Studfinder (The Busy Bean) Read online

  Studfinder

  L.B. Dunbar

  Copyright © 2021 by Laura Dunbar

  L.B. Dunbar Writes, Ltd.

  All rights reserved.

  This book was inspired by the True North Series written by Sarina Bowen. It is an original work that is published by Heart Eyes Press LLC.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  Editor: Melissa Shank

  Editor: Jenny Sims/Editing4Indies

  Proofread: Karen Fischer

  Contents

  1. Rita

  2. Jake

  3. Rita

  4. Jake

  5. Rita

  6. Jake

  7. Rita

  8. Jake

  9. Jake

  10. Rita

  11. Jake

  12. Rita

  13. Jake

  14. Rita

  15. Jake

  16. Rita

  17. Jake

  18. Rita

  19. Jake

  20. Jake

  21. Rita

  22. Jake

  23. Rita

  24. Rita

  25. Jake

  26. Rita

  27. Jake

  28. Rita

  29. Rita

  You Will Also Enjoy…

  A Love Note From the Author

  1

  Rita

  “You,” I hiss, glaring at the most annoying man I’ve ever met, and I’ve met plenty of annoying men. Of course, not all of them were hunky, smirky, sexy silver foxes, but that was neither here nor there. I am standing here, and he is sitting there. “You are in my spot.”

  This is the third time this week he’s encroached on my couch in the Busy Bean Café, and three strikes mean you’re out, handsome.

  Taking a moment, the offender blinks before narrowing his bluest-of-blue eyes and glares back at me. For a second, I wonder if I have something on my face. Maybe chocolate in the corner crease of my lips or lettuce in my teeth from lunch.

  What the frick is he staring at?

  Then he blinks again and slowly leans forward. His arm porn-worthy forearms rest on his wide-spread thighs as he glances up at me. Since I think he’s about to stand from the place where he’s perched, I speak.

  “Thank you.” My mother taught me manners, even if I sometimes lack the use of them. Especially on this occasion, where a hunky, smirky, sexy silver fox who is the most annoying man I’ve ever met is sitting in my spot on the plush peach couch in my favorite coffee shop.

  He stops moving at my gratitude and turns his head slowly left to right. Then he swivels at the waist right to left, exaggerating his motions as if he’s searching for something over his shoulders. Did he forget something? Did he drop his phone? His hand moves to his side and smooths over the velvety cushion, stroking it like the soft texture is a pleasure fabric or a preferred pet. My mouth waters for some reason because his movements might match that of him caressing a woman, taking his time to sculpt along her thighs. Maybe glide over her backside. Stroke the inside of her legs and . . .

  “Just what are you doing?” He’s taking too long to move it.

  “I’m looking for a sign that says this seat is taken.” Turning that edgy face upward, beaming those blue headlights at me, he crooks the corner of his mouth in the smirkiest of smirks. “But as I don’t see one, nor do I see your name on this couch, I think I’ll stay.”

  He falls back against the couch as if he’s dropping onto a mattress, tossing himself down into the fluffiest of pillows to catch his hard body in a cushion of heaven. His arms stretch wide to encompass the length of the couch back. He even sighs. A long, lush, deep groan of pleasure emits from him while his eyes close for a second. Then he inhales. When his lids flip open, he spears me in place. That does not stop my mouth.

  “Look, handsome, this is my spot. Everyone knows it’s my spot. Think Norm in Cheers, where everybody knows his name. This is where I sit.” I shouldn’t have called him handsome. He probably already knows he is. In fact, I’m certain he knows he’s good-looking. I don’t know how he even faces himself in the mirror every morning. He’s that good-looking.

  “I’m curious if everyone is always glad you came . . .” His eyes narrow at me, and I ignore the emphasis he’s put on a certain term. I will not fall for these kinds of wordplay games, nor will I falter under the curl of his sassy mouth. Even the crinkle of his nose as he annunciated that word was hot.

  “Of course, they’re always glad I’m here, occupying my spot.” My voice hardens as my fists clench at my sides. I’ve had a day, and I just want to sit in my happy place and sip some coffee. Is the Busy Bean the most convenient spot for me to haunt? No, it is not, but I’ve been to worse places—been there, done that—and I will not be going back. I live halfway between Colebury and Montpelier, where my law office is located, and coming here is out of my way most days. But today is one of those days when I need my spot and a good cup of dark roast, and I do not need this hunky, smirky, sexy silver fox glaring back at me or his fine backside taking up residency on my couch.

  Get a grip, Rita.

  Technically, I don’t own the couch or the right to claim this space as mine. The Busy Bean Café is owned and operated by Audrey Shipley and Zara Rossi, both excellent businesswomen. They’ve taken this quaint location on the old gin mill property and made it into something special. With brick-red walls and chalkboard painted beams overhead, the creaking wooden floors and eclectic mixture of furniture begs a person to come in and linger, which is what I do—often. Not to mention, the coffee is divine. The dark roast is a special blend introduced to the place a while back, and the addition of delicious cupcakes on the menu from Oh, For Heaven’s Cakes makes this place more than just a coffeehouse. It’s heaven in Vermont.

  It’s my heaven, and the devil himself is sitting here.

  Jake Drummond is his name, actually, but that’s semantics to me. He’s quickly becoming a huge thorn in my side.

  “What are you even doing here?” I snap although I might know the answer. The local Catholic church hosts an AA meeting soon, and perhaps he’ll be attending it. Internally, I bitterly laugh at the thought. This man does not take Alcoholics Anonymous seriously.

  Jake peers around the room, exaggerating his observation once again before lifting a coffee mug. “I’m enjoying the local brew.”

  My eyes narrow at him, and I try to ignore the sharp edge to his cheeks. Plus, the layer of scruff that is a mix of gray and black blended to perfection against the cliff of his jaw. His short-cropped hairstyle matches that stubbly facial mixture. Despite his face looking young, the crinkles near his eyes and the tightness to his mouth give away the fact he’s easily over forty like me.

  In comparison, the wrinkles on my neck and the graying strands of hair weaving their way through my mousy brown mop make me look older than I am some days. While the indents near my eyes are often called laugh lines, I’m well aware their presence is from stress and glaring at people, like this man, who knows he’s handsome, fu
ll of charm, and giving off a vibe that makes me want to tackle him to said couch and have my way with him.

  A shaky hand comes to my forehead. What I really need is to get laid, but it’s been so long I don’t know what that is anymore. Why do we even call it getting laid? I can do it standing up. I can do it on a bus. I can do it against a door. I can do it on the floor. I can . . . stop rhyming in my head like a sexually deprived Dr. Seuss fan.

  His sapphire eyes stare at me, and silence lingers as if he asked me something, and I’ve taken too long to answer.

  “Did you say something?”

  “Nope.” He pops the p-sound and lowers his lips for the brim of his coffee mug, taking his time to sip at the heavenly dark roast. As I’m easily distracted by the scruff surrounding his mouth, I notice the rich red color of his lips and wonder if they taste as candy sweet as they look.

  Probably more like a red-hot cinnamon drop.

  “Fine,” I grumble, turning away from the plush peach couch I long to sit on and step back to the counter.

  “Roddy, give me a dark roast to go and one of those Dark Horse Mochaccino cupcakes.” I glance back at Jake, who is watching me. Turning back to Roddy, I add, “Better make it a double on the cupcakes. I need something sweet to rid the bad taste in my mouth.”

  I glare back at Jake, squeezing my entire face like a child sticking out her tongue at my nemesis. I don’t know what it is about Jake, but something about him raises the hackles on my neck and dampens my underwear at the same time.

  As Roderick pours my coffee and sets my cupcakes in a bag, my foot taps impatiently. I’m a bundle of nerves and need to get out of here if I can’t sit here to relax.

  “Two Dark Horse Mochaccino cupcakes and a dark roast for the plush peach couch defender.” Roderick winks at me, before eyeing the man hogging my spot.

  “Next time I come in here, he better not be taking up space in my place.”

  Roderick laughs. “Now, Rita, as much as we love you, you know we can’t reserve you a spot, nor will we kick patrons out if they sit there first.”

  Jake can hear Roderick from his seat, and he lifts his mug to salute Roddy’s words.

  “Well, we’ll just see about that,” I snap, preparing for battle over a set of cushions in a coffeehouse.

  “I look forward to the challenge,” Jake mocks from his seat on said couch, and then he has the audacity to wink at me. He winks. Quickly, I turn my back on the hunky, smirky, sexy silver fox and strut across the wooden planks to exit the Busy Bean. Only as I use my backside to push the door open, I glance back at Jake Drummond once more and find him watching me with those cinnamon hot lips quirked up on one side, and I realize he’s going to be difficult to ignore as he recently started to work with me.

  2

  Jake

  That Rita Kaplan is a pain in my ass. Not only would she not sign off on my meeting sheet a week ago, but she is the supervisor where I work, and now she’s staking claim to some antique piece of furniture in a coffee shop. She’s insane. And something about her makes me want to push all her buttons. Push her and her buttons right up against a wall and fuck some sense into her.

  Jesus, Jake. I swipe a hand down my face and fall back on the cushions, not realizing how tense I’d been in her presence. The tension is due to my absence on the sex scene and the need to expel some seriously pent-up energy soon. Only problem is not many women are interested in an ex-arson investigator, ex-convict, and ex-husband. The final ex doesn’t really define me, but it fits with all the other things I’ve been ex-ed out of in the last decade.

  With a shaky hand, I lift the coffee mug of dark roast to my lips and sip. In my opinion, people do not appreciate good coffee enough. I get it they’ll pay exorbitant amounts for a decent brew, but do they actually savor the flavor, the satisfaction, and the downright joy of drinking a good cup of coffee? I know I didn’t until I had to live with the piss-poor sludge served in the state penitentiary. As far as prisons go, it wasn’t the worst. It wasn’t riddled with gang warfare and boyfriend swapping like I’ve heard of in other places. This was Vermont. We’re all grunge-happy, ice cream royalty, organic farming, and woodland animal safety. Cue the bitterness of being trapped like an animal for seven long fucking years.

  Taking a deep breath, I remind myself I’m free. I’m liberated from schedules and constraints, and someone telling me when I can shower, shit, and watch television. I’m able to be me, only I no longer know who that is. I’m also not one-hundred percent unshackled. I still have the mandatory parole period, including enforced work-placement and required AA meetings. It’s a cross I’ll bear to get me to the other side—true freedom and possible escape from Vermont. As soon as I’ve done the remainder of my time, I am outta here, said with all the lackluster gangster in me. I want to be so far gone from this place, this state, and all the haunting memories.

  The thought saddens me as I’m finally able to see my brother without a partition between us or a supervisor watching over me as we sit at a folding table in cold chairs. Soon, I will see my nephew, who is no longer a teenager but a grown adult. Rory has come far despite the fumbles and foils of two men trying to raise a reckless boy into a good man. Just this summer, he’ll be graduating from law school. My heart fills with pride while bittersweet over Rory’s accomplishments. So much had been sacrificed to ensure he became more than his father or myself.

  Willing away thoughts of things I cannot change, I brush my hand over the velvety worn material on this ugly couch and chuckle. Rita returns to my mind. Who does that woman think she is? Thinking she holds the rights to a piece of furniture in a public coffeehouse?

  The first time I met Rita Kaplan was at an AA meeting a week ago. The local church hosts them in their basement, and as part of my parole, I must attend. It’s bullshit if you ask me, and my behavior illuminates my attitude about attendance.

  “We have someone new with us tonight. Would you like to introduce yourself and tell us a little bit about your story?” Rita’s cheerful voice was like nails on a chalkboard, but it was her eyes that scratched me. We’d only crossed gazes, but it felt like she saw into the depths of my soul, or maybe it was just the glare of her eyeglasses under the fluorescent lighting. At least, that’s what I told myself after her bright blue eyes pinned me to the folding chair.

  “Yeah, I’m not ready to share,” I’d stated while slouching in my seat. My voice came out rougher than I intended, but I was not used to speaking with others.

  “How about at least a name?” she asked, coaxing me like an encouraging schoolteacher. Her smile was warm enough, and it drew my eyes to her lips. Instantly, I wondered what her mouth would feel like against mine. I also had other ideas where she could put those lips on me. She was not my type, though, and I shifted in the cold metal seat to disguise the semi I was sporting, chalking the disturbing reaction up to the fact I hadn’t been with someone in seven years. Yeah, I had that seven-year itch, all right, and I needed to scratch it hard.

  “Jake.” When I offered nothing more, she glanced down at a clipboard on her lap like that singular name was enough to recognize me. Certain my parole officer had notified the local authorities of my residency along with the local support groups of my requirements, I surmised this woman had heard of me. She smiled sweetly but also with a knowing eye—I was not going to participate. No sob story would be pouring out of me, nor was I sharing my experience with alcohol. I didn’t have a problem, which is the first thing an alcoholic would say. The truth is, I really didn’t. When I was arrested, I was drunk and fought off the officer, thus adding disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, and intent to harm an officer to my sentence. As I knew Frank Stucco, the charges of belligerence were dropped, but the alcohol consumption increased in jail. I got caught with the contraband. Forget how I got it, it only mattered that I was caught with it. Just like the sentence I served for arson. Forget how it happened. I was the man caught at the scene of the crime with too many connections and no alibi.

 
; After forty-five minutes of a feisty woman wearing red-rimmed eyeglasses glaring at me, the meeting ended, and Rita confronted me.

  “I know your type.” The bold directness did nothing to dispel the full hard-on I had by the meeting’s conclusion. I’d tuned out the sad stories and turned on my own imagination about this vixen and what she could do to me wearing only those eyeglasses. Naughty schoolteacher? Dirty librarian? I wasn’t going to be particular in my fantasy. Ironically, nothing else about Rita called her my type. Sandy brown hair with heavy strips of gray. Wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. The mocking set of her mouth when she falsely smiled. Still, she was instantly under my skin, and again, I attributed it to those eyes, blue and bright behind her glasses and a hefty dose of need-to-get-laid.

  “And what’s my type?” I sassed back.

  “You’re not taking this seriously.” Fisted hands came to her hips which had my gaze falling to them. She was petite with a combination of granola hiker and uptight businesswoman in her appearance. The hiking boots did not go with the fitted skirt and silky blouse she wore.

  “Listen, sweetheart, you’ll learn real fast that I don’t take anything seriously anymore.” I didn’t. I couldn’t, but nothing I said surprised her more than one word.

  “Sweetheart?” she snorted. Literally, the most unattractive nasal sound honked between us. “I am not your sweetheart.”

  I shook my head at her disgruntled tone and did the most unnatural thing for me. With my fingertip, I bopped her on the tip of her pert nose.