Page 63 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

“What?” I ask.

“Well, if you really feel the way you do about Blake, then why are you letting him go so easily?”

My mouth flops open. “I’m not. He’s the one who said he can’t be with me.”

“That’s not true. From what you’ve told us, he just said he couldn’t stay in Hallmark Beach.”

I tug at the belt on my robe. “Kind of the same thing.” Because he knows I’d never leave.

“Kels is right,” Elisse prods. “Blake clearly has feelings for you too, but he knows he’s leaving like he did before. Only this time, it seems he’s got his head on straight and refuses to be someone who leads you on.”

“All right, I changed my mind about him.” April sighs dreamily. “He would make a good book boyfriend.”

The others laugh, but my insides are roiling. Am I so used to being left that I just allow it to happen? Why don’t I fight back? Why don’t I ever go after what I want?

Maybe because I’ve never been given the choice before. Maybe because I don’t even know what I want—or I’m too afraid to admit it.

The idea has me seriously feeling nauseous.

Or, ugh. Maybe that’s the food after all.

twenty-one

BLAKE

Another spout of creativity took hold Monday morning—right after my small quiet moments with Lucy—and since then, I’ve lived, breathed, and (not) slept all things grilled cheese sandwiches.

I push a hand through my hair and slump against the back wall of my food truck, my eyes working to stay open while a final sandwich cooks on the grill top. The last three days—at least, I think it’s been three days—have had my creativity in hyperdrive, and I’ve produced five new recipes that have gone on the menu.

Five new recipes I’m convinced will inspire rave reviews from critics once I implement them at the new restaurant.

A pang hits me in the temple, and I reach up to rub the spot. I really need to go home tonight at a decent hour instead of staying up until two a.m. experimenting in this tiny kitchen. I may only be thirty, but I’ve been abusing my body this week, spending hours of extra time on my feet, tensing with anticipation when I taste a sandwich that isn’t quite right.

I’ve also been holding myself in place instead of running next door to the Robin and feeding the experiment to Lucy so she can help diagnose what’s wrong with it.

Reaching for my spatula, I flip the sandwich, let it cook a bit longer, then place it in the waiting basket filled with chips and a pickle. I turn, ding the bell, and call out “Painter!” before ducking back inside the truck. I start to shutter the window.

“Hey, Blake,” a voice calls out.

Ducking down, I find Thomas there, collecting the sandwich. We haven’t chatted for a while, except over text messages to go over a few details of the upcoming festival—which, believe it or not, is in two weeks from yesterday. “Hey, Thomas,” I say, trying to hold back a fierce yawn that’s itching to overtake me. “How’s it going, man? You grabbing Chad’s food for him?” The owner of Rainbow Ice was my last customer, but I don’t see him anywhere.

“I’m good, and yeah, I was sitting at one of the tables while he waited for his order, but something came up inside. He asked me to grab this for him.” Thomas shifts his sandwich basket from hand to hand, as if it’s too hot to handle. The bottom of his bright blue Hawaiian shirt blows with a gust of wind that’s picked up. “I actually was waiting for you to finish up so we could chat. Do you have a minute? I’ll run this back to Chad and then…?”

The guy’s now shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and his normal genial smile isn’t present. My eyebrows go up. “Everything okay? My permits are still good through the end of the summer, right?”

Not that I know I’ll be here that long. Dale and I haven’t talked since last Friday and no decisions have been made, but his words about coming home early still reverberate in my mind.

“Oh, yeah, nothing like that.” Thomas waits, eyes wide. “So…?”

“Sure. Let me close things down here, and I’ll meet you at the Rainbow Ice tables in a few.”

“Great.” Turning like he’s a soldier on a mission, the guy practically sprints away.

I shake my head and finish lowering the window shade, then flip off the stove and start to tidy up. My phone rings, and it’s like Dale’s heard my thoughts because his name appears on the screen. I hit speakerphone so I can keep working while I chat. “Blake here.”

“Blake, good, glad I caught you.” Dale sounds like he just hiked Mount Olympus. “Are you sitting down?”

“Should I be?” My stomach twists. Is something wrong with the restaurant deal?

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