It’s bad enough that we’ve got a couple a wireheads from Silicon Valley comin’ here to see if they’d like to grace us with their presence. Cherry Valley generally likes things as they are. Know what I mean?”

  Barry and I just stare at Dirk until his eyes connect with ours in the rearview mirror.

  His aha moment lights him up.

  “Hey!” he finally says. “I guess you do know what I mean! How about that? Here you boys are, right in my rig. What do you think about Cherry Valley so far?”

  Barry coughs into his hand. “Nightmare.”

  “It’s got some charm,” I say.

  As we leave Main Street to dart onto an avenue with a large park, a hardware store, boutiques, and a library, I don’t think I’m even bullshitting Dirk. From what I can see of Main Street, there’s a pioneer vibe to the dark-wooded storefronts that I kind of like. I grew up in Montana before I went to Northern California for college, graduated seven years ago, and then stayed in the Bay Area to eventually start developing what became Full Circle with Barry. This means that, unlike my business partner, I’m probably feeling a lot less like an alien who’s visiting this town from Planet Crabtastic.

  Even so, I’m still not sold on Cherry Valley yet. Shit, can you imagine people like Dirk applying for a job at our firm? We work with virtual, augmented, and mixed reality — the future. So far, the only person we’ve actually met here is entirely his own fucking reality.

  Dirk pulls onto a street filled with Victorian houses — gingerbread trim, flower gardens, white picket fences and the whole bit — and Barry’s already trying to get out the door before we come to a full stop. He might’ve even been successful if the door had the capacity to open.

  Our driver only jams on the brakes and laughs. “This rig’s childproof, man. Hold on a sec.”

  Then he leaves the engine running and gets out.

  Barry grits his jaw. “Please tell me that Dirk doesn’t have the ability to breed.”

  After Dirk opens the door and gets our luggage, Barry grabs his stuff and walks toward the flower-laced trellis over the pathway to the house, and I get on my phone to leave a tip. I give Dirk a decent one, because the sooner the people of Cherry Valley see that we’re generous guys, the better.

  If things work out here.

  After Dirk leaves us with another invitation to party followed by a tire-burning farewell, I access my phone for instructions from our Airbnb owner, who’ll be back in town next week. It’s way too easy to find the key Miss Carney has “hidden” in the mailbox by the steps, and I suspect that a lot of Cherry Valley’s doors might stay unlocked all the time.

  Odd.

  As the sound of a police siren wails through the air in the near distance, Barry and I exchange a glance — Dirk — then enter our temporary digs.

  Barry looks around at the lace doilies, numerous wooden chessboards, parquet flooring, and Oriental carpets. “Mothballs,” he says.

  I can’t deny the smell is there, but it’s better than the fresh air he perceived as “cow shit” earlier.

  “Instead of ‘mothballs,’” I say, “think ‘matzo’ balls, and then the house will smell just like love.”

  He ignores my sage advice. “Can we at lea
st salvage this day by getting our asses to a coffeehouse?”

  Barry is to coffeehouses like a battery is to chargers — that’s just where he happens to get his energy. Best of all, I’d already looked up the possibilities for coffeehouses in town, and there’s one on Main Street, which is within walking distance. That means we don’t have to call Dirk for a ride in his insane rig again.

  “Let’s dump our stuff in our rooms first,” I say. “Then we can go to a place called Screaming Beans.”

  “Even with a twee name like that, it sounds good enough.”

  I punch Barry in the arm as I go up the stairs, but his reach is so long that he gets me in the arm right back.

  “Dick,” I mutter. “Or should I call you a dirk?”

  Barry laughs for the first time today, and hopefully not the last.

  Chapter 3

  Zach

  Barry isn’t laughing now.

  But I sure as hell am as I watch him seething and searching for a free electrical outlet inside Screaming Beans, where he can plug in his dead laptop.

  We’re standing near the entrance like two cityfolk fishes out of water while he says, “This isn’t a coffeehouse. This is a parody of one. You don’t design a coffeehouse with only, like, two outlets in it.”

  I’m jonesing for a spicy Mexican mocha and something to eat, so I’m eyeing the long line. “You didn’t bring your external charger?”

  “No, because all the coffeehouses I’ve ever known have — three guesses …”

  “Sufficient outlets.”

  “Bing-fucking-o.”

  A table opens up, and he goes to grab it. I linger at the entrance for a moment, looking around at the light coming through the big windows and how it angles over the rough chairs, tables, and counters. This place is a cross between a ranch house and a mellow urban hub that plays country music over the sound system. The menu is run-of-the-mill and hardly creative, but obviously more than a few people are into it because the joint’s crowded.

  Across the room, Barry is now about to blow a gasket because the table he’s claimed is outlet-free. It’s pure joy to watch him politely approach the elderly couple at a nearby table and ask them to use the electrical socket by their legs. The woman is dressed in a woven poncho, her gray hair braided, and the man has on a straw cowboy hat. Barry’s got an extension cord in hand, and the woman can’t take her eyes off of his Pizza Rat shirt. She’s clearly puzzled by it, and I think she’s even asking him what the deal is with it as her equally befuddled hubby looks on.

  It looks like Barry is telling them the story — with great pride and relish — about the gargantuan rat that was once caught on camera hauling a huge slice of New York pizza around the subway. My partner’s obviously adding some really gross details, striking fear into the hearts of anyone who’s ever been afraid to visit the Big Apple.

  The lady looks horrified as she gestures toward the outlet, probably just to shut him up.

  Barry gets down under the table, winding his cord between their legs before he plugs in. I’m already sitting at our table when he returns.

  “It’s nice to see you humbled by the need to crawl every once in a while,” I say.

  “Not another word about it, Hamilton.” He slumps into his seat, pushes back his dark hair, and mutters, “If I never have to see another pair of shitkicker boots like the ones I just saw on that silver cowgirl, I’ll die a happy man.”

  I sneak a peek at the weathered shoes the woman is wearing. They have a strap with a buckle over them. I lower my volume, too. “Those are called harness boots, you snob.”

  “Better a snob than a redneck.” Barry opens his laptop. “I’m not the one who’s familiar with the wardrobe from a Wrong Turn horror movie.”

  “Way to be open-minded.”

  “It’s not about my mind as much as my taste level. I prefer strappy heels or a nice, hot pair of stilettos on a woman. I don’t see how I’ll get through even a week of dirt-encrusted cowboy boots.”

  I open my own laptop. “It’s not about the boots — it’s who’s in them.”

  “Or out of them.” Barry actually smiles slightly, one end of his mouth tipping up. His voice goes even lower. “Go on, Hamilton, look around. Is there anyone you’ve seen in this town so far who gets the old motor running? You like polished women as much as I do, and the only polish I see here is what’s on their boots.”

  I roll my eyes. “We’re not here to scout the ladies, remember?”

  “That’s right — we’re here to work.” He makes an extravagant yet dismissive gesture. “Excuse my healthy libido.”

  I shake my head and bring my computer online. Barry does like his women, but they’re always the sophisticated kind who enjoy a night at the theater and a fine restaurant in San Francisco. Those are the type I go for, too, but while Barry gets off on finding his dates on the latest apps, I prefer a more organic approach, like meeting them in food truck lines during lunch breaks or at happy hour over tapas and craft cocktails. I’ve been burned too many times after reading a girl’s app profile and then discovering that about 20 percent of what she says is true, if that.

  When I glance up, Barry’s gaze is roaming the room. Good God.

  “Work,” I say.

  “I’m just following your advice, opening my mind and seeing if I’m wrong about there being any outliers in here — you know, an actual woman who might get me thinking about some rumpy-pumpy.” He sighs emphatically. “It’s still a hard no on that.”

  Then he finally gets down to business, his gaze on his laptop screen. Now that he’s shoved in my face another reason he thinks Cherry Valley sucks, he’s suddenly all numbers, digits, and CFO responsibilities.

  I get up from the table, knowing this is the part where I order coffee and something to nosh on for the both of us. I stand at the end of the line, wondering why the hell this place has only one barista during lunch hour. The thing is, no one else seems to mind the wait.

  I have to remind myself this is Cherry Valley, not Silicon Valley.

  As I blow out an impatient breath, I look to the counter, where the barista is smiling as she takes an order from a guy in a knit cap.

  I don’t know why I didn’t see her before, but a knot of interest tightens in my gut.

  She’s wearing her long hair in a cute side ponytail, and the color’s somewhere between brown and red. Her eyes are big, light brown, and bright, and I think I see a few freckles over the bridge of her nose. She’s not wearing much makeup, and she strikes me as wholesome and girl-next-doorish.

  She’s all cherry pie, cherry soda, Cherry Valley.

  As she fills a cup of coffee, I notice that she’s wearing faded jeans, but I can’t see much because of the counter. She also has on a pink Screaming Beans shirt that has long sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She moves in a way that tells me she has no idea anyone is watching her. She might not care even if she did know, and that tugs hard on the knot in my gut.

  I look over my shoulder at Barry to see if she’s landed on his radar yet, but he’s still engrossed in whatever he sees on his computer screen. People are giving our table a wide berth, as if they know exactly who we are and why we’re here.

  Are we that obvious?

  After the barista closes out a transaction and her next customer steps up to the counter, there’s a moment when she looks at the line. Her gaze latches onto my city sneakers, designer jeans, Rebel Alliance shirt, and Eddie Bauer jacket — my “cool techie” uniform that makes me blend into Silicon Valley, but does the opposite of that here. Then she glances at my face.

  Something inside me jumps. But in the next second, she’s already smiling and greeting the next coffee drinker in line, and I’m already thinking that she’s not the Nordstrom girl I’m used to in the city.

  Not even close.

  Chapter 4

  Mandy

  All I have to do is take one look at the guy at the end of the line — the stunningly obvious tech nerd — and I laugh to myself.


  I’ll say this much: Full Circle Technologies does not disappoint. I expected smart glasses, hipster catalog clothing, and perfectly gelled pretty-boy hair, and I sure got it.

  Even Fergus Davidson, who’s just stepped up to the counter to order his usual Colombian Blend and cherry pie, notices my amusement.

  “You finally spotted Fancy Jeans and his out-of-towner friend with the extension cord?” he asks.

  “Lo and behold.” I automatically sling his pie onto a plate and top it with an extra thick dollop of whipped cream because he didn’t slip in a comment about Left-in-the-Lurch Mandy. There’re a lot of people in town who might’ve said something mean about how I should stay away from out-of-towners, but not Fergus.

  Next in line is Holly Sparks. She runs the salon down the street, and she keeps sneaking peeks at the other geek back at the table — the one without glasses who seems to have a seriously intense relationship with his computer.

  “Weird,” she whispers over a Scud Mountain Boys song as I bring her a cup of chamomile tea. “Every day, we get tourists coming here to gorge on cherries, drink themselves silly at the wineries, and go up to the mountains. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone come to Cherry Valley lookin’ less like they want to have fun than these boys.”

  “All business and no play,” I tell her as I ring her up.

  My next two customers are the twins who sling hash at Milton’s, the local dive on the edge of town that has somehow found the most creative ways imaginable to fry and serve animal body parts. Gwen and Grace don’t say a word to me about the new arrivals in the coffeehouse. They merely press their lips together and widen their eyes at me because Fancy Jeans is right behind them, and here in Cherry Valley, we’re anything but outright rude.

  I smile back and slip a glance at Abby, who’s still at the end of the bar working on her laptop. She’s well aware of the Tech Invasion — she’s interviewed our guests for upcoming blogs — and she’s obviously tuned in to everything that’s happening right now, even with her earbuds in.