A sense of pride rushes through me. “Thanks, Dad.”
Mom takes the phone from Dad and peers at the screen. “Would you look at that. Oh, these are lovely, Cooper. Are there more?” She starts scrolling through the pictures on my phone.
“Mom, you’re not supposed to scroll through someone’s pictures.” I reach for the phone, but it’s too late.
“Cooper Chance, why are there nudes on your phone?”
“There’s nudes?” Dad asks. “Nudes of our son?”
“I’m not nude,” I say, snatching the phone away and stuffing it back in my pants. There goes that momentary joy I felt. The ferry is docking, and I’m happy to get off this vessel and end the conversation, even though it means “chick hunting” with my parents. “I’m wearing a towel. It’s a progress picture. I’ve been working out.”
“I’ve noticed,” Mom says while adjusting the buttons of her vest. “You have quite a few muscles.”
Please . . . please let someone end this.
“Either way, nudes or not,” Dad says, “those drawings are really good, Cooper. I’m glad you’re pursuing something in another field, especially since it seems to bring you joy.” Dad claps me on the back. “Maybe you can draw some pictures for me to color in.”
“Oooh,” Mom sighs happily. “How delightful would that be? Your dad can color something other than swear words.”
Oddly, I think his coloring swear words is endearing.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I reach for it while the captain’s voice crackles over the sound system, offering us directions on how to get off the ferry.
I glance at my phone screen to catch a text from Palmer. Texts from her are sporadic at best, but they always have something to do with her travels.
Because I need the distraction, I unlock my phone to see she texted my brother and me.
Palmer: [picture] In Australia, swam with sharks and a guy who looked like a long-lost Hemsworth brother. See him in the background? He asked me out. We’re getting drinks later tonight. Should I ask him if he’s a Hemsworth?
Keeping the distraction going, I text her back.
Cooper: There are only three Hemsworth brothers. Maybe a cousin. Either way, don’t embarrass yourself.
Mom and Dad both stand with their small overnight suitcase, which I try to take from Dad, but he refuses to let me carry it. He tells me I can’t look like a “bag man” because it would be a turnoff to the ladies. Whatever that means. We work our way off the ferry as my phone buzzes again.
Palmer: Oh, do you mean don’t embarrass myself—like the time you spilled your drink all over your date and instead of apologizing or asking to buy a new shirt, you just got up and left . . . without another word?
Cooper: It was a bad night, a bad date, I did her a favor.
“Which way do we go?” Mom asks when we make it onto the dock.
“Well, straight right now,” I deadpan, “unless you want to end up in Elliott Bay. But after this, we’re going to grab an Uber. Rideshare is past the dock and down the street on the right. I already have a car coming.”
“He’s so efficient,” Mom says as my phone buzzes.
I usher my parents in the direction we need to go, feeling like a sheepdog with a daunting task of herding a couple of geriatrics while I read the text.
Palmer: What’s it like to not care about how anyone perceives you?
Cooper: Freeing. Try it.
Palmer: You didn’t say anything about the sharks.
Cooper: Because you see the end of a tail and that’s it. The picture is mostly you with the guy in the background and you’re not even swimming. You’re on a boat, outside of the water. Did you even get in?
Palmer: [picture] Yes, see. We were in a cage for safety. It’s adventurous. Try it.
Cooper: As a matter of fact, I’m doing something rather adventurous right now.
Ford chimes in, finally. He probably lifted his head up from his desk for a brief second. The guy never stops working, even late at night.
Ford: Great pictures, Palmer. And what are you doing, Cooper?
Palmer: Thank you. And yeah, what are you doing, Cooper?
Cooper: If you must know . . . I’m currently grabbing an Uber to the Dirty Beaver where our parents are going to attempt to be my wingmen because they feel it’s a necessity to insert themselves into every aspect of my life.
Palmer: WHAT? Oh my God, I’m going to need updates.
Ford: Uh . . . your wingmen? We’re going to need more of an explanation.
And they won’t be getting one, because I love dropping a bomb like that on my siblings and just walking away. I like to see them leaning in, getting involved, stepping away from their lives for a second and bringing their attention back to Marina Island—well, Seattle at the moment. But you get it. I like getting them all riled up. I stuff my phone in my pocket just as our Uber arrives.
Here’s hoping my night ends soon and I’m back at my place with my parents in the guest room, sleeping comfortably.
Chapter Two
NORA
“You look like you had a rough day,” Earl says as I take a seat at the bar.
I drop my wristlet on the bar top along with my phone and let out a deep breath, my eyes connecting with the grouchy but sweet bartender. “IPA, Earl.”
He chuckles. “I take that as a yes.”
I prop my elbow up on the bar and rest my head in my hand as I stare at all the glass bottles lining the wall, some full, some halfway empty, and a lot at the end of their rope. I can relate. I’ve ended enough rough days—spent baking endless cakes—at the Dirty Beaver that Earl can read my mood by now.
He plops an ice-cold beer in front of me, and I lift it to my lips. I take a grateful sip and then set it down on the coaster he provided me. “Brides are probably my least favorite people to work with.”
“Isn’t that the biggest percentage of your clientele?” He laughs while he flings his towel over his shoulder and props his hands on the bar top. Earl is an older gentleman, a retired veteran who bought the Dirty Beaver and did absolutely nothing to improve it. He claims that because the word “dirty” is in the title of the bar, people should know what to expect. And he’s right, but it’s also led to this place’s chill vibe—with the bonus that not one single bride I’ve ever worked with would step foot in a place like this.
“It is.” I nod and then take another sip of my beer.
“Then it seems like you might be in the wrong line of work there, darling.”
“But I like baking. I just don’t like dealing with the customers.” I pause to take another sip. “I’m damn good at it, though. I can smile my way through any conversation, but I don’t like dealing with them.”
“Have someone else do it,” he suggests. “Don’t you have an assistant or two you can dump it on?”
I shake my head. “It’s my bakery, passed down from my family. It’s my responsibility to deal with the clients, or at least until I can properly train someone to handle customer relations. Until then, it’s all me.”
“Well, what was it this time?”
“Cake testing. The bride wanted every flavor, but she didn’t want to pay for the additional flavors. For cake tastings, we have a set sample amount, because I’m not here to make free cakes for people, and she was pissed that I couldn’t just ‘whip up some more’ in the back for her.” I sip my beer, still fuming. “And then she asked if I know how to properly stack cakes so they don’t fall over. Apparently, at one of her friends’ weddings, the baker didn’t put enough support in the cake. They were at an old venue with shaky floors, and while they were dancing, the cake plopped right over. She pointed her fork at me and demanded to know if I’d ever let that happen.”