Page 117 of That Time I Kissed My Beachfront Boss

“I’ll try not to,” I say. But what I think is, That may not be up to me.

I walk them both across the property and down to the lot we share with the dock. This early, the lake’s still quiet, water like glass. But not for long. By this time next week, things will be bustling. At the inn, the beach, and the pub. We’ll be prepping for the big picnic to celebrate the reopening. I can only hope Liv will be here by my side. But I don’t want to hold her back if leaving is better for her.

Please don’t let leaving be better.

As we approach her uncle’s old Chevy, Liv brushes the hair off her shoulder, and I try to memorize the curve of her neck. I hurry to open both doors for them, help get their bags into the truck, then I come around to give Liv a boost up into the driver’s seat.

“Drive safely, all right? And text me when you get to the airport. Please.”

“I will,” she says.

From the passenger side, Jacqueline pipes up. “I’ll drive safe and text when I get back to the city too.”

“Sure. Yeah,” I mumble. “You be safe too, Jacqueline.”

Olivia’s mouth crooks and she meets my gaze. “Promises to be safe all around then.” She leans toward me and presses the softest kiss on my lips. “It’ll be okay.”

Man, I want to believe her.

The engine cranks as she starts up the truck, and when she backs out of her space, there’s a low grumble and a screech. What a rust bucket. If she does end up in Abieville, we’ll need to get her a more reliable ride.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Hudson. That’s a big, dangling IF.

I wave as the Chevy chugs across the lot, but once Olivia turns the corner past the docks, I can’t see the truck anymore. Not from this low vantage point. She might as well be in Aspen already.

Dude. You’re getting dramatic in your old age.

But it’s true. And trudging back up to the inn, I feel emptier than I did before Olivia McCoy filled my life.

Come on, Hudson. She’s got to come back to return your copy of The Stand.

Unless she mails it.

On that note, you should probably finish Wuthering Heights so you can start Jane Eyre.

Also I should probably stop talking to myself.

I huff out a laugh, climbing the stairs to the porch. The swing hangs perfectly still now, reminding me of our kiss the night before. I give the rope a gentle push, and the swing rocks back and forth. As if I could ever forget that kiss.

I turn to check for Liv.

From this height, I should be able to see her again. Sure enough, there’s Phil Graham’s old truck approaching the crossroads before the bridge. Coming up the street that runs perpendicular to the crossing, is another old Chevy. Also a rust bucket. The bridge is just past the three-way junction with the lake stretching wide on either side.

The roads converge at a single intersection with multiple stop signs.

So … why isn’t Olivia slowing down?

Chapter Forty-Seven

Hudson

The next few seconds feel like they slow to a crawl and also like someone pressed fast forward at the same time.

“STOP!” I roar. “STOP!” But the shriek of brakes and the crunch of metal in the distance feels like shrapnel in my chest. In an instant, my guts are up in my throat, and my heart starts banging against my ribs. I’m already racing to Liv.

When I reach the parking lot, I continue sprinting past the docks. My head is down, eyes on the ground, so I don’t trip. But I’m below sight-level now, so I can’t see anything anyway. This sends my imagination into overdrive.

Other cars were coming toward the intersection. Would a multi-vehicle collision cause her truck to ignite? Will someone drag Olivia out if the Chevy’s on fire?

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