Catch And Release (Fleur de Lis) Read online

  Glinda and Daniel exchange looks, then sip their coffee. No way. No way was I going to mess up our friendship like that. Losing Joey would be like losing a part of myself. He is my rock, and I don’t know what I’d do without him. No, there would never be anything romantic going on with Joey and me. Ever.

  I continue to eat my breakfast as Glinda and Daniel talk about the news. The old chief of police of the parish next door, St. Andrew Parish, is retiring, and there are several candidates vying for the position. The front-runner seems to be Jacque Mouton. There are a crap ton of Moutons in St. Andrew Parish, and it seems a sure bet that he will win.

  “Not good for that parish,” Daniel says. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that Old Man Mouton is corrupt.”

  “But, Daniel,” Glinda says, “corruption and south Louisiana have always gone hand in hand.”

  “True.”

  Talk then turns to weather and the holidays.

  “Carly, you and Joey are coming for Thanksgiving dinner Saturday, aren’t you?”

  “You betcha. Wouldn’t miss it,” I say. If Glinda’s breakfast spread was great, her Thanksgiving meal was one for the books. Turkey, ham, three different kinds of dressings, salads, and every pie known to south Louisiana. Glinda does her dinner on Saturday to give everyone coming time to travel. Plus, it is a little bonus deal she does for her customers. More people come on the weekends, and it is a special package she offers for the holidays.

  Finished with my breakfast, I put my plate up in the kitchen. The inn is already smelling like pumpkin and pecan pie, and I am looking forward to coming to eat. Sammy and I say our goodbyes, and I go home to work on some writing and get in a good nap. Maybe later I’ll watch some of my Christmas DVDs, but since one commercial has already caused me to text Jack, I don’t think that would be a good idea. Maybe a Criminal Minds marathon instead.

  Chapter Three

  Friday, November 25

  Afternoon

  “John!” I call as one of my afternoon regulars walked into the Wahoo. “I’m so glad you’re here! You can help me get the Christmas decorations down!”

  “Already, Carly? I just got here. Can’t a guy get a beer first?”

  I give him a big smile. “Of course. And the first one’s on me since you’re going to be so kind to help me.”

  He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Just how many boxes are we talking about?”

  “Not that many. Five. Six?” I pop the top off a long neck and set it front of him.

  “I can’t believe it’s Christmas time already. You sure you don’t want to wait until later to decorate?”

  “You don’t understand. I’m so excited for Christmas this year! Noah’s going to be home. And Ben will be home this year too. It’s been a few years since we’ve all been home together.”

  My brothers and I haven’t all been home for Christmas in several years. Noah has been deployed overseas the last few years. Ben works offshore, and his schedule doesn’t always allow him to be home either.

  “And Christmas is one of my favorite holidays!”

  “You said that about Halloween too,” John says.

  “Maybe I just like holidays. Except Fourth of July. Not a fan of that one. It’s hot and I hate fireworks.”

  The door flashes open and in walks Daniel. I pour him a Coke and set it on the bar next to John.

  “Carly’s wanting to decorate for Christmas already.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yep, and if you guys don’t stop giving me a hard time, I’m going to go play Christmas carols on the jukebox.”

  I smile as their eyes widen in fake terror.

  “Noo! Not the Christmas carols!” John says.

  “Well, pretty lady,” Daniel says, “speaking of Christmas, what is it you want Santa to bring you?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about that. But you know what? I think it would be nice to have a boyfriend for Christmas this year. I’ve been single a while. And it would be nice to do all the usual holiday things with someone. I’m tired of decorating the tree by myself.”

  “You, Carly? Tell us again how that last date of yours went,” John says.

  My dating disasters are popular afternoon discussions. After the last one, I declared “men-o-pause” for what might be the tenth time in my life. I’m too young for real menopause, but that’s what I call it when I’m taking a pause from all men and dating.

  “Carly, with your luck, you should have started looking months ago,” Daniel says.

  “Is that right?” I ask after hitting him with the bar towel I keep tucked in my back pocket.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I think that’s a challenge. I think that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to find me a good man by Christmas.”

  “Well, look, you have two right here,” says John.

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “This is going to be interesting,” Daniel says. “You’d better keep a notebook handy. No telling what kind of writing you can get out of this.”

  “Oooh! Great idea!” I exclaim. “I can keep a journal and record how my search is going.” Recently, I had pulled out my writer’s pen and started playing around with story ideas. This was a great one. All I want for Christmas is a real good man. I smile, pondering the possibilities. I could even start a blog!

  Since Daniel is a retired journalist, I often give him pieces of my writing to critique. He wields a mean red pen. “Daniel, you are awesome! Dust off that pen. We’re going to do some writing.”

  Chapter Four

  Friday, November 25

  Night

  30 Days Left

  After ending my day shift, I go home, dust off the old laptop, and begin to type.

  All I want for Christmas is a real good man.

  I have been single long enough.

  A year and a half to be exact. I’ve relished being single. I’ve embraced doing as I please when I please. And yes, it’s been great. No complications, no complaints. Until recently. Lately, I’ve caught myself reaching my leg over, looking for a warm body, only to find nothing. I’ve snuggled with a pillow. I’ve tried snuggling with my dachshund, but she growls and moves away.

  I had originally subscribed to a popular dating site a few years ago during one of my many breaks with an ex, and I had some luck with it. I ended up dating an attorney for several months until he decided to enter law enforcement and move out of state. That was my one chance to date an NCIS agent, and I missed it by a fraction. Welcome to my love life.

  Now, to find this man by Christmas means that I’ll have to worry about things like painting my toenails, always wearing makeup, and always being sure my legs are shaved—maybe this isn’t a good idea after all! Small sacrifices, I guess. Maybe that’s one reason I’m still single. I’ll think about that one later.

  ***

  After I finish my entry it is time to get ready to go out. Friday nights mean hanging out at the Wahoo. We play the jukebox, some dance. I don’t because I can’t dance. It also means that I can hang out with Ryder and see if I can figure out what he’s thinking.

  I’m the first one there, which isn’t unusual. Ryder comes in next. He’s just gotten off work, so he is dressed in his work clothes and not his normal cowboy attire. After a quick peck on my cheek, he settles on the barstool beside me, his hands around one knee. His other foot rests on the bottom rung of my barstool.

  After some small talk, I take a deep breath to gather my courage. It’s time to take a step forward. I had already come up with a plan. And that plan was to watch an old John Travolta classic.

  “You know, we should watch Urban Cowboy sometime,” I say. Yeah, I’m so smooth.

  “We still need to watch 8 Seconds,” he replies.

  We’ve been arguing for weeks about whether or not Chris Ledoux’s song “Look at You Girl” is in the movie. Ryder swears it’s not. I say it is. What he doesn’t know is that I googled the soundtrack, and I know I’ve lost this par
ticular argument. I just want to see where this goes. A movie? With Ryder? That’s my goal, isn’t it? Some alone time to see what he does?

  Of course, we start arguing again about the song and start to brainstorm bets. He comes up with nothing to bet. I like to eat and can’t cook, so I want dinner if I win. Since I know I’ve already lost this bet, it’s irrelevant anyway.

  After more arguing, a couple more drinks, and a game of pool, we decide to just watch 8 Seconds and settle this debate once and for all. I need something to eat, so I tell him I’ll run through a local drive-thru and meet him at my house in thirty minutes.

  On the way home, turning a corner, I dump the entire contents of my soft drink in my lap and onto the floorboard of my car. Not only is my seat soaked, so are my jeans. I look at the time on the console. I still have a good fifteen minutes before Ryder gets there. Just enough time to change my pants and hook up my DVD player.

  Why couldn’t I plan ahead, just in case? And what the hell am I going to do about the soda dripping down my legs? Good questions that I have no time to ponder.

  Ryder’s already there, leaning against his car, arms crossed, looking hot. I get out of the car and he smiles, shaking his head when he sees the mess I am.

  I open the front door and run to change, then try to hook up the DVD player. Finally, I get it to work, then realize the batteries in the remote are dead. I run around like a madwoman trying to get this night to go right and it’s not working. Not at all.

  In the midst of all this chaos is Ryder, sitting there on my couch still smiling. Could I be more of a spaz? I’m glad he finds it amusing. And why the hell isn’t he helping me look?

  A good twenty minutes later, I have the DVD player hooked up. I’m changed. The remote is working. I go to grab the movie but can’t remember where I put it when Ryder handed it to me earlier.

  So I start looking for it—flipping seat cushions, looking behind and underneath furniture, everywhere.

  I can’t find it.

  However, I did find the missing house key, face moisturizer I thought I’d lost, three unmatching socks, and approximately a dollar twenty-five in loose change. But no movie.

  My panic level rises as he tells me he’s leaving in five minutes if I don’t find it. I search the kitchen again. It’s on the counter. Right where I left it. I breathe a big sigh of relief. Crisis over. For now, anyway.

  We settle down to watch the movie. He stretches out his long cowboy legs. I sit down beside him and stretch out my not-so-long legs next to his.

  I half watch the movie. Partly because I know the ending. The guy dies at the end. I’m going to cry, and it’s going to make me mad. The rest of my attention is watching for some sign from Ryder. Will he do that cheesy arm thing that most guys do during a movie? Will he reach out and lay his hand on my thigh? Try to hold my hand?

  Two hours later, I close the door behind him. No hug. No forehead kiss. No kiss on the cheek. Not even a handshake. I have to say this is not normal. In the last six months, Ryder has kissed me more than any other man. Not that I’ve been kissing a lot of men to begin with, but still, he does kiss me. He kisses my cheek, my forehead, once on the lips, but I think that was a mistake. I think he meant to kiss my cheek and missed. Or do guys miss on those things? I don’t know. Did I make him nervous? That can’t be it. Ryder’s never nervous. I’m the nervous one.

  Do I have any answers?

  Of course not.

  Surely, after all this, I’d have some kind of clue. Nope. Still no answers. Still unsure if I’m a friend or more. According to He’s Just Not That Into You, when a man likes you, you know it. So is no answer my answer?

  This is what I think about as I stretch one of my lonely legs out, reaching again for warmth as I try to go to sleep and find nothing. Nothing except a growling, cranky dachshund.

  Chapter Five

  Saturday, November 26

  29 Days Left

  Toenails painted Racing Rubies Red. Check.

  Makeup applied. Check.

  Legs shaved. Check.

  I’m ready. Bring ’em on, baby!

  Now what?

  Where are the men? Wait, let me be more specific. Where are the emotionally available, financially secure, reasonably neuroses-free men?

  Jeez. I should have started this quest around June. My problem is that I attract the exact opposite. If there is an emotionally unavailable, broke, neurotic man in a five-mile radius, he will find me. I think I have some kind of homing beacon that attracts them like a porchlight attracts mosquitoes.

  ***

  Saturday nights are usually my nights away from the bar. I work there five days a week, and Saturdays are my nights to myself. However, I did see a certain cowboy’s vehicle parked at the bar as I drove past earlier on my way home from having lunch with a friend of mine. I was going to watch Elf on the beach a little later, but I decided to get ready and pop in at the bar to see if Ryder was still there. With twenty-nine days to go, I need to make something happen.

  So, I jump in the shower, run around like a crazy person while I put on makeup, and try to do something with this lazy hair of mine. I finally throw the not-completely-dry hair into a ponytail and practically run out the door. All the while saying to myself, “Please still be there. Please still be there…” Why I didn’t text him and ask him to stay, I have no idea.

  When I get there, I throw open the door, and my eyes scan the bar looking for that familiar face of his.

  Holy shit!

  My jaw almost hits the ground when I see him there reclined against the bar. I walk up slowly. His cowboy hat is missing and his hair is spiky, and in the dim lighting of the bar, I can see highlights in his hair. Highlights! And gel! I resist the urge to touch his hair. To see if it’s real. I know how he is about me touching his hat or his head, so I don’t give in.

  He’s not even dressed right. He’s wearing a black button-down shirt and regular shoes. No boots. What the hell?

  Who is this alien, and what has he done with my Ryder?

  I say nothing at first, but take my normal seat next to him and order my drink. Then I turn to him.

  “Nice hair,” I say.

  He grins his normal Ryder grin, and I breathe a sigh of relief. At least that is still the same.

  “Thanks. No one else has noticed.”

  What? How could someone not notice? Well, there are only three other people in the bar. The bartender and two older guys who are regulars. But still. Maybe they thought he was someone else. Or had lost his mind and were scared. I don’t know.

  “So what are you doing tonight?” He never stays at the Wahoo on a Saturday night. He’s going to end up at 31 for dancing or some other shenanigans.

  “A bunch of girls have asked me to go dancing.”

  Ryder is hands down the best dancer I’ve ever seen. That man has moves that I suspect don’t end on the dance floor. He can dance with anyone to anything. Anyone but me. He has tried to teach me on more than one occasion. Not only do I have no balance, I have no rhythm. Anytime he gets that close to me, the circuits in my brain go haywire, and I have a hard time walking, much less moving to any kind of beat.

  He gets up to play pool. Another thing I have not mastered. I can’t hit the white ball, which is kind of important. Since he is busy at the moment, I go to the jukebox to play some music.

  I get back, and he’s reclining against the bar again, one foot on the foot rail of the bar.

  “Have you thought about the bet? You won after all,” I say. I hope he will see this as an opening.

  He smiles and takes a long drag off his cigarette. “I get the satisfaction of knowing I’m right.”

  Striiike one.

  His phone rings. I don’t mean to eavesdrop. I lie. I do. I hear that he’s going to watch a local musician, Travis Matte, play, and I swear I hear him saying he’s going with a group of lesbians. Well, at least I know he’s not going on a date. A date would explain the funky hair and different clothes though. I still don�
��t know what all that’s about.

  He finishes up the conversation. He props one foot on my stool, his foot touching mine. That’s a good sign, right? Has to be. He has also been known to stretch his legs out across my lap, which I think is a good sign too.

  I’ve played one of my favorite Cajun songs, one with a quick beat that many people around here love to dance to. Ryder asks me to dance. Of course, I can’t. Do I tell him that? Hell no! The only thing I can do right is spin. I’m a damn good spinner. I get out there and make a fool out of myself just like I always do.

  Great. I’m not sure what the baseball analogy is for batting nothing, but that’s what I’m doing. I sit back down and try again.

  “So, where is Travis playing next?” I’m hoping that he’ll say, “He’s playing at so and so. Would you like to go?”

  Nope. He says, “I don’t know.”

  Striiike two.

  Maybe I should just ask him out. No, that would be way too easy.

  Time for a Hail Mary. Yes, I know that’s football and I’ve been talking baseball, but a sports analogy is a sports analogy.

  “George Strait is coming to New Orleans in January.”

  “Really? I thought it was February.”

  Striiike three.

  I’m out of ideas and out of time for tonight. It’s time to go meet my friends on the beach for some holiday movie time.

  We walk out of the bar together, and I throw out, “You’re welcome to join us tonight at the movie.”

  Now he laughs, jumps in his car, and speeds off. Leaving me more confused than ever. No hug. No kiss on the cheek. No kiss on the forehead. Nothing.

  I breathe a sigh of frustration and climb into my own car. Apparently dancing with lesbians is more alluring than watching Elf on the beach with me.

  Sigh.

  Chapter Six

  Sunday, November 27