Page 50 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

I sniffle and look up at the ceiling so my tears will be forced back into my eyes. Gravity and all that. I don’t want him feeling sorry for me. Ugh, this is a new low. “She calls and visits when she can. My stepdad doesn’t really like to stay in one place for long. He’s the kind that just likes to up and go when he feels like it, you know?”

And Mama is more than happy to go with him. Because she loves him. I think she also loves the lavish lifestyle he’s given her—much more than my daddy ever could give her, though I know she was happy with him too. I huff at the thoughts that are a betrayal to my mother and her generous heart. “She’s just…busy.”

It sounds so lame, but I know it’s partially true. Mama was my anchor, and I was hers for so long, so I know she loves me. I may not understand her distance, but I will never doubt her love.

I can’t.

Because what would that mean—that everyone I love eventually leaves me? It’s probably why I’ve never given Marilee, my aunt and uncle, and all of my friends here a choice. It’s probably why I stay.

Though I do love this little town and can’t imagine where I’d go anyway.

He’s frowning. “It’s okay to admit that you’re upset with her, you know.”

“I’m not!” My voice is overly bright as I pull my hands from the sludge. “She’s finally happy in a way she hasn’t been since Daddy died. How can I begrudge her that?”

“Because she left you. And even if you understand why, doesn’t that hurt even a little?”

“Nope.” I can’t afford to let it hurt a little—because if I give an inch to my thoughts and feelings, they’ll take a whole freaking thousand miles. “All that to say, the postcard put me in a mind to…” I wave my hands around the kitchen, as if what I’m doing is obvious.

And apparently, to Blake, it is. “You’re making baklava?”

“Correction.” I laugh caustically. “I’m trying—and failing—to make baklava.”

“Okay.” Then Blake sets down the postcard and swivels toward the pantry, where he ducks inside to pull out an apron. Scratch that. Make it two aprons. He pulls the first—a black one that says “Kiss the Chef”—over his head and ties it at his waist.

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you doing?”

“I thought we were making baklava.”

“No. I said I was making baklava.”

“Then I’m making it with you.”

“You’re kind of bossy, you know.”

He has the audacity to wink at me. (And my heart has the audacity to like it.) “I think you can handle it.” Then he steps toward me with the other apron—a pink one—and chuckles. “Here. Put this on. You look like Mare.”

He’s not wrong. My best friend is a wonder in the kitchen, but she’s also messy. There’s always a streak of flour on her cheek or forehead after a baking session. I don’t have a mirror, but I can see my black spaghetti strap tank is already speckled on the front. It probably doesn’t matter whether it gets even dirtier, but I should embrace the cooking experience fully and get aproned up, right?

Only one problem. I hold up my messy hands. “I can’t exactly put that on right now.” Because, sure, I could wash these hands, but I’m just going to get them dirty again, and this stuff is seriously caked on. It’ll take days to get it off. Maybe I used concrete instead of flour.

Rather than letting my excuses deter him, Blake swiftly loops the apron over my head without asking.

“Hey!” I protest.

“What? We can’t let you get even messier. Now turn around and let me tie it.”

Oh my goodness, I like bossy Blake much more than I should. Mouth numb, I do as he asks. I feel the tug of the apron ties at my waist—but now his movements are achingly slow as he steps closer. I feel the warmth of his presence at my back, the swoosh of his fingertips against my shirt, and it’s almost as if he’s touching my bare skin.

I shiver and peek over my shoulder at him.

He’s staring at the back of my neck, where the top loop of the apron is flattening my hair in place. If I had put it on myself, it would be nothing to sweep my hair out from under the apron loop. Maybe Blake isn’t quite sure what to do. I’m guessing he doesn’t want to be presumptuous.

But I want him to be presumptuous, April’s warning be darned.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, and his eyes flick briefly to mine. “I don’t mind.”

He swallows, nods, and I turn back around, bracing myself against the counter. (Because who cares if it gets dirty? Not this girl.) His fingers find the nape of my neck, brushing slowly along the sensitive skin there. I imagine what it would feel like for him to press his lips to that very spot, and I have to bite my bottom lip to keep myself from begging him to do just that.

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