Page 5 of The Grumpy Side of Paradise

“She’s ready to restore the house.” Zach pushes away from the counter in order to let a customer purchase her gallon of milk and a box of wood screws. “Hi, Mrs. Christianson.” He uses his kiss-up voice to greet our second-grade teacher. I nod my own greeting.

“I still can’t tell you boys apart,” she says while she pulls her checkbook from her quilted purse. “But you’re just as cute as ever.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Christianson. And you look as young as ever.” Zach bags her items before I can, and I glare at him. Mrs. Christianson continues to write a check like it’s 1985. Another forty years may pass by the time she finishes.

Most people have learned to tell us apart by our smiles. Zach’s the one who has one. I’m the one who doesn’t. Other than that, it’s our personalities that distinguish us.

When I came home from New York with shoulder-length hair and a beard and saw Zach had grown his hair and beard too, we both laughed. After he betrayed me, I told him he should cut his hair and shave. I don’t want anyone mistaking me for him anymore.

It’s been months, and he hasn’t done what I asked.

And I’m not cutting mine. Or shaving. My twin doesn’t get to ruin my wedding andthenmake me the one who has to shave every day.

“I’m so happy you two have patched things up.” She hands me her check, oblivious to how my eyes have narrowed to angry slits pointed in my brother’s direction.

“Thanks for coming in, Miss C.” I mean to be polite. My words still come out as a growl. Zach does that to me. Having everyone up in my business when I don’t want them to be also doesn’t help.

Before Dakota ran—literallyran—from our wedding, Paradise was just that.Paradise. No downsides to our small-town life. I gave up working at some great restaurants in New York to come back here, but it was worth it.

Or so I thought.

More and more outsiders built vacation homes or, worse, moved here permanently in the years I was gone. Add the fact that I’ve been the center of gossip for the past four months, and Paradise isn’t quite so paradisaical.

But it’s still the only place I want to live, and I’ll do what I can to keep more people from moving here and messing up the haven it’s supposed to be for the people who want to make a life here, not just visit and leave. Being grumpy is part of that, or so I tell myself.

The door closes behind the teacher Georgia and I flicked folded pieces of paper at every time she turned her back. We kept score of who hit her ample backside most often.

Georgia won.

I hope she doesn’t win this time with whatever she’s got planned for the house she inherited from her grandma. Whatever it is, I’m sure it will extend to the entire Little Copenhagen resort and that makes her more an enemy than a friend. Now that she’s famous for renovating old houses into newer “better” versions of what they were, I doubt her plans are to make the resort what it used to be and will instead be all about attracting more out-of-towners.

Zach turns back to me, tucking away the charm he turned on for Mrs. Christianson. “Like I was saying, Georgia is restoring her grandma Rose’s house…”

“Restoring ordestroying?” I say. Zach and I don’t see eye to eye on this issue either. Surprise. “And what does it have to do with me?”

“Restoring. Or renovating. I don’t know how much can be saved.” His nonchalant attitude about the death of Rose Beck’s house, and by association, the Little Copenhagen Resort, where we spent some of the happiest times of our lives, only makes me resent him more. “Georgia’s not doing the work,” he goes on. “Her friend Evie is, and she’ll need your help with the demo and the framing. She wants to hire you and your crew. You’d know this if you’d taken any of Georgia’s calls or returned her texts.”

Georgia is a lot easier to ignore than my brother. The last time she was here was my wedding day. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a twinge of guilt every time I see her number. I miss our friendship almost as much as I miss the relationship I had with my brother.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not letting him change the subject or shame me. “Restoring is bringing things back the way they used to be—the way they should be. Renovation—what Georgia does—is not the same as restoration.”

“Po-tay-toe, po-tah-to. There’s not that much difference between the two. You need to get over yourself and let things go.” Zach crosses his arms and leans against the wall, giving me a disapproving look.

“You know, when you push your biceps out like that, you’re not fooling anyone, right? Try doing some actual work if you want the muscles.” I open my book again and try to focus on the words. It’s difficult when Zach’s still standing there, knowing as well as I do that he and Georgia are doing me a favor by offering to hire my fledgling construction company. My culinary skills don’t pay the bills in Paradise.

Zach pushes away from the wall, and his lip pulls into a side grin. “I’ll take your silence as a yes.” He grabs a Kit Kat from the shelves below the counter. “She’ll be here Thursday. Later, bro.”

I answer by putting my book in front of my face. I need the money from the demo and other jobs the house rehab may provide. But not if it means tearing down a place I loved as a kid. Zach can think whatever he wants. I’m not taking this job.

At least not before I take a good look at my bank account to see if there’s any way I can turn Georgia down.

The sound of a wrapper being torn open reaches me on the other side of my blockade. So does a gush of wind that hints at the cold that’s coming as Zach exits.

“I’m charging you for that,” I call after him, but the door closes, cutting off my words before they can reach my jerk-face brother.

Chapter 3

Evie

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