Page 32 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

Sweet macaroni. How’s a girl to stay upset—or hold onto her dignity—with a guy looking at her like that?

And not just any guy.

The guy she used to love.

Ugh. “Fine.” I give him a solid glare though, just for good measure. “But this doesn’t mean I forgive you for stealing my customers.” Or for anything else, for that matter.

One corner of his lips turns up. It’s only slight, but as Uncle Burt would say, good golly. Who knew only half a smile would make a man infinitely more handsome? What would I do if he ever went full watt on me? “Noted.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Fabulous.”

“We gonna do this all night?” Blake points at the first bowl of popcorn. “Or are you gonna eat something?”

“No and no.” Then my stomach has the audacity to growl again.

“I don’t think your stomach agrees.” Blake waggles his eyebrows, taking a handful of popcorn and stuffing it into his mouth. He groans. “Soooo good.”

And I actually have to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

What am I doing? One little truce and I’m practically flinging myself back into the Blake Danger Zone.

Nope. Not gonna happen. I take a step away. “My stomach doesn’t know what it’s talking about. So. I guess I’ll go to bed then.”

Because my room is literally the only place I can go to escape these pesky feelings that are just dying to reawaken. All because of one little word: truce.

And that’s a good reminder too—that he’s only saying this, being nice, because his sister asked him to. He probably doesn’t find the idea any more palatable than I do.

He cocks his head. Seems to consider something. “We could flip on The Great British Bake Off if you want.”

I suck in a breath. Does he remember that we used to watch that together? Him, me, and Marilee? Sometimes their mom would join us too.

I have so many fun memories of that. And Blake’s asking me to go back there.

My mouth opens. Closes. Because I want to say yes. But instead, I force the next words out of my mouth. They shouldn’t be this hard, but it feels like walking through a patch of drying concrete. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Right.”

Before he can say more, I turn to go, but stop. Because while I don’t want to go back to where we once were—my heart can’t take that—I don’t want him to think the truce means nothing. That I won’t try.

So I take the dang bowl of popcorn and hightail it outta there.

“Night, Sunshine.” His words filter down the hallway after me. This time, I hear his smile in the nickname, and the warmth of it melts my insides.

If I knew I’d only have to handle the heat for another week or so, I’d be fine. But two more months of this torture?

Sweet macaroni. I’m in trouble.

eleven

BLAKE

There’s just something about closing up the truck for the night—something I never felt at the restaurant.

It’s just me and the grill as I scrub it clean. I can whistle and not disturb anyone. Massage the ache in my lower back from standing and bending all day long. And there’s this soul-deep satisfaction in having done an honest day’s work that didn’t involve crunching numbers and dealing with diva chefs and stressing over whether that was a food critic frowning over his mushroom risotto in the corner.

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