Page 23 of That Time I Kissed My Beachfront Boss

She hurries off to deal with whoever’s at the door. If he’s a local salesman, my mom probably knows him anyway. And she’ll probably invite him in to have spaghetti with us. That’s the way Abieville is.

Better open another box of pasta.

From across the house, I hear a knock, then the front door opens, and Big Mama hoots, “Hubba, hubba!”

“Hello, Mrs. McCoy,” a deep voice sounds. “Is Olivia here?”

Chapter Eight

Hudson

And now I feel like I’m ten years old, standing on a porch, asking a friend to come out and play. Except someone just said, “Hubba hubba,” in the background.

So that’s different.

“Olivia! You have a visitor,” her mother shouts into the house. “And it’s not one of your cousins!”

No, I’m definitely not one of her cousins.

“I’m not naming any names,” Mrs. McCoy adds, “but his rhymes with Judson.”

Behind her, a creaky voice calls out, “That trick only works if you use a real rhyme! Judson’s not a thing!”

Peering into the house, I spot Olivia’s grandmother perched on a floral couch. Beyond her, there’s a view straight through to the kitchen. Olivia’s standing at the stove holding a long wooden spoon. That is until she drops down behind the island.

“If it’s not a good time—” I clear my throat. “I can come back later.”

“Don’t be silly.” Mrs. McCoy waves away my offer. Olivia’s grandmother hoists herself off the couch and hobbles toward the door. When she reaches us, she looks me up and down.

“I was right, girls!” she crows. “He is Lincoln James.”

“Nope. Not Lincoln James.” I bob my head. “I’m Hudson Blaine, ma’am. I met you a few years ago over at The Beachfront. During a couple of weddings?”

She squints at me, sniffing. “Sounds familiar.”

“I’d like to talk to Olivia, if you all don’t mind,” I say.

Mrs. McCoy steps backward into the house. “She’s in the kitchen making spaghetti,” she says. “Care to stay to dinner? Olivia! Come out of hiding!”

“I’m not hiding!” Olivia squeaks, popping up from behind the counter. “I just dropped my spoon.” She holds up the spoon as evidence.

“In that case,” Mrs. McCoy tells her, “Big Mama and I will leave you two alone to talk in the front room.”

“No need,” I say. “We can just talk out here. I’ll make it quick.”

Olivia pads through the house and hands the spoon over to her mother. Then she joins me on the porch, shutting the door behind her. She’s got her hair piled high in a loose bun now, and she’s wearing gray yoga pants and a pink tank top. Unlike what she had on earlier, these clothes definitely fit.

Eyes up, man. Let’s keep this professional.

“I got my bags back,” Olivia says, clearly noticing me noticing.

“That’s really good. You look … nice.”

Nice? Really good? I’m still being an idiot.

She offers me a hint of a smile even though I’m not exactly nailing the banter. “Sorry for being weird today,” she says.

“Weird?” I huff out a breath, running a hand through my hair. I’m the one being weird.

---