Page 11 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’ll do it when I get home.” She scoots toward the hallway, then turns. “It’s seriously so good to have you back, even if just for a few months.”

“Thanks.” I know not everyone will agree—Marilee’s roommate, for one—but if I can make a success of things here, then it’ll be worth facing Lucy’s wrath day in and day out.

The best thing I can do is play nice.

Just not too nice.

four

LUCY

I cannot let this stand.

After a restless night, I power walk down Main Street toward The Blackberry Muffin. Marilee and I need to have words.

Of course, as revved up as I am on the inside, those words will be sweet, gentle, and kind. It’s not Marilee’s fault she has a demon for a brother. The kind of guy who would walk into a house like he owned it (which, fine, he technically does, but only technically) and—without so much as an apology for scaring the living daylights out of a girl—have the actual gall to stay where he was so clearly unwelcome. (Which was on the other side of my bedroom wall!)

Thankfully, I was able to avoid the man when I left this morning, but not before I passed the bathroom and caught a whiff of his knee-weakening body wash that smelled like a flannel-clad lumberjack come to life. He must have just showered and left before I was up, because the steam still clung to the space.

Y’all. I can’t even.

I breeze past The Purple Seashell, with its gabled windows on the upper floor, its lavender walls, its brilliant ocean views. Not today, Seashell. I don’t have time for your cheeriness. Or maybe I could use some of it to rub off on me. Either way, it won’t affect my behavior. On the inside, I might be a roiling mass of feelings, but I know from observation that dwelling on them will do no good.

Directly across from the inn, I can tell The Blackberry Muffin is bustling even from the outside, where it sports a blue-and-white-striped awning and a wooden bench. I enter to find not a single table available—not surprising, since it’s nine a.m. on a Saturday morning. The smell of sugar sprinkles the air, and the canary-yellow accent wall behind the register chirps a bright hello, as does the teenager working there.

And I can’t help it. Just like that, the familiar sights, sounds, and smells bring a peace like nothing else can. Which is probably a good thing, because I don’t want my irritation at Blake to make Marilee think I’m irritated at her.

Even though she could have told me her brother would be showing up. Give a girl a little warning and all that.

“Hey, Cynthia,” I say to the owner, Marla’s granddaughter, pushing all negative thoughts aside. “Is Marilee in back?”

“Yeah, she’s finishing up another batch of muffins. You want me to get her?”

“Maybe just let her know I’m out here if you get a minute. For now, can I grab an apple fritter and a hot coffee with a splash of cream, please?”

“You got it.” She flashes me a braced smile.

“Thanks, babe.” I pay, then turn and scan the crowd for familiar faces—and let’s be honest, most of them are. There’s a few of the Loveland brothers, tossing back coffee and dressed like they’re about to head out for a day of work in the fields or maybe even taking a break from a morning of already working, if the dirt on their jeans is any indication. Chloe’s boyfriend Frederick is with them, and he’s joking and slapping Nathaniel Loveland on the back.

Then there’s the older crowd—Earl Flanders and Ned Chamberlain, with their bald heads and raucous laughter—playing a rowdy game of checkers in the corner.

In the back, my friend Jordan Carmichael’s hanging out with his son Ryder, who is coloring in a book and talking away, his adorable face smeared with chocolate. Jordan’s got on his standard joggers and T-shirt, and he keeps looking over at the swinging door that leads back to the kitchen where Marilee works.

I’ve long suspected he’s got a thing for my best friend, but the one time I mentioned it to her, she waved it off as impossible. In Marilee’s mind, Jordan is simply a close friend (probably her next best friend after me). Besides, I think that after Donny, Mare’s just closed herself off to love. It’ll take something big and drastic to shake her out of the fear of being betrayed again.

Last, I see Greta Graber and her best friend—my aunt, Bea—chatting with their heads together by the to-go counter.

Sauntering over, I join them. “Morning, y’all. What’s the latest gossip?”

“Look, Greta, it’s our girl!” Aunt Bea grabs me into a hug, pulling me to her large chest. With her sturdy frame, the woman could have been a linebacker, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t the sweetest little thing this side of the Mississippi. “We sure do miss you.”

Greta and I exchange a secret smile. “I’ve barely been gone a few weeks.”

“But after having you around constantly for almost thirteen years, it’s just not the same. Though I couldn’t exactly call it quiet.”

I laugh. “With April and Scarlett there? I don’t imagine so.” My cousin and her seven-year-old daughter moved back from San Francisco at the end of March, and they’re living with my aunt and uncle for the time being. It’s one of the reasons I finally decided to get my own place. Not only because the three-bedroom house was feeling tight—and April and Scarlett definitely needed their own rooms—but because there was someone else there to help Aunt Bea around the house. Her arthritis has gotten worse over the years, and her quilt-making business tends to exacerbate it. But she refuses to give it up because she’s stubborn like that. So I helped as much as I could.

Now, though, April’s got it handled. Her sister Stephanie helps too when she’s not busy running her clothing boutique, Just Peachy.

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