Page 37 of Friends Don't Kiss

“What?”

She shrugs. “Nothing,” she says, stepping to the door.

I set my hand on the doorknob, keeping us inside. “Kiara. What is it?”

“I forgot my phone charger.” She shrugs again. “It’s fine. Let’s go.”

I open the door, liking the way her body brushes against mine as she steps into the hallway. “You had it in the car. You probably left it plugged in.”

“Oh, right. Taylor Swift,” she says with a smile. “Thanks for putting up with me,” she adds as we exit to join the dinner party.

I stop in my tracks, keeping us right outside the room. “What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t in a great mood.”

“Understandable.”

“We only listened to my music.”

“Nothin’ wrong with Taylor Swift.”

She sighs and gives me a half smile. “When are you going to stop being perfect?”

I like the sound of that. She takes a quick inhale that usually precedes some kind of tirade, so I turn her to me with one hand on her hip and shush her with a finger on her lips. Then I lower my mouth to her ear, and whisper, “Just being a good boyfriend,” right as someone walks by.

She clears her throat, then takes my hand as we make our way downstairs.

The inn overlooks the ocean, which at this time of day is a dark mass outside the bay windows lining one side of the dining room and two living rooms. Inside, it’s comfy and simple. Wooden floors, thick carpets showing some wear, comfortable furniture. A roaring fireplace in each room. Books and paintings of ships. Small lamps on side tables.

“How do you like this place?” Eloise asks as I’m considering whether to line up for the dessert buffet. Kiara went to the bathroom, so I walked away from the table with her. I don’t want to offend the hosts, but nothing here looks even remotely enticing compared to Kiara’s pastries.

“It’s really nice. Your friend really came through. How long has she owned it?”

Eloise leans closer to me as if to tell me a secret. “She doesn’t actually own it. Her daughter manages it. And she had the idea for this little shindig, to keep her staff busy during slow season.”

She nudges me toward the dessert table, cackling. “You can’t go wrong with their wild blueberry pie. It’s really good, but not Kiara levels of good. Take your girlfriend a slice too, so she has something else to bitch about than her family.”

I try to shake myself out of my thoughts about Kiara’s complicated relationship with her family when she joins us back at the table. It isn’t hard. Kiara’s dress cups her curves just the right way and the glass or two of wine she’s had put a tint in her cheeks and a spark in her eye. She even smiles when I stand to pull her chair out and leans into my hand when I let it trail on her shoulders.

She’s good at faking this stuff. She could fool even me, if I didn’t know better. This playing pretend is both highly entertaining and downright infuriating, when I consider the fact that we’ll be sharing a room tonight.

I see a very cold shower in my near future.

Conversation at the table we share with Bill, Eloise, and two other cool couples turns to pastries right as Kiara’s mother decides to join us. Bill refills the glass of champagne she brought along.

“So what is it that you do, Colton,” Kiara’s mother asks, in fact terminating the pastry discussion.

It’d be insulting to tell her that Kiara was explaining something about pie dough that half the table seemed interested in hearing, so I simply answer her, “I’m a mechanic.”

She pouts. “Oh,” she says, taking a quick drink from her bubbly.

“Colton specializes in classic American cars and rally cars. Old rally cars. From the seventies. In addition to all the normal stuff garages do,” Kiara says, and is it just my imagination or is that pride in her voice?

Her mom narrows her eyes on her, something cruel glinting in her gaze.

“Racing cars are fun to work on, but I take more pride in being there for my regular, hard-working, local clients. The work on the race cars helps us stay afloat and keep our prices down for the rest of the business,” I say, partly to change the topic.

“What type of rally cars?” her mom asks.

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