Page 71 of That Time I Kissed My Beachfront Boss

I’d estimate more than half the town’s population is milling around Main Street hoping to score a stay at The Beachfront or win a free appetizer and drink at the pub. What can I say?

Abievillians know a great deal when they see one.

Local residents started showing up this morning while a couple of guys from a party rental store set up the dunk tank with me. Now even more people are strolling around town window shopping. Murphy’s Jewelers and Flower Power haven’t been this busy in years. And Spill the Tea and Dip and Scoops are full of customers buying snacks and drinks.

Bottom line: today isn’t just good for The Beachfront. It’s good for the whole town.

To help out with book donations, we borrowed two large bins from the public library. They’re placed just down the block from the dunk tank. True to his word, Pat Murphy was the first to donate. Along with a set of encyclopedias, he also dropped off an impressive assortment of romance novels and the complete Twilight series.

I guess Mrs. Murphy likes her vampires.

On the other side of the dunk tank is the ballot box for people to leave suggestions for the pub’s new name. Meanwhile Olivia’s aunts and uncles—plus Brady, Natalie, and her parents—have been walking around town handing out voting slips and selling tickets to dunk Olivia.

It’s a true family affair, Abieville style.

While Nella assists people with book donations and Lettie explains the name-the-pub rules, Three and Ford are handling the bucket of balls and the lineup at the dunk tank. They each bought a bunch of tickets themselves. Mostly because this is a fundraiser for The Beachfront, but also because they really want to soak their cousin.

“How cold do you think the water is?” Olivia asks, eyeing the ladder to the dunk tank. She’s standing beside me in a fluffy white bathrobe and a red sunhat that matches her sandals. Telling her we filled the tank straight from a hose—so the water’s basically a freshly melted iceberg—won’t help her right now. And she deserves to feel good. So I just shrug.

“Not too bad.”

She swings her gaze over to me now. “Did we sell a lot of tickets?” Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup, and she looks extra vulnerable next to the dunk tank’s target with a giant red, white, and blue bullseye.

“More than three hundred at last count,” I say. “And that was just the presale. Some people bought a dozen or more. I’m guessing they’re either trying to be supportive of The Beachfront, or they really like free buffalo wings. Or both.”

“Great!” she chirps, peeking at the bucket of red balls that will be aimed at her soon enough. “I’m glad there’s a wire cage around the platform. At least I won’t get beaned by any of Big Mama’s curveballs.” She forces out a chuckle, but a shiver wracks her body.

“Hey.” I lay a hand on her shoulder. Her bones feel delicate under my palm. “It’s not too late for me to take your place up there.”

“Don’t be silly.” She scoffs. “I’ve got this. And you’re not even wearing a bathing suit.”

“These are board shorts.” I point at my fitted red trunks. I’ve worn these to lifeguard and paddle board. Even waterskiing. “They’re fine for swimming,” I add. “In fact, I had these on last week when you attacked me with a hose and we ended up in the lake.”

Olivia’s cheeks pink up, and we both clear our throats. Maybe me reminding us both of the moment we almost kissed wasn’t the best idea under the circumstances.

“Thanks for the offer,” she says, “But I really need to do this myself. I want to show everyone in Abieville I can take the heat. Or, in this case, the cold.” She slides her shoes off and places them under the folding chair stacked with towels for her to dry off with afterward.

“You ready?” I ask.

“As I’ll ever be,” she says. She tosses her hat on the towels, hands me her bathrobe, and turns to face the crowd.

Instead of the barely there bikinis she sported the last couple of times she was in town, she’s in a one-piece today. It’s ice blue and dotted with tiny flowers. The effect is sweet and surprisingly modest, considering her limbs are bare. I have the sudden urge to wrap the bathrobe around her and carry her all the way back to the inn. Not just because I want to protect her from the inevitable dunking, but because I … just want to protect her in general.

“Good luck with your balls!” she calls out to the crowd. Then she waves her hands. “Wait. No! Forget I said that. Just … good luck!”

Several people in line start to hoot and whistle, and my chest goes tight as a drum. Letting Olivia take the brunt of this fundraising stunt feels all kinds of wrong right now. She pitched this as a way to spark publicity for the inn, but she’ll be leaving The Beachfront soon. I should be the one up on that platform on display. Still, I refuse to be that guy who won’t let a woman make her own choices or speak for herself. Hard as it may be, I’ve got to support Olivia, even though this goes against all my gut instincts.

“You’ve got this, hotshot,” I say, just loud enough for her to hear. As she settles herself on the platform, she meets my gaze.

“Thanks, bossman,” she calls back.

Bossman. Yeah, right. I don’t feel like I’m in charge at all—of this situation or of my emotions. In fact I’m pretty sure I’m more tense than I would be if I were up there hovering over a tank of freezing water myself.

I say a silent prayer that every single person here today has terrible aim. I’m surveying the lineup looking for ringers when the crowd begins to part like the Red Sea. They’re all letting somebody make their way up to the front of the pack. Someone who is small and rickety with a bobble-head of white hair.

Big Mama. All four foot ten of her.

She’s dressed in a little league uniform that must be from back when one of her grandsons played baseball. Of course the whole town’s letting her go first. “I bought five tickets, Livvy,” she warbles. “I’m coming for you!”

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