Page 11 of That Time I Kissed My Beachfront Boss

Now I’m staying with my mom and grandmother, giving myself a couple of weeks to mope around before I figure out where I’m headed next. Kind of like the two-week notice I should’ve given Francine.

But let’s not dwell on that.

“I’ve only been here three days,” I point out, collecting a brick of cheddar and a tub of butter from the fridge. “Are you kicking me out already?”

“No.”

“Good.” Then I still have eleven more days until my allotted mope-time is up. Grabbing a loaf of bread, a frying pan, and a spatula, I arrange everything by the stove. Lunch won’t solve all problems, but being hungry never helped anyone.

The stove flickers to life, and I plop a generous hunk of Land O’Lakes in the pan. The luscious scent of melted butter fills the air, along with a hefty dose of sizzles and pops.

My mother comes to my side resting a palm on my shoulder. “Are you hoping to get hired as a professional maker of hot sandwiches?”

“Maybe.” I hitch my shoulders until my mother’s hand slides off. “Big Mama loves my grilled cheese.”

“True story,” my grandmother hoots. “Make me one, too, please!” She’s at the table hunched over yet another game of solitaire. We call her Big Mama, even though she might be the smallest grownup in history.

My mother heaves a long sigh. “I’m just saying you’ve barely changed clothes since you got here, Liv.”

I frown at the puddle of butter melting in the pan. “It’s not my fault the airline lost my luggage.”

“You know, when that happened to Tess last year?—”

“I know. She went to the Abieville thrift shop and got a whole week’s worth of clothes for—like—four dollars.” It’s possible I’ve heard this story once or twenty times. “That’s because Tess is a saint, and I’m a superficial snob who only cares about my appearance. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Of course not.” My mother’s eyes soften. “But the thrift store is quite the bargain. And you have no idea where your next paycheck’s coming from.”

“Don’t remind me.” I blow a strand of hair out of my face, and focus on cutting thick slices of cheese. The truth is, my wardrobe’s practically the only thing I have left of my own. Since the apartment I lived in with Sutton and Naomi came furnished, I walked away with only my clothes and my dignity.

And let’s face it. The dignity part’s debatable.

My mother clucks. “Hopefully the airline will find your bags soon. I can’t imagine you want to wear my old sweatpants forever.”

“No, but thanks for letting me borrow some of your clothes, Mom.” I push a smile across my face. Remi McCoy’s style is fairly decent for a woman her age, but that number begins with a six, and mine’s still in the twos.

We aren’t exactly a fashion match.

“You’re just lucky I had an unopened value pack of underwear from the Five and Dime,” she says.

I stifle a snort. “So lucky.”

“They’re brand-new,” she adds. “Never been worn before.”

“Believe me. If my only option was loaner panties you had worn before, I’d swallow my pride and beg Francine Tomlin for my job back.”

“Now don’t go doing that.” My mom waves my comment away. “You can always buy more underwear. And Luxe doesn’t deserve you.”

She crosses the kitchen to sit beside Big Mama. The sliding glass door next to the table affords a view of the grassy yard. At the edge of the property, standing guard, is a thick row of Abies. They’re the piney trees that gave the town its name.

Beyond them is Abie Lake.

“Unfortunately, that’s not how the management team at Luxe sees it,” I say.

“Well, someday they’ll be sorry they underestimated you.” She clears her throat and waits until I look up from the pan.

“What?”

“I talked to Mac earlier.” She fiddles with the napkin holder in front of her. “He told me he offered you a job at McCoy Construction.”

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