Page 66 of That Time I Kissed My Beachfront Boss

Hudson

I’m supposed to meet Olivia on the corner of Main and Bridge this morning to distribute fliers and signs the old-fashioned way: on foot, armed with nothing but a few rolls of duct tape and a couple of staple guns.

While I wait for her, the fact that we came so close to kissing simmers in my gut. If the chef hadn’t interrupted us, I almost certainly would have. Kissed her, I mean. And this—almost certainly—would’ve been a terrible mistake.

Olivia and I are coworkers, and temporary ones at that. We’re also professionals with serious goals. So I can’t afford to let my emotions get tangled up in someone who’s leaving. No matter how attracted to her I’ve become.

And yes, I’ve become seriously attracted.

Olivia McCoy was always gorgeous. That’s just an objective fact. But it’s not her surfaces that impress me. Over the past two weeks, I’ve discovered her generosity. Her ingenuity. Not to mention her integrity. And all this is wrapped up in a package of undeniable beauty.

In other words, hard to resist.

But we’ve only got two more weeks together. Two busy weeks that include a whole-town fundraiser, a celebrity visit, and the reopening of The Beachfront. So it’s also a good thing Olivia’s all business when she shows up, her arms full of fliers and signs.

“Ready to get to work?” she asks. The fact that she hasn’t mentioned the elephant in the room—or in this case our almost-kiss on the beach—means she must be feeling what I’m feeling: like she dodged a bullet.

We both did.

“Ready, willing, and able,” I say, showing her the bag with the duct tape and staplers.

“Good. Let’s go, bossman.”

In this part of town, there are old craftsman houses and refurbished bungalows interspersed between the shops. Some of the quainter spots—like Spill the Tea—used to be family homes that have been converted into bistros or boutiques. So Olivia and I spend the day going door to door, business to business, asking permission to hang our signs in windows and leave stacks of fliers by the cash registers. Afterward, we take the promotion one step further, attaching the extra signs to every lamp post and stop sign in Abieville.

Our goal is to get as many locals as possible to show up to try their hand at the dunk tank, submit a suggestion for the pub-naming competition, and maybe even donate a book or two to the inn’s new library.

By the time we’re finished blanketing the town with fliers and signs, we’re both worn out and sweating. Scratch that. I’m sweating. Olivia’s sporting a glossy sheen.

“I think we’ve earned some ice cream,” I say. “What do you think? Should we make a pit stop at Dips and Scoops before we go our separate ways?”

“I wouldn’t turn down a cone of mint chocolate chip,” she says. “But you picked up the check at The Merry Cow, so the ice cream’s my treat.”

“That was weeks ago.” I scoff. “And I made you go to dinner with me.”

“It was your birthday. I should’ve paid.”

“No way.” I shake my head. “That’s not how I operate.”

“Come on.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Don’t be a caveman who acts like men have to do all the paying on dates.”

My mouth hedges up. “A date?”

“That’s not what I meant.” She quickly averts her eyes. “It’s just that … women have wallets too.”

The last thing I should do right now is treat Olivia like I would a woman I was pursuing. I’ll just have to fight that much harder against the instinct that comes so naturally when we’re together. So I let her buy me three scoops of rocky road in a bowl with Oreo cookie crumbles. She gets a waffle cone with one scoop of mint chocolate chip and a scoop of strawberry cheesecake. We take our ice cream to a picnic table behind the shop. Out here, we get a distant view of the lake, and we won’t have to chat with everyone window shopping.

We’ve had enough small talk for one weekend already.

“I really needed this,” she says. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

“You’re the big spender,” I say. “So thank you.” I dig into my rocky road. Meanwhile she’s busy licking a drip of strawberry cheesecake off her cone.

Do not stare. Do not stare. Do not stare.

“Your signs and fliers were perfect,” I say to distract myself. “Pat Murphy said he’s going to donate a whole crate of books to the library.”

“He told me that, too.” Olivia’s tongue captures a stray drop of ice cream on her lip. The way I want to be that ice cream. Or those lips. Or that cone. Or …

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