Page 16 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

“For as long as I deem necessary.” I’ve staked my reputation—and my business relationship with Dale—on this need to create more recipes, and in order to do that, I need an active audience. It’s just how my process works.

And I’m not going to let some Siren with soulful eyes ruin it for me.

I wonder if she’d react differently to the whole thing if she understood that the other reason I’m here in Hallmark Beach is Marilee. But I don’t need her understanding or her softening.

I just need her to stay out of my way.

“Sweet macaroni, you’re so self-righteous.” Her darts keep flying. “You just do whatever you want, the feelings of everyone else be darned, isn’t that right, Flake?”

I don’t need to stand here a moment longer and listen to her accusations—even if in the past, they might have been a little bit true. But I gotta play nice, or at least, appear to play nice no matter how Lucy Reynolds gets my ire up. So I pull a smile from my back pocket and force it onto my face. “It’s not about being self-righteous. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh? And why are you here then?” The sarcasm is made even stronger by her Southern accent, which apparently gets more pronounced when she’s upset. Before my parents died, I never heard a cross word from Lucy Reynolds, so I didn’t know this side of her existed.

It’s both the most infuriating thing—and darn it, the most attractive thing—I’ve ever heard.

“I just want a chance to return to my hometown,” I say more loudly than necessary. Because if all the world’s a stage, then right now I’m the main event at a Shakespeare festival. “And I think my hometown can benefit from having some gourmet food.”

She scoffs. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”

“You’re only saying that because you’ve never had my cooking. Well, not since we were kids.” It sounds arrogant, but my food is maybe the only thing I’m truly confident about. For the rest, I just fake it till I make it.

“I have, actually. At the wedding.” She looks toward the sky, where there’s not a single cloud hanging out today. “But don’t go getting a big head about it. There was nothing else to eat. I personally would have rather starved, but Marilee brought me a sandwich and it would have been rude not to accept.”

Why does the thought of her eating something put together by my own two hands make it hard to breathe? “And what did you think?” I clear my throat against the unintentional huskiness. Her opinion shouldn’t matter. It’s not like food is her specialty despite working in a restaurant, though she always was good at assessing and critiquing my creations in high school.

I can’t help but lean forward a bit, anxiously awaiting her reply.

“It was as terrible as its maker,” she hisses.

But there’s hesitation there, a glimmer of something unsteady in her eyes. She does think I’m terrible—but she liked my food. I know it.

Before I can say anything more about it, though, she continues. “I can safely say I’m never going to let anything you make ever pass these lips again.” Then she turns on her heel and stomps away, her hips swinging in a way that shouldn’t draw my eye.

Apparently there are some people here who don’t believe there’s room enough for everyone in this town. But it just makes me all the more determined to create recipes that these townsfolk will love. Not that I want to steal her business.

But it’s not even her business. Winona will be back to managing the restaurant in a matter of months.

On the flip side, this opportunity is everything to me. And I’m not letting Lucy Reynolds—or the little tantrum she just threw—ruin my shot at getting what I want.

six

LUCY

Granted, twelve-thirty on a Thursday afternoon isn’t typically The Green Robin’s busiest time of the week.

But looking around the empty dining room, I know something’s off. It’s never this dead—not unless there’s an actual funeral or wedding going on in town. Even then, we usually have some tourists filtering in, especially since tomorrow kicks of Memorial Day weekend.

Winona would be in fits if she saw this. Am I just that incompetent of a manager, or is there more going on here?

I approach Sam, who’s slumped at the hostess stand scrolling something on her phone. When the young woman sees me, she straightens and stuffs her device into the back pocket of her jeans. “Hi, Boss.”

I rub my temple. “Has it been like this since we opened?” I’ve been holed up in Winona’s office for hours, working on ideas for some summer promos and specials the Robin could run, as well as some initial ideas for the Fourth of July Festival. At Sunday’s meeting, Chloe assigned me to the food committee with Thomas Montrose, and we are both supposed to bring our thoughts to the next one tonight.

Sam plays with one of her dangling earrings. “We had a few of the regulars around eleven-fifteen, but yeah. Pretty dead. I think it has something to do with that food truck opening yesterday.”

Of course it does.

I blow out a steady stream of air, trying to not let my worries get the best of me like I did on Saturday. I still can’t believe I got so worked up, and in public, no less. There’s just something about Blake Moffitt that makes me forget that negative emotions do a person no good at all.

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