Page 15 of The Romance Game

“Good to know you’ve got your eyes on me.” Though I’m not sure how I feel about that.

“Anyway, Harley can handle you,” Magnus says with laughter in his voice.

“Hold up. Whose side are you on?” I ask, feeling mildly betrayed.

Perched on the arm of the chair Magnus sits on, from behind, Lally laces her arms around his neck and kisses him on the cheek.

I tuck my head back, squish up my face, and frown. “Ew. Be in love somewhere else. It’s gross.”

Magnus’s lips quirk. “As you wish. But I have a feeling if you stick around, those flamingos will soon be back.”

“Don’t count on it,” I mutter.

They disappear into the kitchen. I drop a twenty-dollar bill into the tip jar and then take a giant chocolate chip oatmeal cookie from the display and pour myself a cold brew with cold foam.

Hashtag island life.

Returning to my seat near Nutmeg, I browse the internet, trying to make sense of the mess I’m in. More headlines roll in, including:

Runaway BrideandGroom?

Goodbye Groom and Bye Bye Bride

Jayda Webster and McGregor Meant to Be or Meant to Flee?

Marriage, a No-Go for Player Number Fourteen

Then I reach the motherload.

According to sources, the recently engaged Riptide assistant coach’s daughter and star QB left town, but not together. The rest of the article proceeds to smear me across the field and then mop me up with my losses. It lists every reason I should not be allowed to play for the Riptide next season. It uses expressions likewashed up,retire already, andnot worth the screen time.

Even with the coffee, my mental gears turn slowly.

What am I going to do?

Hammocking my head in my hands, the uncertainty I felt earlier at the bachelor party (how is this still the same day?) turns heavy, viscous, and drops into the pit of my stomach.

An answer doesn’t come. My head is empty, except for one thing.

Harley.

Now is not a good time for her games. To be fair, I play too. Magnus was right. We are like cats and dogs, fire and water, and water and oil all mixed up into one disastrous explosive concoction.

But she lingers in my mind until I remember what she studied in college.

Getting to my feet, I stuff the cookie in a wax baggie and march outside. I could text Brando to see if he knows where she is. Then I spot the car she was driving parked outside the Plundering Pelican—her aunt and uncle’s restaurant. They used to have the best waffles, but according to the Coconut Wireless, the quality has degraded recently. One morning, Ray Higbee got a bowl full of sawdust instead of oatmeal and it wasn’t April Fool’s Day. Someone else said the maple syrup that came with their pancakes smelled like vinegar.

When I get inside, the windows are no longer nearly invisible from Mr. Owen’s fastidious cleaning. The chairs are askew and the air smells faintly of burned hair rather than the malty scent of waffles.

“Harley?” I call when I reach the counter.

She crouches down there. “Oh. Hi. Didn’t hear anyone come in. Just down here doing stuff.”

“The bells are on the door and—” I peer over the counter. “There’s nothing down there.”

“Oh, there’s loads of stuff. You just can’t see it.”

“And you’re a ghost. Right.” I roll my eyes.

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