Page 9 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

It’s also why I’m here, in Hallmark Beach.

At least, it’s part of the reason.

The other part is sleeping down the hall.

I mean my sister, NOT Lucy Reynolds—that insanely attractive woman who is as much of a temptation today as she was my senior year of high school. When I saw her last night, standing in my family’s kitchen, her long tan legs peeking out from tiny pajama shorts, the skin of her toned arms looking soft and silky, her hair hanging wet and wild—well, I nearly had a heart attack.

And it wasn’t because she was pelting me with bananas, which was just…adorable.

Thankfully, she wants nothing to do with me. Because I don’t need the distraction.

Grabbing a carton of eggs along with a block of cheese and some veggies, I close the fridge and select a cutting board from the collection beside the sink. Before I start on the food, I add some coffee grounds to the twelve-cup pot and hit the Brew button. Then I fall easily into the rhythm of chopping vegetables, and my whole body relaxes. When I’m done, I melt some butter in a small frying pan and toss in the onions and bell peppers, which combined with the brewing coffee soon create a delicious aroma.

I hear the squeak of a door down the hall, and Marilee emerges from her room into the living room. “Blake?” She blinks at me for a moment from behind her thick-rimmed glasses. Her brown hair’s piled on top of her head, and she looks so much like Mom that my insides twist.

“Hey, Squirt.”

She runs at me, throwing her arms around my waist in a show of exuberance. The top of her head only skims the height of my shoulders, and I wrap her up, squeezing her tight. Marilee’s the most forgiving person I’ve ever met, and I know I don’t deserve her kindness.

She pulls back and blinks up at me with her brown eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d cook you an omelet before work. That okay?”

“You came all the way to Hallmark Beach to make me breakfast?” She squints and scratches behind her ear, looking hilariously confused. Given the crazy early hours they have to keep, I’ve always been surprised Marilee chose a life as a baker. She was always the night owl among us, and it takes a load of caffeine to wake her up.

“No, Mare.” I point my spatula at the coffee maker, which has finished brewing. “I’ll explain after you’ve had some brain juice.”

“An omelet and coffee? All right, what did you do?” she teases as she pads to the cabinet in her large fluffy Christmas socks. Doesn’t matter to Mare that it’s May and nearly summer. She’d do Christmas all year round if she could.

I know she’s joking, but I hate the idea that it’s not normal for me to do nice things for my sister. What kind of brother am I? If only I’d listened to Lucy six years ago and stayed after the funeral like she’d begged me to—for Marilee’s sake, of course. But I’d been on the verge of my cooking apprenticeship at Paprika, and Dale was taking a chance on a guy with no real kitchen experience except what he’d picked up on his own. It wasn’t like that kind of opportunity was going to come along again.

And I’d had Dad’s voice reverberating in my head: “Do what I couldn’t. Get out of this small town, and never look back.” With him gone, I was desperate to make him proud. And so afraid I wouldn’t.

Still. I didn’t have to reduce communication with Marilee to just a smattering of texts and calls each year and her annual visit to me in Los Angeles.

I crack a few eggs into a bowl and whisk them around, then throw them into an omelet pan. “I actually did do something. Just probably not what you think.”

After snagging a pink mug from the cabinet, Marilee fills it with coffee. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

“What time do you have to leave for work?”

“Half an hour.” She moves to the fridge and takes out some hazelnut creamer. “I’ve got time.”

I grunt. “Good.”

We are silent for the next several minutes while I make and plate her omelet, and she sits at the scratched oak table for four in the kitchen and sips on her brew, which is more creamer than coffee in my opinion. Guess bakers like their sugar in all forms.

Finally, I slide the plate in front of her. “Bon appétit.”

“It looks amazing. Thanks, bro.” Marilee forks a piece of the omelet and brings it to her lips. Groans. “Sweet macaroni, I’ve missed your cooking.”

I raise a brow. “Sweet macaroni? You still hang out with Lucy a lot, I see.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She coughs. “Um, actually, you might want to know?—”

“That you have a new roommate?”

She winces, and her glasses fall down her nose. “How’d you know?”

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