“Tell Dan that I have something better than Christina.”
Ixtzel stared with skepticism.
“Do you know St. Helena?” Harper asked.
Ixtzel quirked an angry blonde brow. “St. Helena? As in Napa Valley? The quietest, quaintest little town in the world?”
“Christina met her husband in some coffee shop there. Only, it’s not a coffee shop.” Harper wiggled her brows suggestively.
Ixtzel rolled her eyes.
“It’s true. Women—wealthy women—are apparently going there to hook husbands. I heard Christina telling her friends that’s where she’d met her groom, and her friends responded by saying they had already scheduled their visits.”
Ixtzel’s brows crinkled. “Seriously, Harper? You think a dating service is newsworthy?”
Harper shrugged. “No. But if Hollywood A-listers and lonely socialites are signing up for arranged marriages? This could be some weird new fad.”
Ixtzel blew out a breath. “You’re absolutely sure that’s what you heard?”
Harper nodded. She was positive about what she’d heard, but she also knew she was making a serious leap. The place might be a social club or out-of-the-way hook-up spot. But she had heard the conversation, and it wasn’t your normal, “Hey, let’s go party and meet cute guys!” kind of conversation. Her gut told her there was something there.
“How much time do you need?” Ixtzel asked.
Harper clapped excitedly. “A week. I’ll leave right now.” It was still pretty early in the day, so if she left immediately she’d beat the Friday-slash-weekend traffic and make it up there in about an hour and a half.
“Fine. I want you to call me tomorrow with an update, but I need an article on my desk in one week.” Ixtzel pointed at Harper. “This is your last chance. If you don’t deliver something spectacular to make Dan happy, I’m going to fire you right before he walks me out. Got it?”
“Got it.” Please be something juicy. Please? she prayed to the gods of news-scoops. And if she was wrong, she could only hope Dan would not fire Zel. It was one thing to sink her own ship, but Harper couldn’t stomach sinking her friend’s, too.
~~
Although Harper was native to the Bay Area—where beaches, shopping, hiking, skiing, fine dining, camping, and “spa’ing” were plentiful—the last time she’d been to wine country, or anywhere relaxing, was about five years ago for a girls’ weekend.
Has it been that long since I had a vacation? Sad.
Most of her recreation consisted of grabbing drinks with friends or coworkers in the city after work, which really wasn’t as fun as it used to be. Now most everyone was married, some with kids, and all they wanted to talk about were the joys of domestic life.
Cray-zeee! She knew that it was just a question of time before they became secretly unhappy. Because, sooner or later, they’d discovered that love—the lasting, romantic sort—was a huge hoax perpetuated by Disney movies and fairytales shoveled into little girls’ brains from day one of life. Harper just wished her friends didn’t insist that she come along for the delusional ride. She was happy with her life and would never understand how changing things would improve it.
Change isn’t always good.
St. Helena, for example, was perfect and just as she remembered: a charming little town made up of antique shops, clothing boutiques, B and Bs, and a few dozen restaurants, all hugging the two-lane road that passed through the middle of everything. Wineries, both small and large, with bright flowery gardens, fountains, and miles upon miles of lush grapevines were the bookends to this popular stop along the Napa wine trail. It was so popular, in fact, that getting a room in mid-June was near impossible.
“Really, so all you have is the honeymoon suite?” Harper asked the young man standing behind the antique desk in his tie-dyed T-shirt and cut-off jeans. He was obviously filling in for his parents at this family-owned, Victorian bed-and-breakfast called the Muddy Duck (probably because of its brown and green exterior).
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. That’s all we got,” he said.
Harper sighed; that was not what her hotel finder app had said. And job promotion or not, three hundred dollars a night was steep.
Well, think about how expensive being unemployed will be, Harp. Besides, this was the perfect location: only three blocks from the center of town and from the infamous Café de los Pantalones Felizes (translation: Happy Pants Café), as the Hispanic clerk at the convenience store down the road had said. It was the dangest thing, but there was nothing on the Internet about the café. No website, address, nada. Harper had stopped at several gas stations, asking for directions, before finding someone able/willing to help her.
“I’ll take it,” she said to the hippy boy.
“How many nights?”
“Six.” Harper was all-in at this point.
“Great, man. I’ll need a credit card and ID.”
Man? Seriously, look at these boobs! Since age fifteen, Harper’s large Cs had won her the prestigious nicknames of “Harp Seal,” she assumed because of their buoyancy; “Harpy,” the mythological Greek creature with wings and giant ta-tas; and “Harboobs,” which she assumed was the combination of the words “Harper” and “boobs,” in an attempt to sound like the word “harpoon.” The irony was that up until that point of her life, she had been the flattest, most unfeminine creature to walk the planet since the invention of the park bench.
“Here you go, girl,” Harper replied and handed him her credit card.
He looked at her funny, but clearly didn’t get the comeback. Then again, no one ever really did. Harper’s humor was about as unusual as her personality and name.
Which is probably the reason you’re still single. And it wasn’t for lack of trying, either. She’d had a few relationships over the years, but with the hours she worked—which included weekends attending weddings, fundraisers, and parties—it didn’t leave much room for a man. It also didn’t help that she didn’t believe in true love and spoke of it quite openly, even on first dates. Some men took it as a sign that she just wanted to slut around—wrong!—but most just thought she was crazy. Seriously, though, was it so difficult to believe that romantic, burning love was nothing more than a fleeting emotion? And like any emotion, the potency faded over time. That’s why relationships fell apart. Of course, that didn’t mean Harper wanted to be single forever. She simply wanted to find a pragmatic man who would be a loyal friend and give her an orgasm once a day.
Sort of like a dog that can cook and likes to watch movies combined with a vibrator?
Yeah, like that. But without the super-hairy back.
You’re weird.
Yes. Yes, I am.
“Hey,” she said to the clerk, “do you know anything about the Happy Pants Café?”
The guy shrugged and swiped her card in the machine. “Not really.”
“What’s ‘not really’ mean?”
“It’s some lame coffee shop the tourists go to. Mostly older women. Like your age, ya know?”
Older woman? Me? I’ll poke you in the eye, you scrappy little mutt.
“Do you know anything else? How long the place has been around, or who owns it?”
He shook his head. “I just know that place makes a lot a dough. They open in the spring and close at the end of summer. And the line is always out the door.”
How very, very interesting. Rents were not cheap in this neighborhood, so how could a café survive if they weren’t open year-round?
Answer: they had other income. But if they were arranging marriages, it was a bit odd that they lacked male patrons. “So, you’re sure? No men?”
“I see some dudes going, but not too many.” The clerk looked at the clock on the wall. “If you’re thinking of checking it out, they close at four.”
“Thanks. I think I will.”
The clerk smirked and then handed her back her card and a key.
“I’m a reporter,” she clarified.
He smirked again.
“Have a nice stay, Miss Branton.”
Harper ignored the jab. She couldn’t care less what anyone thought of her marital status. She did wonder, however, why she had the distinct impression the clerk knew a lot more than he let on. Well, Harper would find out the truth. After all, she was just as good at doing investigative reporting as she was at doing fluffy social pieces.
“Thanks.” Harper grabbed her suitcase and then headed up to the suite on the third floor. It was actually pretty nice—old cast-iron, clawfoot tub, view of the lilac-filled garden, and king-sized bed.
“Welp—that’s a waste o’ bed.” She shook her head at the magnificent sleeping oasis and then glanced at her watch. Dangit. It was already three o’clock. She needed to head over to that café and start poking around before it closed.
Harper quickly changed out of her stifling jeans and tee into a little khaki dress and sandals. It was hotter than the devil’s left nut today.
Oversized floral purse in hand, she hit the sidewalk and started toward the main road, admiring the cute, well-maintained cottage-style homes with wind chimes and rocking chairs on their porches. They reminded her of the house she’d lived in when she was little, across the bay from San Francisco, in Albany. Her parents had rented the place before buying a large fixer-upper in Pacifica near the beach and just south of the city. Harper had hated to leave, but with another little brother on the way, her parents had opted for more space. Granted, growing up near the beach had been pretty fantastic, but some of Harper’s best memories were living in that little house—playing tag in the yard, making forts from her mother’s clean sheets in the living room, and barbeques almost every weekend during the summer. Most importantly, she’d made her first real friend while living in that house: Austin. It was funny how, even to this day, though she never saw Austin again after they moved, she still thought of him. Not because she harbored any ill will, but because Austin had shaped her life in many, many ways, both good and bad.
One block from the main avenue, Harper noticed a white stretch-limo pull to the side of the street, just before the stoplight. Five young women, all wearing spiked heels, fake tiaras, and short, tight dresses poured out, giggling and snorting. The tallest, a blonde, wore a hot pink satin sash over her chest that said “Bride-to-be.”
Bachelorette party. Here?
Harper kept walking, following not too far behind the girls.
They turned the corner, heading in the same direction as Harper, who was busy reading the addresses on the storefront windows, looking for number 1020.
1012…1014…1016…
The gaggle of tipsy women stopped several doors down in front of a lattice arch covered with bright yellow and white flowers that stood between two buildings. A small hand-painted sign next to the walkway’s entrance displayed the back of a tiny pair of jeans with a yellow happy face on the pocket. A big arrow pointed down the walkway between the buildings.
The café. Was that where these women were heading?
Harper edged closer, pretending to be window-shopping and texting so she could eavesdrop. They looked genuinely nervous, like they were about to walk the plank.
“Well,” said a full-figured brunette in a pink dress, pushing the blonde with the sash toward the arch, “don’t be a chicken.”
The blonde turned around. “I don’t know if I’m ready. Once it’s done, everything will change.”
Jesus, what was this place? Were they going to sell her into some sort of sex trade? The young woman looked like she might faint.
Harper was about to intervene in the name of happy single women everywhere, but then the blonde started to laugh. “Just kidding! I’m so ready for this!” She turned and faced down the walkway. “Get ready, Mr. Right, ’cause here I come!”
Hmm…that was interesting. Not wanting to appear too obvious, Harper decided to hang back. Maybe she’d wait at the wine bar across the street until they came out to see if she could get an interview with the girls.
Or maybe I should just—
Someone body-checked Harper, nearly toppling her to the sidewalk.
“I’m so sorry,” said a deep, male voice. Two strong hands reached out and steadied her by the shoulders.
Harper looked up, up, up and found herself gazing into the most beautiful hazel eyes.
Hazel eyes…Superman Ken Doll?
“What the hell are you doing here?” she growled.
Super Ken, with his faux bed-tousled brown hair, looked down at her and blinked. He wore a white button-down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, exposing two very muscular-looking forearms, and a pair of well-loved button flies that looked like they’d been stretched out in all the right places to accommodate something very, very large.
Are you staring at his groin, Harper?
No! I just took a quick peek. I’m mean, how could I not notice that bulge? I hope he didn’t notice.
But when she managed to pry her eyes away from his “promising curves,” the look on his face indicated that he most definitely noticed.
Oh. Great. Yay, me.
An amused smile appeared across his unforgivably sexy lips. “Well, well, if it isn’t the bag lady.”
Bag lady. As in “douchebag” lady. Harper was about to give his bags a taste of her knee, but then something non-penis related caught her eye: a real bag. Small, paper, and with a handle. The logo had a smiley face on it.
“Did you go to my café?” she asked.
He flashed a judgmental smirk down at her. “Your café?”
“Yes. Mine.”
“If you are referring to this café,” he held up the bag, “it’s owned by a Ms. Luci Leon-Parker. For the record, she’s seventy years old. You don’t look seventy.”
“Why were you at that café?”
Super Ken crossed his well-proportioned arms, bag dangling from one hand. Harper noticed that he wore a thick brown leather band on his wrist with an antique-looking watch. “And last time I checked, I work for the Oakland Examiner. Not for you.”
Thank your lucky stars for that. You wouldn’t last a day with me as your boss.
“How did you hear about this place?” she asked.
He tilted his head toward his feet, but looked up at her with lifted brows. It was the classic “bad boy” expression.
Aha! “Christina. Of course. You interviewed her, didn’t you?”
“Well, I had to apologize for the cake incident at her wedding.” He shrugged happily. “She forgave me.”
What could he have possibly done to make her forgive ruining her wedding reception?
Harper gasped. “You slept with her, didn’t you?”
A spark of incivility flickered in his hazel eyes. “Whoa, lady! I am not that kind of guy.”
“Tell that to someone who didn’t see you grab the bride’s boobs on her wedding day.”
Steam practically flared from his nostrils, and his square jaw flexed with tension. But then suddenly, his indignation shifted into something else. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Yes. From my own personal hell.” Harper snagged the bag from his hand. “This is my story, bride molester, so time for you to go crawl back into your cretin-cave.” She reached inside the bag and found a cookie decorated with a big yellow happy face and wrapped in clear plastic.
They sell cookies and arrange marriages? What sort of people are they?
“You’re insane. You know that?” he said.
“Yes. That’s why you should be afraid.” She examined the cookie. “Are they laced with drugs? Is that the scoop? They sell roofie-chip cookies?”
He cocked a dark brow. “What are you on? Or are you supposed to be on something and forgot to take it?”
Harper glared and then turned back toward the floral arch before storming down the walkway. No way am I going to let this a-hole steal another story and ruin my life. Who does he think he is?
The sound of Ken’s footsteps trailed behind her. “Hey! I’m not done talking to you.”
“Pound
sand, Super Ken.”
“You have my cookie,” he said sharply, as if she’d stolen his car.
She stopped and shoved the cookie at him. “Hope you choke on it.”
“You are the cruelest woman I’ve ever met.”
“Just remember: that was my nice side,” Harper called out as he walked away.
That’s right, just keep going, you…you…oh, my God. Look at that ass! It was like a damned work of sculpted man-art, filling out his jeans to perfection with its round hardness, each cheek flexing proudly as he strutted, not walked, away from her. Then she noticed his back and the way the lines flared out into deliciously broad shoulders. The kind of shoulders a girl could sit on at a rock concert for hours and never get tired of feeling underneath her thighs. Or underneath your calf muscles while he holds your legs over them, pumping himself into your needy, soft…
You really need to get laid, Harper.
Yes. Yes, I do.
She continued on toward the café and turned the corner, finding a quaint, sunny patio filled with little tables. Large terracotta planters, filled with overflowing red flowers or little grapevine-covered lattices, gave the outdoor café an Italian feel. Harper quickly noted the happy, laughing patrons—mostly women—sipping iced lattes and snapping pictures while holding happy face cookies. A large gaggle of women sat around a table, cheering and howling while another woman took a bite of a cookie.
Oh, Lord. It’s a roofie-cookie cult. And they arrange marriages. They’re all mad.
Harper marched toward the double doors leading inside, past a long line of anxious-looking women waiting to order. On one of the walls, pictures of cheerful couples—hugging, holding babies, or at their weddings—plastered every square inch. There had to be thousands of photos.
On another wall, directly behind the register, was a pair of old jeans encased in glass, the backside showing a faded yellow happy face on the pocket.
This place was like a monument to the insane.
Or the stoned in search of munchies.
The refrigerated glass display cases were filled with neat stacks of large sugar cookies the size of salad plates. Each cookie had a yellow happy face made of frosting.