Page 28 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

“What? No!” Kicking the blanket to the ground, I push myself to my feet. My heart is pounding. I shut my eyes against the emotions coursing through my body. “Please. Just trust me, Winona. I can do this. I will make the Robin a success for you. You can count on me.”

Winona sighs, and I can hear the tired in it. “All right. Keep me posted, though.”

“Will do.”

And with that, we hang up. I plop back onto the swing and put my head in my hands. My eyes burn with unshed tears, but I can’t give into their pushiness.

Not even if I’m alone.

“Hey,” a deep voice says from the doorway.

Blake.

My head bolts upright and I push my hands underneath my eyes, just in case a rogue tear has found its way out. Thankfully, my fingertips come away dry.

So much for being alone.

* * *

“What are you doing here?” And how much of that conversation did he hear? Knowing my luck, it was everything. Does my competition know my plan?

If so, this is war.

But he doesn’t look ready to do battle. In fact, he’s more casual than I ever remember seeing him in his flannel pajama pants and a white T-shirt. His hair is adorably rumpled, as if he’s been running his hands through it. And there’s something almost unsure in his eyes, in the way he sticks his hands into his pockets and slumps against the doorway.

“I live here.”

I stand so we’re on equal footing. “Live is a relative term.” Because he’s only here temporarily. Or so I assume. But after that conversation with Winona, I definitely do not feel like having a discussion with Blake about how long he’s back in Hallmark Beach. Not sure I can handle the answer if it’s going to be longer than, oh, say another minute.

I should just go to bed. Should just ignore his presence. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and jut my chin. Because sure, he may be “living here” for the time being, but he has absolutely no reason to be out on the porch talking to me right now. Not unless he was spying on me. “I meant what are you doing out here?”

He studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “I got home a little while ago and came into the kitchen to make some popcorn.”

From inside, the microwave beeps once, twice, three times. Right on cue.

He doesn’t say anything more than that. Argh. Irritating man.

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re out here, eavesdropping on a private conversation,” I say, fishing to see if he really did hear anything.

His silence is all the confirmation I need. Which means he heard everything. At least on my side.

“Fantastic.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Okay, those are not the words I expected from my greatest nemesis. They are also not words I can handle. Especially because in his eyes, I see something foreign. At least, foreign to this version of Blake Moffitt.

The Blake of my teen years had this kindness in spades.

Nope. Noooooope. Can’t do it. Can’t think about that, Lucy. “I’m fine.” I practically spit the words. “And even if I wasn’t, it’s no concern of yours.”

I’ve gotta get out of here, so I make a move to breeze past him.

But he stops me with a gentle snag at my elbow. “Hey.”

I freeze. Look down at the place where the simple touch of his fingers is burning a hole through the fabric of my sleeve. Is it my imagination, or does his thumb move ever so slightly in what might be interpreted as a comforting stroke?

I glance back up at him, a question in my eyes. “What?” I say this with as much vehemence as I can muster, which isn’t much.

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