Page 25 of Enemies in Earnest

No one had. Felicity had to leave to go help Klaus get ready for the evening’s festivities, but she’d similarly wondered before she’d gone where Marley and he had gone off to. Though I guess after getting a bombshell likehey I’m your long-lost daughter from thirty something years agoone may need to process that in private.

Acacia took my hand, and I led her to our knoll. The sun had yet to set, but once it did, the solar powered fairy lights I’d strung up would start to twinkle beneath the space I’d cleared for my blanket and picnic. I grabbed all my supplies from the back of my truck. The moment Acacia saw the blue checked quilt, glee and delight exploded from her as if she herself was a firework.

“A picnic?” she asked. “For me?”

Jesus. If she smiled like that for a tattered blanket and some grocery store wine and cheese, I’d give her picnics for the rest of her damn life. She gathered one corner of the blanket and helped me spread it out before folding herself into a seated position and helping unpack the basket.

With every item she pulled out, she oohed and aahed like it was the most exotic fare she’d ever been presented with instead of just little blocks of cheese and some crackers.

“A Latta wine?” She raised her eyebrows in my direction, a sweet smile tipping the corner of her mouth. “Color me impressed. And it’s even slightly chilled.”

She gasped when I produced the special glasses the woman at the store suggested I bring. They were shaped like upside down bells. Apparently, they helped spread the wine out and capture the air that allowed the bouquet of the wine to blossom. I don’t know. None of that shit made sense to me. But the woman spoke with such enthusiasm I just shrugged and told her I’d take two of those glasses also. Seeing Acacia’s reaction and noting how impressed she was with my efforts made me want to sprint back to the grocery store and high five the woman at the wine counter.

“And the piece de resistance. What is a night enjoying Santa’s boat parade without a little jeering of our favorite sexy Santa.”

From my truck, I produced two gigantic poster boards. I’d purchased glow in the dark glitter pens to make sure that Klaus couldn’t possibly miss us.

“Santa, I’m a naughty elf?” Acacia read, chagrin dripping from her voice. “Seriously, Edwin?”

I held up mine rather than provide her a response.

“Santa, show me your candy cane? Oh my god Edwin, you’re the worst!”

There was no heat to her words. In fact she fought valiantly to keep a straight face as she chided me.

“Being turned into an objectified sex object comes with the territory of being selected as Santa.” I shrugged. “If he can’t handle the heat, maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to be Sexy Santa.”

ChapterEighteen

If the dayhad a chapter heading in theLife of Acacia Ashleystory it would beYou Can Do Big Things. Hemingway Day was going to be amazing. Something that truly would be a showpiece fitting his one hundred and twenty-fifth birthday. While Asher may have been the one to capture all of our ideas and put them in a semblance of organization that only he understood, all of the effort, exhaustion, and planning would be well worth it. Even if it was just a small group of us that paid homage to the literary great.

My team had really pulled together and leaned in. Something that wasn’t unusual but always thrilled me to see how committed to one another and our pub they were. We’d done a rehearsal of the readings from various members of the town and a video slideshow of Hemingway quotes, alongside some more rare photos we found in the university archives. It was going to be beautiful. I wished that the Hemingway family could witness this year’s event. But they’d declined politely as they had every year sincethe incident.

But that was behind us now. Edwin had apologized, more than once and inverycreative ways that had my body thrilling at the remembrance. It was an unfortunate accident that we just needed to move past.

“I hope one day the Hemingways forgive me,” I blurt out. Count on me and my dumb mouth to make sure toHindenburgany date that bordered on lovely. And what a lovely date Edwin planned for the two of us. He’d recreated our first picnic, pulled me against his chest so I could recline against him while he reclined against a tree trunk, and fed me bite -sized pieces of cheese and sips of my wine.

“You’ve done enough serving today,”he told me, pushing aside my hair and worshipping my pulse point with his mouth.“Let someone else serve you for a change.”

Edwin continued to suckle my neck, sending a bone knocking shiver straight down my spinal cord to flirt with my core.

“When you host your tribute, do you do it because you love Hemingway and want to share that love with others, or do you host your tribute so other people will notice you?”

I couldn’t answer the question with his mouth on me. But it rattled in my head as the rest of my body surrendered to Edwin’s commands. I did love Hemingway.

However, there was a part of me that wanted people to take notice of my event, I realized. Iwantedthat approval. As if having the Hemingways choose me would somehow prove to all those stuff shirts at the university that they’d thrown their favor behind the wrong professor. That Mason had been wrong, and my censure was unjust and unfounded.

“Maybe a little bit of both,” I admitted, feeling a prick of shame wash over me.

“Hey, it’s nothing to feel bad about. We all want to be recognized for a job well done. But what does having the Hemingways here do for you? Is it because you want more publicity for Temperance? Because from where I sit, your pub is quite successful. Maybe from where you sit you think it should be doing better because we all set impossible standards for ourselves in regard to our personal measures of success. My useless opinion? I’m in awe of you and your pub.”

Feeling the weight of his arms wrapped around me anchored against his firm chest was quickly becoming my favorite place to be. I don’t think I’d ever get tired of his ocean smell or stop relishing in the feel of his scruff along my cheek.

Boats floated by us, each one decorated in a holiday theme. Cheery songs blast from their stereo systems as they waved enthusiastically as they passed by. Being here in our inlet truly was the best, most private place to watch the parade. We got to see everyone first, as they turned toward town and the wild rash of people.

“When I was at U.F., Mason—my ex—hated that he wasn’t truly considered part of the American Literature fellows. D.H. Lawrence was a British writer, you see. And though Mason argued extensively that his best works were written while he lived in New Mexico, he often found he was grouped with the British scholars instead of the American ones.

“It sounds stupid, I know. Now that I’ve been divorced from academia for so long, all of the bullshit just sounds so childish and exhausting. But when you’re in an institution that exists on placing value on your contribution to academic conversation—where in that conversation you exist means a lot.

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