Page 3 of Patio Lanterns (The Blue Canoe Cottage #1)

Robin

Robin rooted around in the back of the van for any tools of seduction at her disposal. A hairbrush. A stick of spearmint gum. A packet of lemon-scented wet wipes from a rib joint in Etobicoke. It would have to do.

After a few citrusy swipes under each armpit, she tore into one of the unopened boxes of Dawn Cherries t-shirts.

They were basically worthless now anyway, having been pre-printed with concert dates the band would never play.

She deliberately chose a shirt one size too small.

No way Aidan could ignore the fact that the girl who’d once been easy to overlook had blossomed into a tempest in a double D-cup.

And, because her mother has taught her to never to show up empty-handed, she popped open the glove compartment and dove into her trusty stash of condoms. Only three left, but three oughta do it, she figured. It was a weeknight, after all.

Robin let Mutt Lange tag along, despite the dog smelling even worse after getting wet.

Turned out diving headfirst into Lake Whippoorwill didn’t constitute the kind of deep cleansing with odour-penetrating enzymes that Mutt desperately needed.

But even at maximum stank, he couldn’t be left outside to wander alone in the dark, nor did he deserve to be locked up in the van all night.

He was merely a victim of circumstance after all.

Hopefully, Aidan would be too distracted to notice the doggie stench.

Trying to keep her wits about her, she started down the hill to Aidan’s cottage at a brisk pace.

She now had to pee, but couldn’t just pop a squat and risk dribbling on her last pair of clean underwear.

It was best not to think about her pressing biological needs and instead focus on her surroundings.

The local landscape was vaguely familiar and yet, had changed so much it barely fit the mold of her fading memories.

As Robin passed by each cottage, she tested herself on the nicknames that had once reflected their unique charm and character: the Red Roof Retreat, Peekaboo Pines, the Mellow Yellow Hideaway, Camp Wagon Wheel.

Aidan’s place was aptly named Maple Leaf Lodge—not for Aidan’s obsession with the hockey team, but for the two giant maples planted out front.

Robin had barely escaped their evil, homicidal clutches.

She’d climbed one trying to spy on Aidan through his bedroom window, nearly ripping off her kneecap when she fell out of it.

Teenage psycho stalker. Lucky she didn’t break her fucking neck.

Flanked by the same deadly maples that had scarred her for life, his cottage had been recently updated with larger windows, and new siding and roofing.

But Robin would’ve known the place anywhere.

It still popped up in her dreams, for crying out loud.

She could see lights on inside, and a late-model Jeep parked in front of the garage. Ding-dong. He’s home.

Being blinded by lust had nearly got Robin voted off the island after that goddamn letter made her a teenage pariah.

She’d vowed to never return to Lake Whippoorwill.

She did, of course, return the following summer because as the youngest in the family, she had zero say in the matter.

Robin endured several more family vacations to the cottage during which she spent nearly all of her time indoors avoiding Aidan.

Her escape finally arrived when she became old enough to get a job babysitting for a lady her mother knew, so Robin had little choice but to stay behind in the city all summer. Aw, shucks .

That was years ago. Water under the proverbial bridge.

Surely, Aidan would be as happy to see Robin now as she was to see him.

All of him. But as she walked up his driveway, sober second thoughts crept into her mind.

Maybe she should really learn from the past and stop and think things through before doing anything hasty.

Maybe she should rein in her urges instead of acting on them.

Or maybe, she should just say fuck it.

She cracked her knuckles, took a deep breath, and knocked.

Through the frosted window covering the front door, she could make out shadowy movements inside. Maybe he’s still naked in there. Yum.

The door swung open.

Nope. Definitely not Aidan.

“Can I help you?” asked the man. He had to be in his late forties, maybe fifty judging by his salt and pepper hair, damp and combed back, and the hint of squidginess around his eyes. She studied the mature lines and light stubble on the face staring back at her.

Her brain was still catching up to the fact that the good-looking gentleman on the other side of the threshold was not Aidan, so her mouth was sluggish on the uptake. “Hi. Um… I’m sorry. I was looking for an old friend.” Just maybe not this old. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

He relaxed his imposing stance in the doorway, better suiting the laidback vibe of his loose-fitting shirt and jeans that casually flared above his bare feet. “No bother.”

Robin cleared her throat. “It’s just that I got locked out of my cottage and can’t find my key. It’s getting dark, my phone is dying, and I really need to use the bathroom,” she said with a nervous giggle that squeezed her ballooning bladder.

“Sorry to hear that.” The man’s lips quirked to one side in a slight smile as he pushed the door open wider. “But you’re welcome to come in and use my bathroom if you want.”

For a total stranger, he seemed all right.

He had nice teeth. Nice, kind eyes too. And he lived in a very nice cottage.

Aidan’s cottage. She assessed the threat level to be neither severe nor substantial and calculated it would take her less than sixty seconds to pee and get the hell out of there.

But still, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to lay down extra insurance.

“Thanks very much. My boyfriend’s waiting for me up the road, and I told him I’d hurry back. He’s ex-military. Super protective.”

The man stepped back, holding the door open and ushering her in. Mutt suddenly galumphed around her, pushing his way inside like a furry fleabag home invader. “Get back here! Stay outside!” Robin commanded to no avail.

He laughed. “I take it this one’s with you too?”

“Sorta,” she said, embarrassed. “Sorry, his manners are atrocious.”

“No worries,” he said. “Uh… bathroom is down the hall, first door on your right.”

Robin realized that in all the years she’d known Aidan, she had never once been invited inside the Maple Leaf Lodge.

As bizarre as that sounded, it was probably because the Blue Canoe was his and Lark’s preferred hang.

In wide-eyed wonder, she looked around at the open-concept kitchen and living area which appeared far too modern in its design to be original.

It had to have been renovated. Before she entered, she’d been ninety-eight percent sure it was Aidan’s cottage.

Massive, murderous maple trees don’t lie.

But these entirely foreign surroundings posed a whole litany of questions.

What happened to Aidan? Where was he now?

When did his mom sell the place? And just who the heck was that handsome stranger who’d opened the door?

The man’s bathroom was warm and fragrant with an intoxicating blend of spice, suede, and sandalwood.

Condensation flecked the partially steamed mirror, and droplets of water pebbled the glass shower stall, evidence of its recent use.

After washing up and flicking off the light, Robin walked back through the spacious great room, admiring its raised ceiling and exposed beams. It was definitely not how she’d pictured Aidan’s old place.

If it even was the same place. Now she was maybe only seventy-three point four percent sure.

The man stood at the centre island in the kitchen, his head down and attention focused on chopping vegetables.

He was tall, solid. Nice shoulders, too.

He’d put on glasses with thick dark frames.

The college professor look was definitely working for him, like it did most guys entering their silver fox era.

Mutt Lange sat perched at his feet, waiting for any tasty morsel to hit the tiled floor. His patience was rewarded a moment later with a thick round of cucumber.

“Sorry, he’s a real mooch,” Robin said.

The man looked up and smiled at her. “Not at all. He makes a fine sous chef.”

“Well, you can keep him if you want,” she said with a half-smirk because she was only half kidding.

“He has pretty unusual colouring. What kind of breed is he?”

She shrugged. “Somewhere between a Schnauzer and an Irish Wolfhound, I think, but he’s probably a Heinz 57. A mix of undetermined varieties.”

He twitched a grin. “And how did he lose the front leg? Sword fight? Shark attack? Second World War?”

She laughed along with him. “I don’t know. He arrived as damaged goods.”

“Maybe he’s like The Littlest Hobo ,” he said. “Oh sorry, that’s a pretty dated reference.”

“Nah, I get it. That old show about the dog who went around helping people,” Robin told him. “I’ve seen it on one of the retro channels.”

“Does this little hobo have a name?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I call him Mutt Lange.”

The man bowed down to scratch the dog behind its ears.

“Nice to meet you, Mutt. Although I once met Mutt Lange at a party in Vancouver, and you sir, are no Mutt Lange.” Mutt gave him a wide, panting smile and the man’s expression contorted to a grimace.

“Whoa,” he said, straightening up as he fanned away the offensive odour.

“He could really use a breath mint, and maybe a bath.”

“Yeah, I hope to remedy that tomorrow.” She’d have to make a trip to the general store first thing in the morning and spruce the old boy up before Lark and Dove arrived. Robin patted her hip, demanding Mutt’s attention. “Okay, boy, let’s go. Time to make tracks.”

“But didn’t you say you’re locked out?” the man asked.

“Yeah, but we’ll be fine. We can sleep in our van tonight.”

One of his eyebrows tented with concern.

“It’s no big deal, I practically live in it during the summer,” she said, an admission that she was painfully aware made her out to sound like a vagrant or a carny. “When I’m on the road with my band.”

“You’re in a band? Cool,” he said, his concerned eyebrow relaxing. “What do you play?”

“Oh, I’m not a musician, I’m just the manager. Well, a manager. Technically, I’m their merch queen,” she said, pointing out the stylized logo tightly stretched across her shirt.

His eyes followed the invisible line she drew under her bosom. “Dawn Cherries,” he read aloud. “Clever. I’m guessing the name has nothing to do with the hockey commentator.”

“Nope. Don Cherry and the Dawn Cherries have nothing in common, other than being unapologetically outspoken and having an affinity for flamboyant sports jackets,” she joked, resisting the inclination to admit they’d both been cancelled too.

“I’ll be sure to check them out,” he said.

She nodded. “Well, I guess we’d better be going.”

“Right. Better not keep your ex-military boyfriend waiting.” The man removed his glasses and wiped his hands on his jeans as he met Robin at the door. Mutt gave up waiting for any more food to fall and joined them at the front entrance.

She turned and held out her hand. “Thanks again for letting me use your bathroom, er… neighbour.”

“Rick,” he said as they shook hands. He met her eyes with a warm, thoughtful gaze. “And if you need it again, or want to charge your phone or whatever, don’t hesitate to come back later, er—”

“Robin,” she answered. Rick seemed like a really cool guy. Attractive too, if she was being totally honest. This zaddy could definitely get it.

They exchanged goodnights, and she sauntered into the night.

She slowed her pace as she and Mutt travelled the driveway, hoping Rick might have a change of heart and extend an invitation for them to stay.

A nice evening enjoying adult conversation with a nice man in his nice, cozy cottage sounded pretty…

nice. Certainly much nicer than going back to her stuffy van to share a cold can of Chef Boyardee with a farting dog.

While Operation Naked Aidan Hunter hadn’t been a success, it wasn’t a completely wasted effort either. Because if Robin had been truly disappointed by what she’d found instead, it might not have been as difficult to walk away.