Chapter Five
I’m elbow-deep in biscuit dough when King emerges wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts and a confused expression. He takes in the messy kitchen, eyebrows pulling low, and then leans his shoulder against the wall at the edge of the kitchen. “Please,” he growls, “make yourself at home.”
I huff, hating the way my body tenses up at his rough tone. I shouldn’t be afraid of this man, but he’s as much a stranger as he was when we met at twelve years old. And he’s a stranger who doesn’t like me. I don’t like being disliked any more than I like people telling me what to do. “Well, I would have asked for permission, but you were passed out.”
I’m doing my best not to stare at him, but it’s incredibly difficult. I saw him shirtless at the bakery, but only for a second or two. Now he’s all on display, shoulders and abs dotted with droplets of water. He must have showered before coming to find me, and seeing him wet like this has memories of King on the ocean surfacing in my mind.
That was always my favorite time to see him, right after he’d been out on the waves. He always looked so happy and worry-free, and his hair tends to take on a mind of its own when it gets wet. It’s not curly, not like mine, but it has a fun wave to it that fits his personality so well.
I clear my throat and start cutting biscuits with a glass cup. I already have a tray in the oven, and this is way more than the two of us could ever eat, but I bake when I’m stressed. In the kitchen, I can control the outcome instead of bracing myself for what might happen. Ever since Lane’s unexpected breakup speech, I can’t stop feeling like something bad is right behind me.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, trying to distract myself.
He moves closer, something I feel as much as I see out of the corner of my eye. The man has a presence. “Better. What are you making?”
“Can you call yourself a Southern boy if you don’t recognize biscuits and gravy?” I look up and jump when I realize he’s just on the other side of the island from me. It was hard enough not to stare at him when he was on the other side of the room. “I, uh, thought it might be nice to have some comfort food, if you’re up to it.”
In response, his stomach growls loudly and seems to break some of the tension between us. He relaxes, arms falling to his sides and giving me an up close view of his broad chest. “Thank you,” he says slowly. “I don’t know if I would have made it home on my own.”
“Food poisoning?”
“Probably.”
“What did you eat?”
We both glance at the garbage can, which is full of frozen meal packages.
He runs a hand through his hair, giving it some more life as the damp locks fall back into place. “Sorry about, uh…” He glances down at his bare torso. “I put in a load of laundry, but until it’s done…”
“I’m not complaining.” My words register as soon as they’re out of my mouth, and I blush. Hard. “I didn’t mean that how it sounded.”
“It sounded like you were admiring me.” There’s only a hint of humor in his tone, which is less than I would have expected from him. He was always so carefree when we were young, and though I’ve seen pieces of the old King popping up here and there, he’s so different from how I remember him. It’s like life has weighed him down. “So…”
The first batch of biscuits is probably ready to come out of the oven, but my eyes lock on his forearms as he rests his hands on the counter. Surfing doesn’t take a lot of forearm work, so I have to wonder where all this muscle is coming from. “So?” I repeat and then force myself to focus on the food. I don’t want to serve King burned biscuits just because he’s well-formed.
Thankfully, the biscuits are perfectly golden as I pull them out of the oven. I’m pretty sure I still need to convince him that getting married is a great idea, and plying him with food is always a good way to go.
Marriage really is the best way for us both to win. He gets someone to revive his uncle’s legacy and help him keep Bill’s memory alive, and I get my own place to make it how I want. Without the weird legal issue of the bakery having to stay with family, it would be such a simple trade.
When King says nothing, I grit my teeth and take a slow breath to work up the courage to ask him if he was serious when he agreed to my proposal. “Were you—”
“I don’t like the idea of marrying you,” he says. Nice and blunt.
I wilt. “Oh.” Not wanting to look at him, I put a couple of hot biscuits on a plate with a side of sausage gravy from the pot on the stove, in case he’s able to handle more than the biscuits on their own. “I just thought—”
“But you’re right, and I need help.” His dark eyes follow the plate as I set it in front of him.
“I can’t actually buy it,” I admit. It’ll be better if I’m honest about that part up front. “I made pretty good money working on Home Baked, but New York is expensive.”
“That’s unfortunate.” When I hand him a fork, he looks at it for a second and then takes it, though the jury is still out on whether he’s going to eat my offering. “You did choose New York,” he reminds me and then cuts off a piece of biscuit, dipping it in the gravy before he takes a bite. His face is suddenly a mixture of pleasure and frustration, like he’s annoyed by how good it tastes. He swallows, looks down at the food as if trying to decide if he wants to talk or eat, and then he meets my gaze again. “Uncle Bill would have wanted you to have Kingston’s. We both know that. You don’t have to buy it, as long as you promise not to change anything.”
I can’t hold back the laugh that bubbles out of me. “Are you serious? No way.”
He nods as he takes another large bite. “That’s non-negotiable.”
“Then you can kiss that bakery goodbye because it’s never going to survive with the way it is now.”
“All it needs is someone who can actually bake. I’m assuming that’s you.”
Your version of baking is different from mine, and it’s just not what the company needs.I shove Lane’s words aside, no matter how much they still sting two weeks later. “Assuming,” I repeat, gesturing to King’s quickly disappearing biscuits. “I’ll have you know I was an award-winning pastry chef up in New York.”
He rolls his eyes. “Debatable.”
“How is a literal award debatable?”
“If I recall, you took third place.” He grabs a couple more biscuits, making his way around the island to load them up with gravy. Apparently his stomach is handling the food just fine. “That’s what Uncle Bill told me, anyway.”
Folding my arms, I wait until he settles himself on a stool across from me and resumes eating. “I still got an award,” I grumble. It makes me feel like a petulant child. “Regardless, it’s going to take more than my skills in a kitchen to get Kingston’s back to profitable. The place is falling apart.”
“It has character.”
“It has wood rot and a finicky oven. It needs to be updated, King.”
“Fine. You can fix anything that needs fixing.” He scowls. “I suppose you’ll want to slap your own name on the door?”
Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it, but I have a feeling he will put up a fight if I say anything but no. “Kingston’s is already a known name. Seems silly to start from scratch.”
“There’s a positive, at least.”
“So are we doing this?” If we’re not, I’d rather not waste any more time around this grumbly man than I need to. He can drive me back to my car, and I can try to find some new plan for my life. No biggie.
King clenches his jaw, studying me for a moment before he swears under his breath.
I grimace. “Do I want to ask?”
“Vanderman is the estate attorney.”
“So?” I don’t think I’ve ever met the guy, but his wife used to be a regular at the bakery. She probably still is, and I remember her being nosier than a bloodhound. I can’t see that being a problem, though. It’s not like we’ll be keeping our marriage a secret.
King shifts in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “So… He was Uncle Bill’s best friend. He might need some…convincing.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “What kind of convincing?”
“The kind where he thinks we’re really married.”
I laugh again. “That’s what a marriage license is for, isn’t it?” A strange sensation runs through me, like I just got a shot of carbonation injected into my bloodstream. Shuddering, I turn to the sink and start washing the flour from my hands as I imagine standing in front of a judge, King standing next to me.
I imagined something similar when we were young and first started dating, though it was a priest then and we were on the beach in the glow of a gorgeous sunset. Marrying Royal Kingston had been a teenage fantasy, but that was before I realized there was a whole world out there.
Before I worried I would get stuck in Willow Cove and have nowhere to go but in circles.
King waits until I turn the water off before he speaks again. “Vanderman told me about the family stipulation about a month and a half ago, when I, uh, tried to sell the bakery to someone from Charleston.”
I gasp. “You tried to sell it?”
He shrugs, eyes on his empty plate. “I was overwhelmed. And in mourning. Uncle Bill had only been gone for a week, and I wasn’t thinking straight.”
I can’t imagine what some bigwig would have done with the place if King hadn’t been stopped, and I shudder at the idea of Kingston’s becoming a cookie cutter copy of every franchised multimillion-dollar company out there.
“Anyway,” he says, “Vanderman was clear about the will’s directive, and he also made it clear that he will uphold Uncle Bill’s wishes. He’s going to stand firm on that whole ‘family’ thing.”
I fold my arms. “Again, a marriage license will make us family. You can’t get any clearer than that.”
King’s gaze jumps up. “Not for Vanderman. He’ll need to think this thing is real.”
“How is anyone supposed to believe a spur-of-the-moment marriage to a stranger is real?”
Wincing, he shakes his head. “You’re not technically a stranger, Georgie. Even if you feel like one.”
Ouch. But at least I’m not the only one who feels like she doesn’t know the person across from her. “What are you saying, King?”
“I’m saying we’re going to have to make everyone in Willow Cove think you and I are in love if you’re actually going to get the bakery.”
My stomach flip-flops, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to hold myself steady. I was prepared to call King my husband, but this feels like more. This feels like my hold over my life is slipping even more than it already has. “Why don’t we just hire a different attorney?”
King huffs a laugh and runs his hands down his face. “Georgie. Did you forget the part where I said Vanderman was Uncle Bill’s best friend? Bill didn’t trust anyone else, so how can I?”
I get that. But if we’re stuck with a guy who will have to be convinced? “On paper only,” I mutter, forcing myself to take slow, even breaths. “That’s all I’m agreeing to.”
“Then it’s not going to work.”
I groan. “You’re telling me you’re totally fine with pretending you don’t hate me?”
“I don’t ha…” He stops himself before he finishes the sentence, which doesn’t feel great. He would be justified in keeping me low on his list of favorite people; I did turn down his proposal and leave him on an uninhabited island. “It would only be when we’re in public together, which doesn’t have to happen often. We’ll both be too busy with our respective jobs to spend much time together.”
“A bright spot of this plan,” I say as I start cleaning up the mess I made with the biscuits. I’m still not sure why King’s kitchen is so well-equipped, but getting it back to the spotless state it was in before will be a great distraction as this conversation continues. “And how is never spending time together going to convince Vanderman?”
“Ah. Right. Maybe… One date a week?”
“How about no dates? We can just visit each other at our respective places of business.”
His expression hardens when I glance up at him. “You’re not going to break my shelves again, are you?”
“Only if you throw up inside my bakery again.”
“It’s not your bakery.” The words come out sharp enough that I jump, and King cringes. “Sorry. I’m… Sometimes it doesn’t feel real that he’s gone.”
Something inside me aches to pull him into my arms and comfort him, but this conversation does not feel like a good time to be friendly. It feels weird, talking about what our marriage is going to look like, because it’s so different from how our talks used to sound. Granted, eighteen-year-olds don’t have a great grasp on what adulthood will look like, but we used to sit on the beach and talk about how great it would be to work on the boardwalk together, drive home after a long day, settle on the couch and watch our favorite show…
It all sounded so magical back then. But that isn’t how life works, and when I graduated and started thinking about what I wanted in life—about the dreams that could never be achieved here—I realized we were too naive. Too young to get married.
I probably should have told King as much instead of running away, but I’d known, even then, that he would have had an argument ready for me. We can have a long engagement. We don’t have to get married right away. He never would have understood why I couldn’t say yes.
He’s never going to leave Willow Cove. I know that now as much as I knew it then. I loved him too much to risk resenting him when my dreams slipped away from me. Or him resenting me for not being content with a small but good life and wanting more. So I left.
“I don’t know if we can do this,” King says, probably reading my mind. If only he could have done that back then. Maybe he would have seen my fears and known not to push things too fast. Or at all.
I take a steeling breath. “I can do this. It’s only temporary.”
“Your favorite.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I only have to deal with you for a few months, which is probably the only reason I’ll make it through in one piece.”
I sneer a little, feeling my competitive nature rising. “I’m sorry this is going to be so difficult for you. You always did struggle with hard things.”
“Okay.” He stands, the stool scraping along the floor behind him, and folds his arms again. I’m pretty sure he’s flexing, and it’s taking everything in me not to look down and admire his well-toned torso. “I can handle this marriage, Georgie. I’m more worried about you running off before all is said and done and wasting my time.”
His counter-attack stings, but he has a point. “I’m not going to run. Not until the bakery is thriving, anyway.”
“And then what?”
I shrug, though I know he won’t like me not having a solid plan beyond the immediate. “Then I figure out what to do from there. Maybe I’ll find someone who can manage the place well enough so I can move on and use the profits to build my own thing. No matter what, I’ll keep the place, so you don’t have to worry about it disappearing.”
He clenches his jaw but seems to accept that answer, nodding a little as he settles back on the stool. “So I’ll stop by in the mornings,” he says, returning to the original topic.
I sigh and start returning dishes to the cupboards so I don’t have to look at him during this part. “I can bring you baked goods in the afternoons.”
“If anyone asks, and they will, we recently reconnected.”
“Which is true.”
“Unfortunately.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you going to be this grumpy all the time? Since when did you become a crotchety old man?”
“Since my girlfriend ran away without any word of explanation and disappeared.” His gaze is cold when I look at him, but I can see the pain behind the ice. “Since she came back after ten years and pretended we didn’t need to talk about it.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
I shouldn’t be relieved, but I am. I know it’s something we should talk about, but I am too good at avoiding confrontation to have any idea how that conversation might go. I’m not sure I would know what to say in the first place. Sometimes, when I look back at that day, I think I understand why I left the way I did, and other times I wish I could go back to that moment and really take my time understanding why the only emotion inside me when he dropped to one knee was terror.
Back then, it felt so much easier to think he would understand. He knew I wanted to start my own bakery someday, and I knew he wanted to stay close to his uncle, and I figured he would connect the dots and agree that it wasn’t a good idea to get married.
Looking at him now, I don’t think he connected anything. And I don’t think Bill ever told King any of the stuff I told him over the years.
“King.”
“No,” he repeats. “Not now.”
I check on the second round of biscuits in the oven and am grateful for the distraction as I take them out and turn the oven off. I know getting married is the simplest way we can both have the lives we want, but clearly it isn’t going to be easy, no matter what either of us have said. And there’s one important thing we haven’t talked about when it comes to this union.
“Where am I going to live?” I ask as calmly as I can.
King grunts. “Wherever you want.”
“If we’re married…”
Clenching his jaw, he glances around his house as if it might have a solution that isn’t the two of us living together. “Right. Logically, you would live here with me.”
“I can take a guest room.”
“No, you can’t.”
“It’s not like anyone is going to be coming over to see where I sleep.”
“Maybe not, but…” He rubs the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. “I don’t have a guest room.”
I frown. “Then what are those two other rooms down the hall?” I noticed them when I went searching for the bathroom, which was the first door I came across, and it took all of my self-discipline to not go snooping through King’s house while he was passed out on the bed. Maybe I should have snooped.
He coughs, folding his arms. “At the moment? They’re construction zones. I’ve been remodeling, but they haven’t been a priority lately.”
Well that complicates things. I am for sure not sharing a bed with King, married or not. We can be adults about things, but I can’t let proximity muddy the waters of this sham marriage. As a chronic sleep-walker with a lifelong tendency to cuddle anything nearby, I am not about to put myself anywhere near the man who hates me. He’d likely push me off the bed if I got too close.
“I guess I can sleep on the couch…” I say it with a casualness I don’t feel. Maybe when I was twenty I could have done it, but over the last couple of years I’ve gotten used to sleeping on a mattress that cost more than three months’ rent.
King barks out a short laugh. “Have fun with that, though I don’t recommend it.”
“Well, then what do you suggest? Share your bed?”
As the color drains from his face, he brings his plate to the sink and looks out into the wild backyard. “I have a pool house. It’s been a couple of years since I last went in there, but…”
Oh. An actual solution. That’s good. “Does this pool house have a bed?”
King looks back at me, and I really don’t like the look of mischief in his eyes. Something tells me he’s not going to make any of this easy on me.