Page 58 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

Tiny shrugs. “We don’t have anything in our permit that says we can’t serve grilled cheese.”

I hand him back the notecard. There’s no way I’m doing that to Blake, even if he’s my competition. Because he’s also my friend. And besides, he’s only here for another six weeks or so. We have to find a way to survive—and thrive—with or without him here.

And definitely without sabotaging him in the process. “Tiny, we can’t do it.”

His scowl clouds the whole kitchen, and he waves his dirty spoon at me. “That boy’s gotten to you.”

“No.” My face heats, and it’s not the chili’s fault. “I just…”

“Lucy.” My teen waitress, Jenny, comes racing into the kitchen. “I need your help now. One of the toilets is overflowing in the men’s room. Help!”

Saved by a crisis! I press the notecard back into Tiny’s hands. “I love the initiative you’re taking. Keep up the good work in here. We’ll talk about this later, okay?” And we will. Mostly about how I can’t undermine Blake, even if it makes me look weak.

But no time to think about that now, because here I go again, rushing off to try to solve yet another disaster that I feel unqualified for—because what am I? A plumber?

Then again, maybe I’d make a better plumber than a businesswoman. Because a good businesswoman probably would have jumped at any chance to squash her opponent. She’d see a weakness, a chink in the armor, and dive right on into the fray, not caring one bit what happened to the guy who’d stolen all of her customers.

But then I think about those BOGO coupons sitting on Blake’s counter. About the way he helped me make baklava. About how it felt last night at the bonfire when he ignored me, trying to keep his distance despite the looks he kept sending my way.

And I know that my heart has already decided what my head can’t comprehend. That Tiny’s absolutely right.

And it’s possible my inability to not fall in love with Blake Moffitt will be the downfall of The Green Robin.

nineteen

BLAKE

My relationship with my dad was complicated. But Father’s Day still hits hard every year since he’s been gone.

“Thanks for closing up early today.” Marilee sighs from the passenger seat of my dad’s red sports car, which I’ve taken to driving around when I don’t want to walk. “It was nice to go visit them together.”

“Yeah, it was.” I put the car into Park beside Lucy’s Corolla, pull the keys from the ignition. The house’s front window is dark, which probably means Lucy is in her bedroom. Possibly sleeping, given the late hour. Reaching over, I squeeze Mare’s elbow. “I’m glad I was here this year.”

And even though my sister and I are good, the same old guilt pricks me—because for the last five Father’s Days, Mare has had to visit the cemetery alone. Or maybe Lucy’s gone with her. She’s a good friend like that. Regardless, I’m doing things differently now. Even after I return to L.A., I’ll be back for the important stuff. Mare and I only have each other now, and I’m not going to abandon her like I did before.

We both climb from the car and pad up the porch steps, entering the house quietly so we don’t wake a potentially sleeping Lucy. But then I see that the back door is cracked, and I can make out her profile there on the porch swing. She’s sitting in the dark, under a blanket of stars—and an old quilt of Mom’s—and even though I know it would be better for us both if I went straight to my bedroom, her very presence is like a beacon, calling me, calling me home.

“I’m headed to bed. Early shift at work.” It’s Mare’s turn to squeeze my elbow. “She likes hot chocolate.”

I know what she’s implying. Well, not even implying. Straight up saying in that Marilee way of hers. “I shouldn’t.” I say this without looking away from Lucy.

“Have you thought about what I said a few nights ago?”

I’ve tried not to, really, but of course, the wisdom in my sister’s words has been locked in my brain for the last forty-eight hours. Still, I’m not any closer to knowing what to do with these feelings or thoughts.

So I simply shrug.

“If nothing else, will you check on her? She spent all day celebrating her uncle, and even though she probably won’t say it, I think today’s hard on her too.”

I close my eyes. Of course. Lucy lost her own dad a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean she’s “more used to” the loss a day like today brings. Giving my sister a nod, I trudge into the kitchen and find the ingredients to make homemade hot cocoa.

Mare heads to bed while I work, and soon I’ve melted and whisked and waited until it’s perfection. Pouring the cocoa into two mugs, I head for the back door and nudge it open with my foot.

Lucy’s head jolts toward me. “Hey.” Her eyes widen at what I’m carrying. “Did you make me something?”

“No, both of these are for me.” I laugh when she sticks out her tongue, then gently hand off a purple-and-pink mug to her. “Mind if I join you for a minute?”

She shakes her head and shifts over a bit to make room for me, pulling the quilt toward her with her free hand. When I settle onto the swing—the wood creaking with my efforts—she flings the far edge of the blanket over my lap. The movement is so quick, so casual, that I know it’s not calculated. She’s not trying to get all cozy with me. She’s just being considerate.

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