Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

Chapter 16

At twenty-eight, I wouldn’t exactly call myself old.

But when you’ve just spent thirty minutes giving romping, alternating piggy-back rides to a three-year-old, a five-year-old, and a six-year-old, you start to understand the phrase, “Oh, my aching back.”

“Okay, guys.” I slide Felicia, the youngest, off my back onto the bottom stair, then lean against the railing to catch my breath. “Aunt Lucy is getting tired.”

They protest for a moment, and five-year-old Leonardo narrows his striking blue eyes that stand out even more against the darker skin tone he inherited from his Hispanic mama. “You promised me next!”

“Please, auntie? One more?” Isabella bats her little lashes at me and twirls.

I’m not really their aunt—I can’t be anyone’s aunt, since I don’t have siblings—but my littlest cousins don’t know the difference. Their dad, Jeff, my oldest cousin who is in town visiting for a few days with his wife and four kids from Dallas, is eight years older than me, so he was already away at college when I moved here sophomore year. Still, he’s come back a few times every year to visit, so as far as his kiddos know, I’m just like another one of his sisters.

Speaking of his sisters, Stephanie is on her way to this little impromptu Monday night gathering—working late—and April is huddled on my uncle’s beat-up recliner in the corner of the tiny living room with her computer. I don’t know how she writes with all the chaos ensuing.

Five children (including her own seven-year-old, Scarlett) ranging in age from three to twelve have spent the last hour shouting, running up and down the stairs and out to the backyard, tossing balls and snatching bits of food from Aunt Bea, Aunt Janine (my dad and Uncle Burt’s sister), and Jeff’s wife in the kitchen, where my stomach rumbles at the smells of the Mexican food Maria is an expert at making.

My uncle Burt and Jeff are sitting at the kitchen table, loudly discussing the Cowboys’ chances this year at going to the Super Bowl. (Which, yes, is eight months away, but these Texas men love their football.)

But despite the cacophony surrounding her, April is still zeroed in on whatever she’s writing. That woman loves a good romance novel, and I’m convinced that someday she’s going to be published. Whenever I ask her how it’s going though, she just shrugs me off. I’ve heard authors are never satisfied with their own work, but I remember when April let me read some of her stuff before she left to study at the University of Washington’s creative writing program. I’m not a big reader, but even I could tell that it was good.

“Give me fifteen minutes, all right? Shoo now. Git.” I lunge like I’m going to pat my cousins’ tushies, and they run up the stairs screaming like little banshees.

It’s glorious, and I’m right at home in the chaos.

After a few moments of rest, I haul myself up and sit down on the end of the couch closest to April. She’s got on a pair of slouchy socks and bright red lounge pants that match her shoulder-length red hair, which is back in a clip and—from the looks of it—several days unwashed. There are some dark circles under her eyes, and she’s got a stain on her black T-shirt. I haven’t seen her looked this harried since Scarlett was a newborn. She had to move home from college, pregnant and a dropout at age nineteen, severely depressed but also determined to somehow carve out a life for her daughter.

And that’s exactly what she did. By the time Scarlett turned two, April had built up a little nest egg from her job at Aunt Janine’s inn, The Purple Seashell, and moved them both to San Francisco, where a friend from college offered her a job as an administrative assistant at a publishing house.

April is fiercely independent, and I know that moving home again recently wasn’t something she really wanted. She did it for Scarlett, to grow up with family around, and also for her parents, since they’re starting to get up there in years. But maybe the move has been harder on her than I realized.

“Hey, cuz.” I nudge her with my big toe.

She jolts at the contact and slams her laptop shut as if on instinct. What in the world is she working on that that’s her reaction? I don’t think she writes steamy scenes in her books, but then again, what do I know? I have no clue what’s popular these days.

When she notes that it’s me, her shoulders relax. “Sorry. I had a moment of inspiration and had to get it down.” She laughs softly and slides the computer onto the coffee table. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. But I’m more worried about you. You look tired.” I pull one of Aunt Bea’s bulky quilts from the floor between the chair and couch and tuck it around my legs—not really because it’s cold, but because it’s comfortable. That’s how this whole house feels, because that’s how my aunt and uncle make everyone feel when they come inside. It’s nothing fancy, just random knickknacks and no real decorating theme. But the way the living room leads right into the kitchen in a great room style, the comfy sitting area, the big-screen TV, the quilts—it all somehow comes together to say, “Stay a while.” (Or in my case, nearly thirteen years!)

April pushes back the side-swooping bangs hanging in her eyes. Shakes her head. “I’m just on a deadline.” She blanches and hurries to continue. “I mean, I’ve given myself a deadline and don’t want to miss it.”

Hmm. I mean, my cousin is kind of hard on herself, but this seems like more than that. Maybe she’s worried about Scarlett. “How’s Scar doing? Adjusting to life in Hallmark Beach?”

“She’s thriving. Loving it. Honestly, she slipped right into first grade like she’d known all those kids her whole life—not just as a toddler before we left.” She rolls her eyes, and there’s the sassy cousin I know and love, finally coming out of her writing coma. “When school ended last week, she was queen of the playground. Apparently everyone wanted to be Scarlett’s friend. Hopefully it doesn’t go to her head.”

“Takes after her mama, that one.” I wink. “So what’s she doing now that school’s out? Hanging with Aunt Bea while you work?”

“Some of the time, but I enrolled her at the summer day camp that Go Round Adventures is running.”

Oh, right. Marilee had mentioned that Jordan’s company was expanding this summer to try out a program for kids. “That’s the one Sarah and Mandy Hubbard are running, yeah?” The sisters actually are the reason I snagged a room at Marilee’s house. They moved here last year to work for Jordan, lived with Marilee in the rooms Blake and I now occupy, but decided to get their own apartment together, which made room for me at the beginning of May.

“Yep. She loves it. Especially all the sports. Football is her favorite.”

And that makes me snort. “Who knew your daughter would be sporty?” The only time I’ve seen April run (other than forced gym class in high school) was when she once won an all-you-can-grab-in-two-minutes book sweepstakes at The Bluestocking Bookshop where she now works.

“Yeah. Funny.” Her gaze slips away toward the women in the kitchen, almost as if she’s contemplating escaping our conversation to help cook—which is even more laughable, because she’s like me when it comes to her kitchen craftiness. Why is she…

Ah. Of course. She must be thinking of Scarlett’s dad. None of us know his identity—she’s always refused to say, and I’ve just always assumed it was some jerk she met in college who left her high and dry when she told him she was pregnant—but maybe he was sporty.

I reach over and squeeze her arm. “I’m glad she’s doing so well. And I have no doubt you’re going to crush that book deadline, even if it’s self-imposed.”

She flashes me a genuine smile. “Thanks, Lucy.” Then her mouth tilts even more to the side, and I recognize the look in her eyes. The prying one. The teasing glint that says she’s about to ask me something personal. “Sooo. How are you, really? I’ve heard rumors about you and a certain food truck owner and have been meaning to ask you if they’re true.”

I cough. “Depends on what you’ve heard. We haven’t murdered each other yet.”

“Yes, I can see that.” She leans forward, grinning. Whatever was on her mind just a few moments ago has clearly fled. “Elisse texted me that she saw you sneaking out of the truck last night, and even though it was dark, she could tell your cheeks looked flushed.”

Darn that Elisse, always looking to stir up trouble for me. Hmm. Maybe the ladies in the kitchen do need help…

I do my best to maintain a neutral expression. “For your information—and you can tell Elisse this too—I was helping Blake with a recipe and standing near the stove. Naturally, I’d get warm.” I mean, yeah, it’s the truth. But there was also the heat from Blake’s body so near mine, from his gaze as he pinned me to the spot while I tried his—our—creation…

The warmth exploding inside me when I realized that he’d been handing out my coupons.

It started as embarrassment that I’d needed the help but quickly morphed into something more. Something that very nearly made me rise up on my tiptoes and fuse my mouth with his.

Instead, I sank into his arms. Because clearly, he’s working at a truce too. The fliers were his white flag. Doesn’t mean I need to go making a fool of myself. He’s leaving, after all.

But I still can’t get it out of my head the way he looked at me. The almost near certainty that he’s feeling what I am. That the spark is there.

I just don’t know what to do with that. Probably nothing.

From the way her eyebrows are rising and waggling, April’s not buying my story. “Helping with a recipe, huh? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

Sweet macaroni. Her implication makes me blush here and now. I feel my cheeks heating hotter than a Fourth of July firework. Taking one of the couch pillows beside me, I toss it at her head.

She dodges it and laughs. “Kidding, kidding. I know how much you loathe the man.”

“Yeah. Totally.” But my voice lacks conviction.

Her eyes narrow, and she studies me like a lion assessing its prey. “Oh, no. Lucy.”

Oh, no, Lucy, is right. “What?” I fold my arms over my chest.

April frowns. “You know I love to tease you, but you haven’t honestly fallen for the guy again, have you?”

“No.” Again, I’m as convictionless as a felon intent on a crime.

My cousin hauls herself out of the chair and comes to plop beside me on the couch. She turns her body so she’s facing me, and I do the same, one leg pulled up underneath me. “Lucy, I know I’m two years younger than you, so we didn’t exactly hang out a lot in high school, but even I saw how you felt about him. And you never talked about it, but I saw how it tore you up when he left for college.”

I open my mouth to protest—because that’s what I’ve always done—but my recent conversation with Marilee comes to mind. Maybe I need to start being honest with not just the people I love, but myself too. “It did.” My words are soft. “But…I don’t know.” I run my finger along the couch’s blue weathered fabric.

And finally, I get the courage to voice the question that I’ve been trying to bury the last week, since Blake and I made our truce. Since I’ve started seeing I was wrong about him. That maybe the old Blake is still in there somewhere. That work isn’t all he cares about. And that maybe he really does have feelings for me too. “Maybe things could be different this time around.”

“Aw, cuz. You know I’m the queen of happily ever afters. Reading about them, not living them out, clearly.” She gives a wry smile. “And you know I’d be sooooo happy for you if you found the man of your dreams. You deserve happiness more than anyone I know.”

My eyes sting, and I push my finger harder along the rim of the couch.

“But just…be careful, okay? Those first loves have a way of holding onto you and never letting go.”

And now I wonder if April’s talking about me or her—and Scarlett’s dad, whoever he is. But either way, she’s got a point. Maybe what’s happening between me and Blake is inevitable. Maybe my feelings for him are so wrapped up in the past that what’s happening now is just a continuation of that.

Maybe there’s nothing real there now. Maybe it’s all a result of the years of longing.

Ugh, I don’t even know if I’m making sense. Thankfully, my brain is given a break when Aunt Bea declares it’s time for dinner and says everyone better get in the kitchen and grab all the fixins for tacos and enchiladas. Then it’s chaos again, and that drowns out the doubts and questions in my brain for the time being. I’m not thinking about Blake or the failing restaurant or anything except the joy of being with my family.

Even if I’ve always felt a little on the outside of it all—an honorary aunt and daughter only—I’d still do anything for these people, and I love being with them. But being with them always brings out a longing deep inside me. One I don’t often let myself dwell on.

I want this. I’ve always wanted this—to build something like Burt and Bea have built. Something I didn’t have growing up with my parents because I didn’t have siblings and Daddy died so young. Mama did her best, I know, but part of her best was bringing me here, letting Bea and Burt have a hand in raising me. I’m grateful. But I’m also sad that it wasn’t different in my own home.

Still. Maybe someday, I could have this with someone.

If I can find the courage to risk my heart—to risk the heartache that Mama felt when Daddy died—then a version of this could be mine.

I’m quiet as dinner goes on, as plates are filled and then emptied, as stories are swapped and laughter rings out. I’m just soaking it all in.

As I’m leaving, there are hugs all around. Uncle Burt gathers me up and pulls me off my feet with a “boy, howdy, we sure miss you around here.” Aunt Bea pulls me to her large chest and kisses my head, then slips a postcard into my bag. “From your mama. Not sure why she sent it here.” She pats my cheek, as if she knows how that probably hurts to hear.

Mama—that’s another subject I have pushed to the periphery of my mind, because thinking about the unanswered text I sent her in reply to her text a week ago makes my chest ache.

“Oh, Bea, don’t forget to ask her about Sunday.” Burt winks at me, stuffs his hands in the pockets of his overalls, and walks away whistling.

“What’s next Sunday?” I ask.

Bea studies me, pensive. “Father’s Day. He wanted me to make sure you were coming over for dinner. Said it wouldn’t be a good day without all three of his girls here.” Her eyes go all misty, and I’m hit in the chest with my aunt and uncle’s love for me all over again.

It’s strange—losing a parent at a young age. You grow up with this sense that you’re missing something, but because you only had that something for a handful of years, the memory of the actual thing kind of fades, and you’re left with a hollow that can never be filled…because you’re not exactly sure what actually fits there. Only what you think maybe should.

All of this—Mama, Daddy, Blake, my failings, April’s warnings, the postcard—hits me at once.

And it’s all I can do to hold it together as I kiss Aunt Bea, assure her that of course I’ll be at dinner next Sunday, and race out to my car without completely losing it.

Tomorrow. I’ll deal with the emotions tomorrow.

Because right now, I’m going straight home and getting that bubble bath I promised myself two nights ago.

* * *

I did not go straight home for the bubble bath.

Instead, like an idiot, I pulled the postcard Aunt Bea gave me from my purse and, leaning against my car, read it with starlight streaming down around me as I stood in my aunt and uncle’s driveway.

The postcard was bright blue, and the picture showcased rows and rows of white buildings on a hillside. The words scrolled in a flourish across the top: Greetings from Santorini. I flipped it over and saw Mama’s chicken scratch: “Had some baklava today and thought of you.”

A memory teased and shot forward in my mind. The two of us had been out taking a walk in our old neighborhood in Texas. I was nine, maybe ten. We walked past a Greek restaurant, one of those fancy kinds where they put the menu in the window. I assumed because there were no prices on the menu, it was all free. Mama had laughed and said, “Not quite, Baby Girl.”

My eyes immediately roamed to the desserts section (um, hi, whose wouldn’t?) and I’d tried to pronounce baklava. Pretty sure it came out back-lava. “What’s that, Mama? Can we try some?”

That might have been the first moment I really realized we were poor. Daddy’s life insurance (I later learned) ran out quick, because there wasn’t much to it in the first place, and Mama had gotten a job as a lunch lady at my school. I’d always worn second-hand clothes she’d bought at Goodwill, but I was never much into fashion, so I didn’t mind.

But what I saw on Mama’s face that night…well, she was sad she couldn’t take me into that restaurant and let me have baklava.

Still, when Mama puts her mind to something, she makes it spectacular. And her solution was much better anyway. We hightailed it to the nearest grocery store, bought all the necessary ingredients, and made our own baklava in the tiny kitchen of our apartment. We threw on My Big Fat Greek Wedding in the background, and then we baked up a storm. (And when I say “we,” I really mean she. But she let me help smash nuts with a kitchen mallet and do a few other things.)

And when we were done and tasted our creation, I didn’t even care that it wasn’t the best thing I’d ever eaten. (It was fine—but come on. Nothing compares to chocolate cake!) All I cared about was the memory we made.

Which is how I find myself here, in my kitchen at nine p.m. on a Monday night, an hour after wishing my family a good night and just twenty minutes after arriving home with a trunkful of groceries.

The good thing is, Al’s is open until nine, and they had all of the ingredients I needed.

The bad thing is…oh, yeah. I CAN’T COOK OR BAKE TO SAVE MY LIFE.

The recipe I found online looked so simple. Pound out some nuts, add some dashes of sugar and cinnamon, and then create a dough.

This is where I run astray. After blinking at the instructions for a few minutes and making sure I have the ingredients lined up on the counter in front of me, I realize I don’t have the faintest idea what a flour sifter looks like. Or where one would be. I could ask Mare, but she’s asleep, and Blake isn’t home from work yet.

I blow out a breath and shake my head. No backing out now. I may not have Mama here with me, but I can try to channel her cooking expertise. To pretend I got even an ounce of her genetic cooking abilities. Something—anything—to feel like she’s given me more than just a lousy postcard or two and a handful of short visits since she left me here.

The backs of my eyes burn. No, no, no. I will not cry.

Instead, I will bake. And I will be glorious.

Two minutes later, I am anything but glorious.

I’ve added salt to a mountain of flour in one of Marilee’s purple, plastic bowls. Then I create a well in the flour. Actually, it’s more like a crater, but how is someone supposed to know how deep a “well” is when it comes to recipe lingo?

Next, I crack five eggs into the well. My nose wrinkles at the instructions when they say I’m supposed to mix it with my hands, but I plunge them in anyway. That’s when I realize my hair, which I normally keep pulled up and out of my face, is hanging loose and long today, and there’s a piece that’s shorter in front that careens into my eyelashes. I try to blink it away, but it doesn’t budge. Closing that eye, I try to read the instructions, but it’s harder to do than you might think with only one working eye. Not only that, but apparently I’m supposed to add warm water and olive oil to the mix.

I know for a fact that the water sitting in a measuring cup on the counter is no longer warm. It’s taken me way too long to get this far and it has to be cold by now. How much will that affect the result?

Why am I so stupid and bad at this? Why didn’t Mama take the time to teach me more before she left? It’s not like Aunt Bea didn’t try, but there are certain things that mothers should do, right?

And there’s a lot that Mama and I didn’t get a chance to do before she left.

Without warning—with my hands plunged into a flour-y, eggy mess—long-suppressed tears start to stream down my cheeks. I want to wipe at them, but that would leave a terrible mess on my face instead. So I let myself cry into the flour.

And then there’s a noise behind me—the creak of the front door, the clink of keys sliding into the small metal tray in the entryway.

Great. Just great. Of course I’d have a witness to this moment of uncontrolled emotion.

Stiffening, I quickly sniffle in an attempt to clear away evidence of my utter meltdown, but my nose honks and my throat emits one loud hiccup like it’s going out of style.

“Lucy?” Then I feel the heat of Blake next to me. “Are you okay?”

I turn to face him, shrug. Attempt a smile. “Sure, why do you ask?”

“I…” He lifts his hands like he wants to take my arms, to feel that I’m solid, that I’ll be okay. But he doesn’t touch me. He glances back, toward the hallway, and I can only imagine he’s dreaming of his escape from the crazed lady in the kitchen with dirty hands, streaming tears, and flour all over her tank top because she forgot to put on an apron.

But—for better or worse—Blake is too good of a guy to abandon a crying woman. “Did someone hurt you?” The words come out a bit of a growl—which is strangely comforting. “Tell me what’s wrong, Sunshine.”

There he goes with that nickname again. I think about April’s warning a few hours ago, but at this moment, I feel broken open, raw, and it’s almost a relief to show him that I’m not always fine. “No one hurt me,” I manage, my voice wobbly. With my hands still plunged into the wet bowl—the so-called “dough” beginning to harden and cake on my skin—I nod to the postcard resting on the counter. “I just got that and…it made me kind of weepy.”

He picks up the postcard, turns it over. Frowns. “Does she send you these a lot?”

“Off and on.”

“When was the last time you talked with her?”

“She texted me last week, remember?”

“So you talked to her after that?”

My silence is my answer.

I sniffle and look up at the ceiling so my tears will be forced back into my eyes. Gravity and all that. I don’t want him feeling sorry for me. Ugh, this is a new low. “She calls and visits when she can. My stepdad doesn’t really like to stay in one place for long. He’s the kind that just likes to up and go when he feels like it, you know?”

And Mama is more than happy to go with him. Because she loves him. I think she also loves the lavish lifestyle he’s given her—much more than my daddy ever could give her, though I know she was happy with him too. I huff at the thoughts that are a betrayal to my mother and her generous heart. “She’s just…busy.”

It sounds so lame, but I know it’s partially true. Mama was my anchor, and I was hers for so long, so I know she loves me. I may not understand her distance, but I will never doubt her love.

I can’t.

Because what would that mean—that everyone I love eventually leaves me? It’s probably why I’ve never given Marilee, my aunt and uncle, and all of my friends here a choice. It’s probably why I stay.

Though I do love this little town and can’t imagine where I’d go anyway.

He’s frowning. “It’s okay to admit that you’re upset with her, you know.”

“I’m not!” My voice is overly bright as I pull my hands from the sludge. “She’s finally happy in a way she hasn’t been since Daddy died. How can I begrudge her that?”

“Because she left you. And even if you understand why, doesn’t that hurt even a little?”

“Nope.” I can’t afford to let it hurt a little—because if I give an inch to my thoughts and feelings, they’ll take a whole freaking thousand miles. “All that to say, the postcard put me in a mind to…” I wave my hands around the kitchen, as if what I’m doing is obvious.

And apparently, to Blake, it is. “You’re making baklava?”

“Correction.” I laugh caustically. “I’m trying—and failing—to make baklava.”

“Okay.” Then Blake sets down the postcard and swivels toward the pantry, where he ducks inside to pull out an apron. Scratch that. Make it two aprons. He pulls the first—a black one that says “Kiss the Chef”—over his head and ties it at his waist.

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you doing?”

“I thought we were making baklava.”

“No. I said I was making baklava.”

“Then I’m making it with you.”

“You’re kind of bossy, you know.”

He has the audacity to wink at me. (And my heart has the audacity to like it.) “I think you can handle it.” Then he steps toward me with the other apron—a pink one—and chuckles. “Here. Put this on. You look like Mare.”

He’s not wrong. My best friend is a wonder in the kitchen, but she’s also messy. There’s always a streak of flour on her cheek or forehead after a baking session. I don’t have a mirror, but I can see my black spaghetti strap tank is already speckled on the front. It probably doesn’t matter whether it gets even dirtier, but I should embrace the cooking experience fully and get aproned up, right?

Only one problem. I hold up my messy hands. “I can’t exactly put that on right now.” Because, sure, I could wash these hands, but I’m just going to get them dirty again, and this stuff is seriously caked on. It’ll take days to get it off. Maybe I used concrete instead of flour.

Rather than letting my excuses deter him, Blake swiftly loops the apron over my head without asking.

“Hey!” I protest.

“What? We can’t let you get even messier. Now turn around and let me tie it.”

Oh my goodness, I like bossy Blake much more than I should. Mouth numb, I do as he asks. I feel the tug of the apron ties at my waist—but now his movements are achingly slow as he steps closer. I feel the warmth of his presence at my back, the swoosh of his fingertips against my shirt, and it’s almost as if he’s touching my bare skin.

I shiver and peek over my shoulder at him.

He’s staring at the back of my neck, where the top loop of the apron is flattening my hair in place. If I had put it on myself, it would be nothing to sweep my hair out from under the apron loop. Maybe Blake isn’t quite sure what to do. I’m guessing he doesn’t want to be presumptuous.

But I want him to be presumptuous, April’s warning be darned.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, and his eyes flick briefly to mine. “I don’t mind.”

He swallows, nods, and I turn back around, bracing myself against the counter. (Because who cares if it gets dirty? Not this girl.) His fingers find the nape of my neck, brushing slowly along the sensitive skin there. I imagine what it would feel like for him to press his lips to that very spot, and I have to bite my bottom lip to keep myself from begging him to do just that.

Then he gently pulls my long hair out from under the apron strap. When my hair thumps down against my back, I nearly groan with disappointment because it wasn’t enough. And even though I know he’s leaving in another month or so, I can’t deny that I want more of his touch.

More of him.

I think he feels the same way. And heaven help me, I want to see how far I can push him before he breaks. To see if there is something here worth exploring. I’m suddenly not just a crazed crying woman, but a crazed woman on a mission.

So, I turn around and offer him my wrist.

He looks down at it, eyebrows knit together.

I smile and wiggle my finger at the rubber band that I keep there whenever I leave my hair down. I’m never without a way to tie back my mane—and now I’m congratulating myself on that feat of genius. “My hair keeps getting in my eyes. Would you mind pulling it back for me?”

A muscle tics in his jaw, and the rings around his irises darken. He clears his throat. “Sure. I mean, no.” Swallows. “I don’t mind.” His words burst out short, staccato, and he looks pointedly at me until a giggle burbles up in my chest, and I turn away from him again.

This time, instead of dropping my hair like it’s hot lava the moment he touches it fully, his hands gather it slowly like someone might collect flowers in a field on a languid summer day. I might imagine the deep rumble in his chest, but I definitely am not dreaming up the way his fingers comb gently through my hair to get any tangles out. Or the way he releases it, gathers it again, the way his fingertips brush up and down the sides of my neck and he takes his dear sweet time tying my locks back.

How can something as simple as having this man touch my hair be more sensuous than anything I’ve ever known with anyone else? Granted, my dating experience is pretty limited, but Blake’s touch is so innocent—yet it’s burning a trail across my skin, wreaking havoc on my entire nervous system, my respiratory system. My circulatory system too.

And when he’s done and sets the ponytail gently against my back, I’m in luck, because a few wisps still hang in my eyes. “Hey,” I say, my voice as delicate as spun glass. I’m afraid of breaking this spell.

“Hmm?” He leans closer, his breath warm on my bare shoulder.

I turn around fully to face him and point to the eyelashes on my right eye, where another piece of hair has gotten stuck. “Can you get that hair out of my eye, please?”

“Okay.” With great care, he leans closer, squinting as he looks for the blonde hair in the boxed light of the kitchen. Finally, he finds it and swoops it out of the way, his thumb trailing over my cheekbone as he tucks the hair behind my ear. “There.” His voice is husky, and it’s all I can do not to clutch his clean blue shirt with my doughy hands.

We hang out here for what seems like hours, the most delightful game of chicken I’ve ever played, staring, blinking, breathing. After stroking my cheek, his hand drops to my shoulder, then skims down my upper arm, falling to my waist as he takes one step nearer, closing the gap between us. My hip is scalded by the heat of his hand through the thin fabric of my shirt, my mouth as dry as this flour caked onto my hands.

Heart pounding in my throat, I tilt my chin up and wordlessly dare Blake Moffitt to kiss me.

And he wants to. I know he does. His breath is stuttered, his eyes blinking rapidly. A vein in his neck jumps.

But with pursed lips, he finally steps away. Clears his throat. “Ready to start?”

What. Was. That.

Of course, I can’t show him how much he’s affected me. How much I wanted that kiss. It’s probably good that one of us is keeping our heads. We’re right back where we were more than a decade ago, except this time, there’s no father influencing his decisions. This time, it’s Blake making the call.

It makes sense. He doesn’t want anything but Marilee tying him to Hallmark Beach. To anywhere that isn’t L.A., where his dream job awaits.

So, I shake off the rejection and wiggle my mucked-up fingers at him. “Ready.”

“All right. Show me that recipe.”

I point to my phone, and he opens it and laughs. “Aw, Sunshine. You went straight for the hardest version of baklava, didn’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, sometimes, homemade is best.” He waltzes to the fridge, rummages for a moment, and emerges with a white box. “But other times, just go with the premade stuff.”

Oh, thank goodness. I breathe out a sigh of relief as I head to the sink to wash my hands and he unboxes the phyllo dough and quickly cuts it to fit a small rimmed pan he pulled from underneath the oven. We work in relative silence for a while, him patiently showing me what to do and then watching while I do it. His critiques are never harsh, and his gentle undertones are relaxed and calm.

“You remind me of her, you know,” I find myself saying.

“Who?”

“Your mom.” The air is heavy with the admission, and I rush on. “She loved baking with you guys. And the way you’re teaching me now…it’s the way she taught you.”

“Thank you, Lucy. That means more than you know.” He’s quiet for a long while, and I look up to see him run a hand along his jaw. “When we’d cook together in the kitchen, it was like the whole world disappeared. All the pressure, all the fuss to make good grades and play football and do something big and important with my life.”

He means the pressure his dad put on him. Maybe he and Marilee didn’t talk about that, but I was in their home enough to see it.

“I miss her.” The words rush out, and then he’s focusing on the recipe again.

I can’t help but touch him, and this time, it’s not for my own selfish reasons, but for him. With a squeeze of his elbow, I lean my head against his arm. “I miss her too. Both of your parents. They were like my second pair. Well, my third, I guess, after Burt and Bea.”

He chuckles and lifts a knife to cut the baklava diagonally. “I think they liked you more than they liked me half the time.”

“Well, that’s certainly not true.” When he hands me the knife, I try to mimic his slicing but the knife sinks in too deep. With a grunt, I try again and this time, victory!

I finish up and stick the pan into the preheated oven, setting the timer for an hour as per the recipe.

While I’m doing that, Blake quickly creates a mixture of water and sugar in a saucepan and sets it to boil. “What did you mean by that?”

“By what?”

“That it wasn’t true. About my parents liking you better.”

“Oh.” Is it hot in here? “Nothing.”

“No, you were thinking of something specific.” He leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re thinking of what you overheard that night, right?”

Immediately, I know the night—the overheard conversation—he’s referring to. “So you do remember.”

“I actually didn’t. Not until I overheard you and Marilee talking the other night in your room.” Now he has the decency to look chagrined.

“Blake Moffitt! You’re nothing but a…” Words escape me. Because I don’t quite remember what I said that night, but I do know it was not meant for his ears. Only Mare’s.

“Believe me, I know.” The mixture on the stovetop is boiling, and he flips the burner to simmer, then turns back to me. “The truth is, Lucy, I remember the conversation with my dad, but I don’t remember calling you annoying. If I really did that, then I was an idiot.”

Oh. “To be fair, it was your dad who called me annoying. You just sort of…didn’t contradict him.”

“Still. It wasn’t accurate.”

“So, you didn’t find me annoying?”

“Never.”

Hmm. I kind of like this groveling side of Blake. “What about now? Do you find me annoying now?”

“Maybe in a really cute sort of way.”

Laughing, I smack his arm. “Ha. Guess I wouldn’t blame you if you did find me annoying. I might too if I came home and found a crazy person crying in my kitchen.” Then I smile. “Thanks for the pity baklava, by the way.”

“It wasn’t pity baklava. If anything, it was apology baklava.” Then he takes my hand in his and stares at it, turning it over so my palm faces upward. “I’m sorry, Lucy.”

My throat feels like there’s a heartbeat inside of it, thrum, thrum, thrumming higher and higher. “Sorry for what?” Then, for levity’s sake, I add, “Finally admitting to stealing my customers?”

But he doesn’t even chuckle. Oh my. He really is sorry about something. He blinks at me. “For the past. For…flirting with you my whole senior year. For nearly kissing you, and then leaving without a word. I should have been man enough to tell you the truth. To tell you that even though I cared about you, I couldn’t be with you.”

Sweet macaroni. Did he just say that? Did he finally confirm that I wasn’t nuts back then? That I wasn’t just a girl with an unrequited crush, haplessly falling for her best friend’s older brother? That he felt it too? “I thought I’d imagined it.”

“You didn’t. But…” His stunted reply is clear this time.

“Nothing’s changed,” I say. He might still care about me, but he can’t be with me.

“I’m sorry.” Blake’s choking it out, so I know it’s not easy for him.

And though I wish I could change his mind, it’s probably better this way. “Don’t be.” Lifting up on my tiptoes, I skim my lips against his cheek in a soft kiss. “We’re good. I promise.”

He holds me there, right against him, and I feel his breath feather over my cheek. Blake sighs. “I wish…” Then he groans. “Sunshine, if things were different, I just want you to know that I…”

I draw back and frame his face with my hands. His stubble is rough under my palms. “You’d what?” I dare him to answer. To admit that what he’s feeling right now matches what I am.

“I shouldn’t say.”

“Say it anyway.”

His hand finds my waist, flexes against my hip. “I’d say to heck with all the why nots and kiss you right now.”

Sweet macaroni. Am I brave enough to ask him to do just that? Even if there’s no future here? The seventeen-year-old girl inside of me waves her white flag of surrender. “And what if I said that was okay?”

His eyebrows go up. “You’re not making it easy on me, are you?” Fingers slide tighter around me, resting on my lower back. “I won’t be that guy. I can’t lead you on again.”

“You’ve made your intentions clear.” I shrug as if this kind of conversation happens for me all the time. “And what’s a small peck between friends?”

“Is that what we are, Lucy Reynolds?” A wry grin finds its way across those lips I’ve been dying to kiss for years. My own mouth tingles with the want, the longing. And I know one kiss with Blake Moffitt will never be enough. But right now, I just don’t care. “Friends?”

I draw his head down until our foreheads sink together. “I hope we’re at least that.”

He grunts. Then he pulls back a little, studies me. “You’re sure? Just once? I can’t promise you any more than that. I’m leaving again and I?—”

“I know.”

With a nod, Blake tips up my chin with his index finger and angles his mouth down to meet mine. It’s soft and sweet and gentle, chaste and lingering as we breathe the same air and finally, absolutely finally, give in.

It says more than a simple peck should.

It says, “I wish,” and “I want,” and “I’d like very much to,” and “why can’t we,” and “because.”

And when Blake steps away from me after far too short a time, my head is spinning and my heart is banging and my lips are tingling.

We stare at each other, and I feel the pull back toward his arms. The air stirring between us is a force that’s almost too strong to be denied. It’s a tornado, and I’m the lone barn in a dry field that’s trying to hold onto its roof but about to lose more than that. I’m about to be completely uprooted.

And all over a “peck.”

But before the winds can take me away, Blake squeezes my elbow and smiles in the sweetest way. “We still good?”

And I know our moment is over.

“We’re good.” And we are, because he’s making this easier on me in the long run. He’s stopping things before they even start—and if he doesn’t see a future of any sort with me, that’s the kindest thing he can do.

At least we’ll have this night of apology baklava and memories made.

The problem? I finally know what I’ve been missing all these years, and somehow, I have to live with that knowledge while Blake is literally right next door for another month and a half.

What have I done? I should have said no.

But as I head down the hallway, leaving Blake behind to pull the baklava from the oven, I can’t find it in me to regret that kiss.