I call Suzanne, who I figure is the best source of information in Seaside, considering she seems to know everyone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Suzanne, it’s Megan Dunn.”

“Megan! How are you?”

She sounds overly excited to hear from me, which makes me suspicious. “I’m good, thanks. How are you?”

“Fantastic! I just closed escrow on a place up in the hills that has an incredible ocean view and an even more incredible price tag. This cute young gay couple bought it and they’re going to sink a ton into renovations. I was just about to send Theo an email to let him know they’ll be contacting him.”

“Speak of the devil. That’s why I’m calling.”

She sounds confused. “About the gay couple?”

“No, Suzanne, about Theo. He came out this morning to give me a quote on the house. It was less than half the price of the other guys’, and he brought me these really incredible renderings that blew me away.”

“Oh, great!”

“No, not great. Because Theo was being Theo, and I’m not sure I can deal with that for the next few months while this project gets done. I already negotiated an agreement with Craig from Capstone, and I’m leaning toward keeping it because Theo is so strange.”

“Believe me, you’ll get used to his silence real quick as soon as you see the quality of work he does.”

“It’s not his silence that’s the problem. It’s his weirdness. Every time he looks at me, I get the feeling he’s either going to hit something or cry.”

Her matchmaker instincts kick in. “Maybe he has the hots for you!”

I snort. “Believe me, this isn’t the hots. This is more like the freezing colds. The guy can barely stand to be around me.”

Suzanne is thoughtful for a moment. “I mean, he’s odd, definitely, but I know for a fact he’s harmless, Megan. He’s a big guy, but he’s gentle as a lamb.”

“I’ve never met a lamb who goes around with a hurricane brewing over its head.”

After a pause, she says gingerly, “Okay, I’m going to say something now.”

I know that means it’s going to be something I don’t like. I wait for it, exhaling in annoyance.

“Maybe—and I’m only saying maybe—you’re just sensitive.”

I frown. “Sensitive? About what?”

“About men.”

“About men?” I repeat, puzzled.

“You know, because of your husband.”

“Oh. You think I’ve lost my ability to judge a person’s character because my husband died, is that it?”

“It’s just that nobody else has ever had a problem with Theo, sweetie,” says Suzanne in a placating tone. “Except you.”

Frustrated, I blow out a hard breath. “So I’m told. But I’m not imagining it, Suzanne. Even Coop said he’s never seen Theo act the way he acts around me. He said I ‘agitate’ him.”

“Coop said that? Huh. Well, that’s weird.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you!”

“Maybe he’s jealous of your tan?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Maybe you remind him of someone he hates?”

“It’s possible, but I doubt it. His problem seems very Megan specific.”

“Maybe he thinks you should put on a little lipstick and a shirt that doesn’t have a band logo on it to make it seem like you give an actual fuck before you go out in public?”

That makes me smile. “Inside thought, Suzanne.”

“Hmm. And you’re positive he doesn’t have the hots for you?”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure he gets an expression like he just took a dump in his pants every time he sees me because he’s so attracted to me. It’s definitely true love.”

She laughs. “Okay, I’m fresh out of smart ideas, then. Chalk it up to one of those things and stay out of his way while he works on the Buttercup. Maybe he’ll warm up to you after a while.”

“Or maybe he’ll leave random tools on the floor for me to trip over and break my face on.”

“Don’t be silly, he’ll do no such thing. If you don’t like Theo, just deal directly with Coop. From the sound of things, that would suit both of you. I’m telling you, he’s the best there is. I’ve got a list a mile long of people you could call for a reference if you don’t want to take my word for it. And why flush money down the toilet if you don’t have to? Just my two cents, but I think it’s worth it to put up with him in the short run for what you’ll get out of it in the long run.”

I mull it over because she makes some good points. I got a big chunk of change in the settlement from Cass’s accident, but I know how these kind of large renovation projects can go way over budget. And there’s no guarantee the B&B will be a success after I open. I could be filing for bankruptcy in a few years if the economy tanks. I need to be practical about this. Practical, frugal, and emotionless.

Except for my intense curiosity and my sore ego, I’d be all set.

“Maybe if you told me more about him, it would make me more comfortable.”

“What do you want to know?”

“About his accident,” I say without thinking. “I want to know what happened to make Mr. Popularity turn into the Grinch.”

On the other end of the line, there’s a long sigh. “Sweetie, that story needs to be told over drinks. What’re you doing tonight?”

I look around the kitchen, at the scorched floor, the boarded-up windows, the empty takeout containers crowding the counter. “Not a thing.”

“Be ready at six. I’m driving. And wear a skirt, for God’s sake. I have a reputation to uphold in this town, and your homeless stoner look isn’t cutting it.”

She hangs up without waiting to hear the argument she already knows is coming.

* * *

At precisely six o’clock that night, Suzanne arrives looking like she has an appointment to meet Hugh Hefner. I’ve never seen so much cleavage in my life.

“Hi, Suzanne.” I warily eye her hairdo, which is teased and sprayed to ’80s hair band proportions, her stilettos, which are sky-high, and her skirt, which is so tight I suspect her circulation is being compromised. “Please tell me we’re not going clubbing.”

She looks at me as if I’ve been smoking crack. “There aren’t any clubs within an eighty-mile radius. We’re going to Booger’s.”

Booger’s? This is why I never go out.

“Don’t give me that look!” Suzanne scolds when she sees my expression. “It’s a very nice, upscale restaurant.”

“I think our definitions of ‘upscale’ might be different.”

“Jeez, what’re you, ninety, Grandma?”

“Thirty-two, actually.”

Suzanne grimaces. “You’re younger than me too? How did I not notice that on your escrow docs? It’s a pity I already decided not to hate you. Nice dress, by the way.”

“Thanks. I had to go out and buy it today because I didn’t own one. I didn’t want to get clobbered by my real estate agent.”

She narrows her eyes at my waistline. “Are you wearing a waist trainer under that?”

Perplexed, I look down at myself. “What the hell is a waist trainer?”

She groans, throwing her hands in the air. “I changed my mind. I do hate you. Let’s go, you’re making me thirsty.”

I lock the front door, she grabs me by the arm, and we’re off to Booger’s, which I suspect will be about as pleasant as a visit to the gynecologist.

When we arrive, I’m surprised to find I was wrong. Whoever named the place was off his rocker, but the location is spectacular. Booger’s sits at the end of the beach promenade, overlooking the ocean. It has a kitschy seafaring theme that manages to be ironically sentimental instead of just plain tacky.

Fishnet is strung from the ceiling and hung with starfish and Christmas lights. Brick walls are covered in framed black-and-white pictures of old movie stars and dotted with big portholes for windows. Candles glow atop polished wood tables, and an enormous captain’s wheel garnishes the hostess stand where Suzanne gives our name to a hostess who looks fifteen years old.

“It’s cute,” I say, looking around.

Suzanne nudges me with her elbow and grins. “Would I steer you in the wrong direction?”

“The name, though.”

“It’s the nickname of the owner. Someone caught him picking his nose in elementary school, and it stuck.”

I grimace. “Hopefully, he’s abandoned the habit and doesn’t pick his nose in the kitchen.”

“This way, please.” The hostess, holding a pair of menus, gestures for us to follow her.

Suzanne gets a lot of stares as we walk to our table. Even some of the women seem interested in her beauty queen bounce. I admire her self-confidence and have to smile when a guy drops his spoon into his soup as we pass by.

Once we’re seated, we spend a few minutes looking at the menu, then order our drinks and meals from the heavyset waitress who comes by. When she’s gone, Suzanne says, “So. Theo Valentine.”

“The man of the hour.” I munch on nuts from a bowl the waitress left on the table. “Mystery man with a name like a porn star.”

“He’s not all that mysterious.”

I stop munching and stare at her.

“Okay, he’s a little mysterious.”

When I don’t relent with the stare, she sighs and gives up.

“Fine, he’s very mysterious. Now. Before, he was just Theo, local pretty-boy jock set to take over the world. All the girls were in love with him, of course. You don’t get that quality of man meat much in this town.”

I pop another fistful of nuts into my mouth. Around them, I say, “You truly have a way with words, Suzanne.”

She smiles serenely, twirling a lock of dark hair between her fingers. “He was a couple of years behind me at school, but God, did I have a crush on him. I’m a pushover for swagger, and he had it in spades. He went to college in Washington, but came back because he and Colleen were still together and she didn’t want to leave Seaside. They were supposed to get married. You met her at Sunday’s party, do you remember? The schoolteacher with the pretty blue eyes?”

I do remember. Her eyes weren’t the only things that were pretty. She had sleek brown hair and beautiful skin, a figure even voluptuous Suzanne might be jealous of.

“Let me guess. They never got married.”

“Nope.”

“So what happened?”

“Theo’s accident happened. And from the way she tells it, from the moment he woke up in the hospital, he wanted nothing more to do with her. Wouldn’t even look at her. Never spoke to her or anyone else again.”

“Yikes. That’s harsh.”

Suzanne taps her manicured nails on the table. “Yeah, Colleen was devastated. I still don’t think she’s over it. I’ve tried to set her up with every single man from here to Timbuktu, but she always says no. I suspect she’s hoping one day Theo will snap out of his silent funk and take her back.”

“So what’s with his whole not-talking thing? Were his vocal cords crushed or something?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, sweetie. His doctor won’t tell anybody anything, of course, but I know a few of the nurses who were at the hospital when he was brought in the night of the accident and were there during his recovery. They both say the same thing: Theo refused to speak, he refused to answer questions about why he wouldn’t speak, and he went into a rage if pressed about it. Trashed an exam room when a physical therapist got too pushy is the way I hear it. Then of course the doctor wanted to send him to a psychiatrist, but he refused that too. Just checked himself out of the hospital as soon as he could walk again, and that was that.

“Everybody in town felt bad for him, so he kept getting jobs, and after a while, nobody cared anymore that he didn’t talk, because his work wasn’t affected. In fact, it seemed to get even better. And he’s fast. He can tear down a house and completely rebuild it before his competition has even gotten around to putting in bids. Whatever demon is driving him, it has a good work ethic.”

The waitress arrives with our drinks, giving me a moment to think. I sip my iced tea, even more curious now about the mystery man. I’m about to ask Suzanne what kind of accident Theo was in when a deep voice interrupts.

“Well, look who it is. Fancy meeting you here.”

I look up. It’s Craig from Capstone, standing beside our table, smiling down at me.

“Craig! Hi, what a surprise. What are you doing here?”

Suzanne kicks me under the table. I glance sharply at her. She’s gazing up at Craig with big moony eyes and a blinding smile, batting her lashes. She’s pulled back her shoulders so her cleavage is displayed at its most advantageous angle for someone looking down.

He’s getting the VIP treatment because he’s handsome. That rugged, cowboy type of handsome where you just know he’s really good at chopping wood and taming wild stallions and shooting poor game birds out of the sky and stuff like that. He’s got dark blond hair, dimples you could fall into, and a smile as easy as a Sunday morning.

And he’s not wearing a wedding ring, a fact that Suzanne’s sharp eyes didn’t miss.

He says, “I was in the area this afternoon to meet a client, thought I’d catch a bite before I went back to Portland.” He notices Suzanne and her cleavage. His smile widens. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all!” simpers Suzanne with a little wiggle of her shoulders that makes her boobs shake and Craig’s eyes widen.

I pull my lips between my teeth so I don’t smile. “Have you two met?”

At the same time, Craig and Suzanne say, “No.”

“Suzanne, this is Craig Kennedy from Capstone Construction. Craig, this is Suzanne Martin. She’s in real estate.”

No sooner have the words left my lips than Suzanne is scooting over in her side of the booth. “Nice to meet you, Craig!” she says brightly, all smiles and sweetness. “Are you having dinner alone?”

“Yep.”

Don’t say it, Suzanne.

“Why don’t you join us?”

Shit.

Craig looks at me. Of course I’m not going to be Ultra Super Mega Bitch and send him away, so I smile and pretend to be welcoming. “Yes, please join us.”

Craig slides into the booth beside Suzanne, and the two of them sit there grinning at each other while I wonder at what age it becomes socially acceptable to say whatever you’re really thinking and do whatever you want, regardless of what’s polite. Seventy? Eighty?

God, I can’t wait.

The next two hours are hell. Between Craig’s and Suzanne’s blistering hormones and my dinner—which was supposed to be calamari but instead tastes suspiciously like fried rubber bands—I start to feel sick.

And sweet Jesus, can Craig talk. Once he sits down, he doesn’t take a breath. On and on he goes, about his work, his company, his plans for expansion, yada yada yada. It’s exhausting. Not once does he ask Suzanne or me a question. It’s like we were only born to sit and listen to him blather on while we smile supportively and strain our spines as we show off our boobs.

I don’t even have the pleasure of getting plastered, because I never drink unless I’m at home. And I can tell by Suzanne’s third glass of wine that I’m going to be the one driving there.

At quarter past eight, my patience has been worn to a nub by Craig’s ceaseless drone. I catch the waitress’s eye and motion for the check. When it comes, Craig takes it from her hand, waving dismissively when I protest.

“It’s my pleasure.” He smiles at Suzanne, who smiles dreamily back at him.

I doubt it would be his pleasure if he knew I’m seriously considering not hiring him for my ridiculously expensive renovation, but maybe Suzanne’s ample assets will soften the blow.

“I can’t believe we’ve never met before,” she complains prettily, toying with the sleeve of his shirt. “I give my clients referrals for your company all the time, but I’ve only met your foreman.”

“Well, now you’ve met me.” Craig’s smile looks dangerous. “I hope it wasn’t a disappointment.”

Suzanne giggles like a schoolgirl, and it’s all I can do not to throw my napkin in her face. “This was wonderful,” I say, “and it was so nice to see you, Craig.” I slide toward the edge of the booth, hoping they’ll take the hint. When they don’t, I add pointedly, “But I’m feeling a bit tired, so…”

Pulling himself out of the spell of Suzanne’s boobs, Craig remembers his manners and stands. “Of course. I should let you ladies go. Megan, it was a pleasure to see you again. I’ll be sending that paperwork over Monday.”

He shakes my hand. I try not to feel like we’re making a deal. He turns to Suzanne, still sitting in the booth, looking forlorn that he’s leaving. “Suzanne, I honestly can’t remember the last time I had so much fun talking to someone.”

She says, “You need to get my number so you can have fun again soon.”

Damn. This girl is a go-getter, that’s for sure.

But, shockingly, Craig doesn’t take the bait. He says lightly, “Yeah, if I need a real estate agent I’ll definitely give you a call. I can get your number from Megan.”

Suzanne’s smile freezes in place.

Craig says, “Ladies,” makes a motion like he’s tipping his hat, then turns around and walks away.

When he’s gone, Suzanne’s voice comes out flat. “What the hell was that?”

“He must have a girlfriend.” When she looks at me, I shrug. “You guys obviously had mad chemistry. It’s the only explanation.”

“So it wasn’t in my head? He was flirting with me, right?”

“Totally. At one point, I thought he was going to take his junk out and ask you to fondle it under the table.”

“Which I totally would’ve. The man is smoking hot!”

She says that so loudly it has people’s heads turning. I stand, take her hand, and help her out of the booth, staggering a little when she gives me her weight because I wasn’t ready for it.

“Whoa,” she says, steadying herself. “I think you might have to drive home, sweetie. The room is tilted.”

“All right, hotshot, I’ve got you. Don’t impale my feet with those heels of yours. Here we go.”

We make our way through the restaurant—my arm around her shoulders, her arm around my waist—and I try to ignore the snickers I hear as we go.

I have a funny feeling this isn’t the first time Suzanne hasn’t been able to walk out of a restaurant unassisted.