Page 22 of One Touch

Sophie

Probably.

Gemma

Not if it’s the guy you posted on your Insta last night.

Sophie

Hold please. Holy crap—I just checked IG, and my feminism just flew out the window.

Me

It’s Declan’s brother. He’s also a prick.

Gemma

All’s fair in love and war, baby. Give him hell.

Sophie

Can I request a butt pic? Those jeans are really snug.

Me

I forgot you’re a hoe for a tight pair of jeans. I’ll see what I can do.

Laughing, I flipped through my recent photos on my phone to determine what else I could post about. Certainly the surprise porch deconstruction would be a fun topic of conversation—especially if I could get a few shots of Beckett half-naked and sweaty while he worked.

For Sophie, of course.

Just outside the kitchen window, he was still working at prying off old porch boards and readying the project for his crew. I dug a ceramic cup out of one of the boxes I’d packed and walked over to the small coffee maker I had set up in the hallway. Though we would be without a kitchen for a while, there was no reason the crew and I had to suffer through Beckett’s shit attitude without caffeine.

I ignored the low, not-at-all-like-sex grunts coming from outside as I waited on my coffee. After doctoring it up with cream and sugar, I hastily made a second cup.

Dressed this time, I opened the front door again to find Beckett had made steady progress removing the porch boards. I eyed the open slats in front of me.

I gently cleared my throat, and his stormy gray eyes moved to mine. “If you’re redoing the porch, instead of just wrapping around the front, I think it should wrap all the way around the north side too.”

Beckett wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. “Is that all?”

My pulse danced as a tingle slid dangerously low down my belly. I placed the spare mug of coffee on a row of boards that had yet to be removed and lifted my chin.

Steadying my balance, I tiptoed across the joists and hopped into the soft grass.

The heady weight of his gaze was on me the entire time. I lifted a shoulder without looking back as I strode toward my Jeep. “Open concept with no railings would be nice too.”

Without waiting for his response, I climbed inside and headed to town.

* * *

“Katie’s takingcare of everything. It’s a heavy burden off my shoulders.” Aunt Tootie beamed at me as she sung my praises in the small book shop that held a weekly book club for the women of Outtatowner.

It was surreal sitting in the small book shop, the women of Outtatowner—King and Sullivan women, no less—chatting together, talking over each other, and laughing. Growing up, the Bluebird Book Club was always an elusive, secret society of women from every family in town. I had always hoped to be a part of the inner circle. Something about it was mysterious and bold andjust for us. My mother was a Bluebird, and I had wanted to be one too.

I glanced over at the wall of framed black-and-white photos behind the cash register. My eyes immediately found the photo I was looking for—Mom. She was frozen in time, exactly how I remembered her. Dressed in an airy skirt and blouse, laughing at something someone was saying off camera. There was no denying I’d grown to look more and more like her as time wore on.

The whoosh of coastal air and the tinkling of the bell at the door pulled my attention from painful, unfaded memories.

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