Read Online My Funny Valentine (Pajaro Bay Series Book 4) by Barbara Cool Lee - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barbara Cool Lee
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small-town life he hadn't been prepared for. When he lived in the city he would go to work and back, just doing his own thing, and hanging around with people his own age. But now that he'd moved to this little town to be close to his boss's estate up the coast, his life was totally different.
In a little town he ran into the same people over and over again—people of all ages and backgrounds, all quick to smile and say hello. It was nice, actually. After a day of studying contracts and holding Skype meetings with executives around the world to argue about the minutiae in some legal contract, coming home to the quaint little village of Pajaro Bay had been relaxing.
He'd jog on the beach, have dinner at his grandmother's restaurant downtown, and let Mrs. Anderson regale him with the latest gossip.
Mrs. Anderson always had something to tell him, whether she was complaining about her obnoxious nephew's latest mess, sharing the latest story about her tiny dog's antics, or keeping Clint up to date on the activities of the pretty new veterinarian in town.
That last part was what had interested him the most.
It was funny. Even though the old woman's nephew was dating Dr. Trujillo, Mrs. Anderson kept trying to fix Clint up with her. "You two are perfect for each other," she'd said.
When he'd pointed out that her nephew wouldn't agree, she had just said, "all's fair in love and war," with a mischievous grin.
Unfortunately, the beautiful Dr. Cassidy Trujillo hadn't felt the same way. They'd had one date, and then she'd blown him off.
Clint ran a hand across the week's growth of beard on his chin. She seemed to prefer hunky surfers like Mrs. Anderson's nephew to nerdy lawyers like himself.
Too bad. Because he sure preferred her. Clint hadn't met any woman who'd fascinated him as much in a long time.
A long time? How about ever?
He poured his cold coffee down the drain.
But it wasn't to be. He was apparently a poor second to Trip Anderson, star athlete... and all-around jerk.
As if on cue, Trip's glossy black Jeep 4x4 pulled into Mrs. Anderson's yard. He parked sideways, gouging out muddy tire tracks on the old lady's perfectly manicured lawn.
Typical Trip.
Clint briefly considered going next door and asking Trip how his aunt was getting along, but decided he'd go see her himself in a couple days. And he was safer inside. Somehow he always ended up wanting to slug Trip. It wasn't anything in particular. Just his whole attitude: the offhand insults, the poking him in the ribs when he made lewd remarks about women, the whole macho thing that always seemed like he was trying too hard to prove what a tough guy he was.
So instead Clint pulled out the French press coffee maker his mom had sent him last Christmas and went about brewing another cup of coffee. Filtered water heated to a boil in the microwave, fresh grounds, and then press it down. Perfect coffee in only a couple of minutes.
He poured the brew into his mug and then put the press into the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes.
He glanced out the window again and saw Trip with his aunt's big-screen TV. He was maneuvering it into the open back of the Jeep and having some trouble with it from the looks of it.
Clint started to walk away from the window, but unfortunately Trip had seen him and waved frantically in his direction.
Clint would have ignored him, but he could see the TV was starting to slip, and he couldn't let Trip ruin Mrs. Anderson's set, so he ran out the door into the drizzle, squished his way across the soaking-wet lawn in his Teva sandals, and grabbed on to the other end of the TV.
"Thanks, Ham-Boy," Trip said with a grin.
Ham-Boy. The nickname had been his own fault. Trip had seen the business card he'd left with Mrs. Anderson, and kept calling him "Clint Farm," until he'd explained that his last name was "Pham, pronounced like ham." Ever since then, he'd been "Ham-Boy" to Trip.
Trip was still grinning.
"You might want to lose the stupid
In a little town he ran into the same people over and over again—people of all ages and backgrounds, all quick to smile and say hello. It was nice, actually. After a day of studying contracts and holding Skype meetings with executives around the world to argue about the minutiae in some legal contract, coming home to the quaint little village of Pajaro Bay had been relaxing.
He'd jog on the beach, have dinner at his grandmother's restaurant downtown, and let Mrs. Anderson regale him with the latest gossip.
Mrs. Anderson always had something to tell him, whether she was complaining about her obnoxious nephew's latest mess, sharing the latest story about her tiny dog's antics, or keeping Clint up to date on the activities of the pretty new veterinarian in town.
That last part was what had interested him the most.
It was funny. Even though the old woman's nephew was dating Dr. Trujillo, Mrs. Anderson kept trying to fix Clint up with her. "You two are perfect for each other," she'd said.
When he'd pointed out that her nephew wouldn't agree, she had just said, "all's fair in love and war," with a mischievous grin.
Unfortunately, the beautiful Dr. Cassidy Trujillo hadn't felt the same way. They'd had one date, and then she'd blown him off.
Clint ran a hand across the week's growth of beard on his chin. She seemed to prefer hunky surfers like Mrs. Anderson's nephew to nerdy lawyers like himself.
Too bad. Because he sure preferred her. Clint hadn't met any woman who'd fascinated him as much in a long time.
A long time? How about ever?
He poured his cold coffee down the drain.
But it wasn't to be. He was apparently a poor second to Trip Anderson, star athlete... and all-around jerk.
As if on cue, Trip's glossy black Jeep 4x4 pulled into Mrs. Anderson's yard. He parked sideways, gouging out muddy tire tracks on the old lady's perfectly manicured lawn.
Typical Trip.
Clint briefly considered going next door and asking Trip how his aunt was getting along, but decided he'd go see her himself in a couple days. And he was safer inside. Somehow he always ended up wanting to slug Trip. It wasn't anything in particular. Just his whole attitude: the offhand insults, the poking him in the ribs when he made lewd remarks about women, the whole macho thing that always seemed like he was trying too hard to prove what a tough guy he was.
So instead Clint pulled out the French press coffee maker his mom had sent him last Christmas and went about brewing another cup of coffee. Filtered water heated to a boil in the microwave, fresh grounds, and then press it down. Perfect coffee in only a couple of minutes.
He poured the brew into his mug and then put the press into the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes.
He glanced out the window again and saw Trip with his aunt's big-screen TV. He was maneuvering it into the open back of the Jeep and having some trouble with it from the looks of it.
Clint started to walk away from the window, but unfortunately Trip had seen him and waved frantically in his direction.
Clint would have ignored him, but he could see the TV was starting to slip, and he couldn't let Trip ruin Mrs. Anderson's set, so he ran out the door into the drizzle, squished his way across the soaking-wet lawn in his Teva sandals, and grabbed on to the other end of the TV.
"Thanks, Ham-Boy," Trip said with a grin.
Ham-Boy. The nickname had been his own fault. Trip had seen the business card he'd left with Mrs. Anderson, and kept calling him "Clint Farm," until he'd explained that his last name was "Pham, pronounced like ham." Ever since then, he'd been "Ham-Boy" to Trip.
Trip was still grinning.
"You might want to lose the stupid
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