Page 9 of Beachside Kisses With My Best Friend

“Pshaw. As if I would.” Earl flashes me a mischievous grin, and I know without a doubt hedefinitelywould.

Even though I’m in a hurry, I can’t help but laugh and indulge them. I’ll be here a few minutes waiting for my order anyway. “All right, guys. What’s the question?”

“In your fine opinion”—Earl’s bushy eyebrows dance and disappear underneath the brim of his cowboy hat as he emphasizes each word—“which is better: pig wrestling or underwater hockey?”

If I’d been drinking my as-yet-to-be-served coffee, I’d have sputtered it all over the burnished wood floor. “Um. Well. That’s a very…interesting question, gentlemen.” One for which I have no answer.

Because… What the what?

My hesitation is covered by the sound of the coffee grinder whirring behind the pickup counter, where Amy, the younger sister of coffee shop owner Thomas Montrose, works on filling orders.

She flicks me a smile. I glance away. Not because she isn’t pretty. With her blonde braid and slim figure, she definitely is.

Just not as pretty as…

“Baseball,” I say, moving my attention back to the two seventy-something chuckleheads that have come to be like crazy great-uncles to me. “Baseball is definitely the best sport.”

“Aw, come on. It’s okay. You can tell us the truth.” Earl leans in close and whisper-yells, “We both know it’s pig wrestling.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” I hold up my hands in defense. “I choose to abstain from this…er, discussion.” Not only because it’s ridiculous, but because at my core, I’m a peacemaker. Though in reality, nobody has been able to keep peace between Ned and Earl, who have been best friends since grade school. They’re always arguing about something. Thankfully, they do it in love.

They’re proof that peoplecansay what they’re thinking without losing someone’s affection and respect.

If only I’d experienced that in my own life.

“That’s because for the hundredth time, Earl, pig wrestling’s not a sport!” Ned shakes his head in disgust. I catch a whiff of some sort of olive oil wafting off his flannel shirt. His family has owned Olive Paradise for as long as I can remember—and he’s smelled this way for as long as I can remember too.

“Is too! My granddaddy wrestled pigs with the best of ’em.” Tipping his hat upward with the thrust of his pointer finger, Earl struts back toward their table.

Grunting, Ned follows, muttering something about how Earl’s old and that means his granddaddy probably wrestled pigs one hundred years ago.

I can’t help but grin at their nonsense when Amy finally calls my name. Turning, I find her there, smiling at me again, my Americano clutched in her hands. “Morning, Jordan.” Her eyes are bright and eager. She’s a bit younger than me—maybe five years?—and she’s really sweet. In any other life, I’d ask her out in a heartbeat.

But she’s just not my person.

Not that my person knows how I feel. And even if I could summon the courage to tell her, I’m not sure she’ll ever be ready to hear it.

“Hey, Amy.” I don’t want to encourage the poor woman’s attention if she does have feelings for me, but I also can’t be rude. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Biting her lip, she runs her thumb along the lid of the cup. She opens her mouth to say something else, but before she can, her brother—who is taking orders in his signature, bright-orange Hawaiian shirt—asks if she can get some more coffee beans from the back.

“Sure, Tommy.” With a sheepish glance my way, she slides the coffee across the counter. “Enjoy your drink and have a good day.”

“Thanks. You too.”

She heads through the kitchen door behind the glass display case featuring a variety of breakfast sandwiches, yogurt parfaits, and specialty sodas.

Shaking off the discomfort I feel over the interaction, I grab my coffee, its warmth seeping through my hand, and turn, nearly smacking into Bea Reynolds. “Oh geez, sorry, Mrs. Reynolds!” Just my luck. She’s one of the chattiest town members around, and I’m short on time as it is.

I guess this is what I get for coming to the town’s only coffee shop instead of making my own cuppa Joe at home. But I was nearly late dropping Ryder at preschool as it was.

“Jordan Carmichael! We haven’t seen you in ages, sugar.” The Texas charm oozes off of Bea, who just happens to be the aunt of Marilee’s other best friend, Lucy, and the mother of their mutual friend, April. “And you know, it’s Bea. We don’t stand on formality here.”

“She’s right.” Aaaaaand she’s not alone. Her sister-in-law, Janine—owner of The Purple Seashell, the town’s only inn—peeks from behind her. “You’re keeping yourself far too busy these days.”

Both women are looking at me with big, sympathetic eyes, like I’m a cartoon bunny they just want to wrap up in a motherly hug.

Like I said. Small towns.

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