Page 67 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

“I promise I’ll be right back,” he continues.

“Okay,” I manage.

“Good girl,” he says again, and I lean forward so he can stand up.

While he’s gone, I throw up again. Twice. Somehow, I manage to stand on shaky legs in front of the bathroom mirror. Must brush teeth. Reaching for my toothbrush, I close my eyes against the rising nausea. This was probably not one of my better ideas.

Opening my eyes again, I take a good look at myself. Holy cow. I forgot that I stripped down to my spaghetti strap shirt and put on my comfy pajama shorts. My hair’s a rat’s nest, my makeup long gone—literal tear tracks mapping their way down my cheeks—and I look pale and worn out, like I imagine a new mom might, but without the glow of motherhood to back her up.

Blake appears behind me. “What are you doing?”

“I look terrible.” That’s not what I meant to say, but my brain is so muddled, and my stomach hurts, and I just hate feeling weak like this.

I start to cry again.

“Aw, Sunshine. It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you.” Before I know what’s happening, Blake scoops me up and holds me against his chest as we leave the bathroom and make our way to the couch, where I can see he’s made a little nest for me of blankets and pillows. There’s an old emesis basin sitting on the coffee table, along with some water, some grape Gatorade, and the ugly pink of a Pepto-Bismol bottle.

With slow movements, he lowers me onto the couch and leans down beside me. Pulling a blanket over me—I’m suddenly shaking—he smooths back my hair and looks me in the eyes. “And you don’t look terrible. Even sick, you are the most breathtaking woman I have ever seen.” Blake pauses, tilts his head. “And when you are all better, we’re going to have a talk about what that means, okay?”

I shiver and tuck my chin under a quilt my Aunt Bea made. “Okay.” Bossy Blake is back, and I couldn’t love it more, even when he makes me take the medicine—and I vomit it up—and drink fluids until I can hold them down.

All through the night, he takes care of me until my stomach finally settles and I can sleep.

I wake up once in the middle of the night, squinting through the dark to find him sitting on the opposite end of the couch, my feet on his lap, his fingers resting on my toes, where I vaguely remember him giving me a massage at some point. His head is leaned back against the couch cushions, and a little snore rumbles in the back of his throat.

He kept his promise. He didn’t leave.

And foolish though it might be, my heart dares to keep on hoping. To keep holding onto his words: “When you are all better, we’re going to have a talk about what that means.”

twenty-three

BLAKE

Tonight, it’s go big or go home—because I’m telling Lucy how I feel.

If I can manage to get her alone, that is.

But at the moment, it feels like the whole town is here on the beach outside of The Purple Seashell, where Chloe is throwing the festival planning committee (and their families and possibly all their friends too) a “soiree” to say thank you for all of our hard work. That feels like too fancy a word for the cookout and volleyball game going on right now, but I guess when you’re from a European country, everything’s fancy.

You’d think that my feelings for my sister’s best friend would have been abundantly clear two nights ago when I came home and had the privilege of being the one to literally care for Lucy, but I haven’t said the words yet. Mostly because I wanted her to be fully recovered from her food poisoning, which—given the way she’s chowing down on a burger with Marilee at a table not too far from where I’m in line to grab a drink—she thankfully is.

But also, the last twenty-four hours, I’ve hardly been home again. In addition to running the food truck like normal (though I shut down early tonight, obviously), Dale and I have been texting and calling back and forth about the upcoming TV spot on Tuesday.

Still, now that Lucy is better and here, I’m not losing my nerve. And I’m not wasting another minute.

Literally.

Abandoning the line, I beeline for her table, and when she glances up, her eyes widen. “Flake. Hi.” Is it my imagination, or does she run her tongue over the teeth underneath her upper lip?

“Hey, ladies.” I speak to both of them, but my eyes are only for Lucy. I’m sure my sister will forgive me once she realizes I urgently need to talk to Lucy.

But then Jordan comes running up with a volleyball, punching my arm. “Dude, there you are. We need your help.” He gestures back to the sand volleyball pit, where Elisse, Kelsey, and a handful of other women are facing off against Frederick, Landon, and, I assume, Jordan. “The girls are slaughtering us.”

I glance back at Lucy, who’s got an amused look on her face. But when I open my mouth to protest, she takes a swig of her Diet Coke and nudges my sister. “Should we go join in the fun, Mare?”

Marilee shakes her head, her bun bobbing. “Oh no, I’ll just watch.”

“Aw, come on, Lee.” Jordan winks at her. “You’ll help even out the sides.”

---