Page 42 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

“Ooo, like the s’mores grilled cheese you made earlier this week?” Marilee lifts her shoulders and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “Mmm. So good. Lucy, did you try it?”

Two sets of eyes swing my way.

“No. Haven’t had a chance yet.”

“You’ll have to fix that.”

My forehead wrinkles at Blake’s simple statement, said so casually. And yet—with his arms folded across his chest like that, his eyes blazing with something dangerous—in this case, simplicity can be deceiving. “Guess I will.”

“Good.” He holds my eyes for just a second longer, then points to our plates again. “All right, so I cooked up four different recipes. Just experimentations. I want your honest thoughts.”

The vulnerability in his tone brings a dip to my stomach. There’s something there. Some reason he cares. “Why the sudden burst of creativity? Don’t you already have a full menu?”

“He needs new recipes,” Mare says as she bites into the first sample. Chews. Mmms. Pats her lips with a napkin. “For his restaurant.”

He mentioned a new restaurant the other night—but not that it would be his.

Something like pride wiggles through my chest, and I’m surprised at myself. That I could go so long “hating” this guy, and yet still feel pride for that high school boy who told me all about his dream of someday owning a restaurant featuring his recipes. “It’s happening? That’s awesome, Blake. Congrats.”

And I find that I mean it.

Well, if that’s not the scariest thing in the world, I don’t know what is.

I peek up at him and he’s staring at me, leaning one hand against the counter as if bracing for support. He swallows hard, and I see his throat bob. “Thanks, Lucy.”

The way he says my name—all warm and gooey and filled with meaning—is not good for my peace of mind. Because the whole reason he’s here, serving me food in the first place, is because he’s leaving again.

Remember that. Remember.

But given my knack for critiquing recipes, that’s what I need to focus on right now. While Marilee oohs and aahs over the next sandwich—something with chutney, maybe?—I pick up a different kind and peel back the sourdough bread a bit to find apples and fontina cheese.

Then I bite into it. Chew. Close my eyes. Assess. Flavors pop in my mouth but end quickly. Hmm.

“Well?”

When I reopen my eyes, Blake swims in my vision and he’s…pacing? Like, he’s actually nervous. Does he really care what I think? He definitely didn’t seem this nervous with Mare. Of course, Mare is over there licking her fingers as she devours her last sandwich, and all she’s managed to say is “delicious!”, “amazing!”, and “that’s the best sandwich I’ve ever had in my life”—and two seconds later, “never mind, that one is!”

Maybe he just knows I don’t give out compliments easily. At least, to him. Even in high school when I’d critique his cooking, I didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. I was honest, although always upbeat (and slightly afraid he’d hate me for my truth telling). The goal was always to help make his food better. To help make him a better cook.

And, if he’s truly my friend (and only my friend, okay, y’all?), then I will still want that for him. I will want him to knock the socks off the folks in L.A. when he opens his restaurant—his dream—and offers killer sandwiches that will cause rave reviews.

“It’s good. Really good.” I pause.

“But?”

I sigh. I always hate this part. “But something’s missing. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is.”

“Really?” Mare lets her bun loose, her long brown hair falling in waves around her shoulders. She combs her fingers through it. “I thought they were all amazing.”

“Yes, but you’re only ever critical of your own work.” Blake swoops in and rumples her hair like only a big brother would.

She smacks him in playful protest. “That’s not true.”

He looks at me, a wry grin on his face. “Back me up, Sunshine.”

I can’t help but laugh. “It’s not untrue.”

Standing, Mare puts her hands on her hips in a very poor attempt at a haughty pose. “Well, excuse me for thinking my brother is the best chef in the world.”

---