Page 71 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

I both love and hate it.

Love it because he clearly wants more than just the physical with me. Hate it…for obvious reasons. Kissing this man exceeded all of my expectations, and I want nothing more than to revisit his lips for Round 2. (Or Round 3, technically, if we’re counting that first kiss in the kitchen.)

Maybe today I’ll get my chance.

He hasn’t told me where we are going—just teasingly told me to have patience—but at this point, I’d go anywhere with him.

Which again, comes back to the whole fear thing.

I don’t usually let fear control me or my emotions, and I think it’s because I don’t dwell on the negatives of life or the what ifs. I’ve learned to accept the bad with the good—like with my mom being gone. It’s as if with her, I keep low expectations so that if she does surprise me, I just feel happy.

You don’t have anything to lose when you keep low expectations.

But with Blake, I’ve somehow allowed myself to expect, to hope probably more than I should. It’s ridiculous, I know—and possibly stupid, given the fact I know he’s leaving at the end of summer—but I am already extremely attached to this idea of us.

Sweet macaroni, I have a whole heap to lose.

He finally must realize I’m staring at him, because he turns his head slightly. “What?” he says through a smile.

“You’re just kind of hot, that’s all.” I take a sip of my Diet Coke and turn my attention to the scenery, which is all rounding curves, and seaside cliffs, and brilliant blue skies, and a stretching majestic ocean.

“Is that right?” Blake reaches across the center console and grabs for my hand. “Right back at ya.”

We sit like that for a while as the country music station (which I picked) plays song after song. Despite my tone-deafness, I can’t help but hum along.

“What got you into country music?” he asks.

“I’m from Texas. Duh.” I laugh but snuggle into my seat. This vehicle may be old, but Mr. Moffitt kept it in premium condition. It’s sturdy and comfortable, and I can’t help but think how it reminds me of Blake. How different it is from the junker that Mama and I took on so many summer road trips. The one that rattled and bumped whenever we went over fifty on the freeway, that we prayed more than once would make it to our next stop.

The memories put me in a more sober mood.

“Sunshine? You still with me?” He squeezes my hand, then lets go to turn the volume on the radio knob down.

“Sorry.” Greedily, I reclaim his hand in mine. “I was just thinking about the road trips I used to take with Mama.”

“Tell me.”

His invitation is soft, not at all demanding, and so I tell him about the wonder of ice cream at ten a.m. About seeing a herd of elk standing in the street and stopping for hours just to stare and watch them pass. About songs sung at the top of our lungs, endless talks about boys…wringing every ounce of happiness from every day that we could.

“There was never any time to be sad, even if we missed Daddy.” I sigh. “The year before the trips began was the worst of my life. Mama couldn’t get out of bed. She didn’t want to. If I hadn’t fed her, made sure she drank water, brushed her hair…”

“I’m sorry, Lucy. That’s a lot for anyone to handle, much less a young girl.”

“I didn’t feel so young.” And for the first time, I allow myself to go back there, to ache for that girl whose carefree childhood was stolen from her in many ways. To dip in my toe and get a sense of how deep the sadness really runs. I have a feeling if I ever fell in, I might drown.

I shiver and draw strength from Blake’s steady presence. From his hand in mine.

“No wonder you care so much about The Green Robin. About Winona having that same kind of experience with her own daughter as you had with your mom.” He brings my hand to his lips and, eyes still on the road, kisses my fingertips. “I don’t think I’ve ever known someone as loyal as you, Lucy Reynolds. You’d do anything for your friends.”

His praise warms me through. “I’d be nothing without them.”

“I envy you that.” Blake puts on his turn signal and takes the exit ramp, crossing under a bridge and heading west toward the ocean.

“What do you mean?”

He pulls into a tiny parking lot with a gorgeous view of the Pacific just beyond and a trail that leads down toward a beach. Blake puts the truck in Park and turns to face me. He pushes his sunglasses up his forehead, which makes his hair stick up in a few places. It makes him look vulnerable. “Other than Dale, I’m not sure I have any true friends back in L.A.”

“Why is that?”

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