Page 15 of To Have and to Scold

“I’ve never worked with a wedding planner before. We’re in no position to get in each other’s business, as we’re clearly doing two very different jobs with a common goal.”

“Agreed. I say you do your thing. I’ll do mine.” For one brief moment, her eyes twitch and she smiles. Her eyes are distracting me. Her scent and the memories of her in my arms are twisting in my brain, too.

Finally, all that comes out is, “Okay. Sounds good.” By the time that last word is out, I feel like I’ve regained some composure.

So much so, that I somehow think it’s a good idea to extend my hand to shake hers. Some sort of action to signify that we had some fun the other night, but now it’s time to work, time to finish renovating Willow Wood Mansion and hope the mayor backs my proposal for the new teen wing at the YMCA.

Her gaze drops to my hand, but I stiffen my back to a better posture. If we’re more formal here, somehow that’s got to be better.

“Perfect,” she says. Getting to her feet, she grasps my hand, giving it a firm shake.

A jolt travels over my wrist and up my arm, leaving it with goosebumps.

I think Dallas Olivia Cardon is going to either make or break this whole wedding venue project, and possibly more aspects of my life than that.

Am I going to be able to keep my wits about me?

Chapter Six

Dallas

This isn’t supposed to be happening.

As I drive to see the venue I’ll be using for weddings for the next few months, I feel a little weird about it all. I’m starting my new job in Willow Cove with a guy—allegedly not named Billy, technically—that I’d waxed on about how stunning the stars were and been goofy with. I also rebound hugged him—hard—because I was feeling vulnerable about Holden and McKenna.

And I most certainly wasn’t supposed to run into Holden and McKenna here. Before, McKenna wouldn’t have ever gone on vacation without telling me where she was going. And my parents didn’t know. They decided to “go on a break” from McKenna and the rest of the family since this whole debacle started. They said they thought it would be best for them to avoid family parties and such for a little while to support me.

Ever since my parents started therapy five years ago, they use buzzword-filled phrases like “How can we support you?” and “Let’s all engage in some mindfulness here.”

Don’t get me wrong, it’s sorta cool that my parents are all “woke” now with their mental health. There was a time in my childhood when that wasn’t the case. My mom is even toying with the idea of starting an Instagram account to share quotes about relationships and family dynamics and stuff.

But sometimes it’s odd.

I swallow down the memories of the past few weeks, as I lost my boyfriend and the closeness of my cousin in one fell swoop. Holden was a divergence fromThe Plan—a silly, misguided mistake.

But McKenna? Everything’s changed.

The one good thing is, I’m sure they’re back in Atlanta now and I can live my life in peace.

I check the navigation hints on my phone again as I pull up to the address Beck texted me this morning. It says I’ve arrived, but I’m not so sure.

The beach unfurls before me, the scent of the salt in the air hitting me before I’ve even opened my car door. The sharp caw of a seagull overhead startles me.

Is this Willow Wood Mansion? The mission-style, two-story home with a beachy vibe was once beautiful, that much is clear. But now? What happened?

A dark olive-green shutter is hanging by its last hinge against the backdrop of the ivory colored brick, tilted so disturbingly to one side and squeaking in the sea breeze that for a brief moment, I have an apocalyptic vision.

The landscaping is a disaster. It’s as if the sand from the beach began encroaching on the home years ago and no one bothered to do anything about it. It’s having its way with the house, ready to consume it entirely.

Two large pick-up trucks are parked in the skiff of sand covering the driveway, their beds full to the brim with assorted construction equipment. And the mansion, as a whole, needs a thorough power washing.

Shoshana said Mayor Dobbs told her the house was being renovated, but the way she said it, so casually, made it seem like it was almost finished. Obviously, that’s not the case.

“Dallas!” It’s Beck’s voice, I just don’t know where he is. I whip my head around, and finally, past the single palm trees that flank either side of the front entrance, a couple of construction workers carrying buckets point to the front balcony off the top floor. It’s Beck, waving, all sunny and happy.

He really does seem happy to see me. All yesterday, especially after the meeting and when he wasn’t off doing who knows what in his big truck, he seemed dismissive, like he had way too much to do to be bothered by the new hire. He acted like our evening on the beach never happened.

Which is fine. That’s how things are supposed to be. Professional and at arm’s length. And it soon became clear that he did not see Saturday night in the same light I had.

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