Page 25 of Summer People
I sit up and swing my feet over the side of the bed. When they settle on the cool wooden planks, I let the sensation overtake me, refusing to give that man any more of my thoughts.
It’s bad enough that my inbox is filled with his threats and that millions believe his lies. A man simply has to breathe to be believed. No sense in wasting my own breath with the truth.
From here, I can see Bing bounding through my yard, chasing away the gulls. Thank god. I really didn’t feel like facing Doris so I could buy more bread.
From his porch, Fisher hollers, “Come on, boy. The donuts aren’t going to get themselves.”
My mouth waters at the memory of the donuts Sutton shared with me last week. That sounds like a perfect way to start myday. I’ll take a shower, maybe even do one of the face masks I brought, then head into town for donuts.
Despite Fisher’s general grumpiness last night, I had a good time at the brewery. He barely said two words to me on the way home, and the “good night” he forced out as he walked me to my door was more of a grunt, but I think we’ve turned a corner.
Does he want me here? No. But he did come to my rescue when I needed him. Maybe I’ll even see if I can hang out with Sutton later so he can have some time to himself. He could probably benefit from a calming face mask more than me. Just the image of him wearing one of my blue or pink masks makes me giggle.
Smiling, I head for the shower. I’m not the least bit surprised when the water is cold again. He must be doing something wrong with the pilot. Despite what he thinks, I don’t need his help. So I stomp down to the basement, ignoring the corners where spiders are sure to lurk, and do what I’ve seen Fisher do five times this week.
The knowledge that I solved the problem myself makes the warm shower I take a half hour later feel that much more luxurious.
From the outside, the bakery looks like an outhouse. The small white building is attached to a pizza shop, and inside, a woman with bright red hair helps the patrons standing in line.
I step into the queue, excitement filling me as I scan the selection of donut flavors written in bright chalk above thecounter. From the note at the bottom of the sign, it looks like they change out the choices regularly.
I absolutely love that. More options to choose from.
I snap a picture of the list with my phone and on instinct navigate to Instagram. The second the app loads, my heart stutters. Dammit. That’s something I would do in the past. Hell, big-name brands have offered ridiculous amounts of money in exchange for social media posts. I’ve never taken any of them up on it, though. I only post about places and products I truly enjoy. Little boutiques with the best shoes, restaurants that source their own food. Places like this. Except posting about this spot would mean drawing attention to where I am, and the last thing I need is for Brad to find me.
As long as he can’t find me, his threats are empty.
By the time I step up to the counter, my mouth is watering again. “Good morning, can I have a Fruit Loops donut and a coffee?” I pull out my wallet and dig out cash.
“We’re all out.”
I look up, eyes wide, only to be met with a frown, and not the sympathetic kind.
“Oh.” My gaze goes to the blackboard. “What about the coconut cake one?”
“All out of that too.”
Okay… “Hmm. Well, what flavors do you have?”
She shakes her head. “We’re all out of everything. Sorry.”
The way the woman smiles when she says sorry rankles me. Yeah, she’s not sorry at all. With a deep breath in, I keep my cool and step to the side. I guess I have to find something else for breakfast.
The line has grown quite long behind me. Damn, a lot of people are going to be disappointed when she closes up early.
I’m still considering my options when the man who was behind me in line asks for a half dozen donuts and she rings him right up.
What the hell?
She serves two more customers before she notices me and has the audacity to smirk. I have to squeeze my fists to keep myself from giving her the finger.
Before I do something I’ll regret, I stomp off. I’m so angry I’m not focused on where I’m going and almost walk straight into a golf cart. Bracing myself to be yelled at, I squeeze my eyes shut and click my shoes together. “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home?—”
“Libby?” a woman calls, startling me. “Are you okay?”
Eyes flying open, I find Kennedy looking at me like she’s worried I might have had a mental breakdown.
She wouldn’t be too far off.
