Page 62 of The Small-Town Seduction Plan

“Easy tiger,” she teases, passing a bottle of water. “It’s a marathon, remember?”

I do. Vividly. I’ll go to my grave with the sight of her perfect breasts seared into my brain?—

“Duke Hendricks, is that you?”

I just about choke all over again when a voice interrupts my X-rated memories, and I look up to find my old third-grade teacher beaming down at me.

Talk about a cold shower.

“Mrs Caruana,” I manage, thumping my chest. “Hey. I mean, hello.”

I bob up to greet her. “And this must be Avery,” she gushes, “Well, aren’t you just as pretty as your picture? I hope you’re enjoying your time on the Cape.”

“I’m loving it,” Avery assures her. “Although, my tailor back in LA won’t be so happy. I’ll have to have all my clothing let out, if I keep this up.”

Mrs Caruana laughs, delighted. “Well, just as long as Duke is being a gentleman.”

“Oh, he is.” Avery gives me an innocent smile. “He’s making sure I have everything I need. I’m in good hands,” she adds meaningfully– and my blood pressure skyrockets.

Damn.

I wait until Mrs Caruana is out of earshot, and then I fix Avery with a look. “Careful, princess,” I murmur. “You might go giving me ideas.”

Avery flutters her eyelashes, still acting innocent. “I can’t think what you mean.”

I have to chuckle. The woman is driving me crazy, but the really crazy part is…

I can’t get enough.

We finish up our food and stroll the rest of the festival, soaking in the atmosphere. There’s a reggae band playing, and kids running riot, and usually, I steer clear of cheesy tourists events like this one. But today, I’m surprised to find I’m actually enjoying it.

Or maybe it’s just the way Avery has her hand tucked in mine, strolling beside me, cracking up over all the kitschy games. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so relaxed like this.

At least, not without me kissing her senseless first.

A girl passes by in a liquor brand shirt, touting a tray of shot glasses. “No thanks,” Avery smiles, moving on.

“You don’t drink?” I ask curiously. I’ve noticed her sticking to soda, and I figured it was some Hollywood detox thing, but Avery gives a thin smile.

“Nope. My daddy did,” she adds. “A lot. I try to avoid drinking if I can.”

Her tone is light, but I can tell, it’s not something she likes to talk about. She smoothly changes the subject to a booth nearby. “Pin the tail on the lobster?” she snorts with laughter. “Why does that feel cruel, somehow?”

“It’s a plushie toy,” I protest. “It’s not like they’re tormenting a real lobster.”

“No, they’re leaving that to the lobster broil next door,” she mutters.

I squeeze her hand. “Says the woman who just inhaled five pounds of the stuff.”

“That was different!” she protests.

“How, exactly?”

“Because… because I didn’t have to watch their little flailing legs trying to escape,” Avery admits. She groans. “I’m a total hypocrite. A lobster killer!”

“If it helps, we’re all complicit in the crime,” I tease.

A group of old-timers from Blackberry Cove pass by, and I pause to greet them, and make small talk about the secret seasoning on Earl’s lobster quiche, and his broken window latch I promised to help fixing.

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