Chapter Fourteen Out of Sight, Not Out of Mind
Chapter Fourteen
Out of Sight, Not Out of Mind
Hayes
I barely look up from my laptop as Charles greets Francesca the following morning. “Someone’s in a good mood today,” he says, folding his copy of The Wall Street Journal to watch her as she moves around the kitchen, humming.
She’s standing by the espresso machine, grinning as she adds sugar to her coffee. “What? Am I not allowed to be cheerful?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just noticeable for someone who’s self-professed ‘not a morning person,’” Charles says, shooting me a look like he expects me to chime in.
I don’t. Instead, I click aggressively at my keyboard, though I have no idea what I’m even typing anymore.
Something about her energy is irritating today. Too bright. Too . . . distracting.
“Fine, if you must know, I have a date tonight.” She turns, her face practically glowing with excitement. “His name’s Ryder. And he’s a surf instructor.”
My jaw tightens. Ryder. Even the name annoys me. I can already picture the guy—sun-bleached hair, that lazy, easygoing confidence, the kind of guy who calls everyone “dude” and never wears shoes.
Charles lets out a low laugh. “Got it. Well, you deserve to have a little fun.”
“Thanks. He seems really cool.”
Cool. Right. I clench my fists under the table, irritation prickling at the edges of my mind.
I have no reason to care who Francesca goes out with.
None at all. It’s not like I pay attention to the way she smiles or how her laugh has this ridiculous way of making a room warmer.
It definitely isn’t that I have, on more than one occasion, caught myself looking at her when I thought no one would notice.
And yet, here I am, annoyed as hell over the fact that she is happy. That makes no damn sense.
“So, where’s he taking you?”
“Hmm. Oh, some beach bar. Low Tide or something, I think.”
The Low Tide Lounge. I know it well. It isn’t what I’d call a first-date kind of place, but whatever.
She takes her coffee and turns toward the door. “I’m going to sit on the lanai.”
Maybe things between us are weird ever since our happy hour yesterday. I kind of stared at her in awe. She’s dealt with so much and has basically zero family. Yet, she’s still cheerful. A glass-half-full kind of person, even though she has no reason to be.
Malachi rounds the corner and enters the kitchen. “Last night in paradise. Should we go out?”
I nod absently. I forgot he’s leaving in the morning. It seems Francesca has snatched all my focus. It’s irritating.
Later that afternoon, Francesca wanders from her bedroom, wearing an oversize bathrobe—her facial expression one of outright horror. “I have an enormous pimple.”
I glance up from my laptop. “Tragic. How will we go on?”
It takes me a second to even find it—a tiny pink bump on her chin—but judging by her expression, we need to call in a crisis team.
“It’s gross, right?”
I force a frown. “It’s brutal. I can barely look at you. You should probably cancel your date.”
She lets out a deep, cathartic exhale. “No, you know what? I’m not canceling.
First, I’ve solved much bigger problems than this.
Second, I’m nothing if not crafty. When my mom told me we didn’t have the money for a Barbie Dreamhouse, I solved that problem with cardboard, tape, and finger paint.
I’ve got this.” She hums to herself, tapping her chin.
“An ice cube and extra concealer, that’s all I need. ”
I blink. Her ingenuity is admirable.
She marches off with the resolve of someone about to perform surgery—not hide a zit.
I try to focus on the spreadsheet on my laptop, but I’m too distracted.
Why did I hurt her feelings and tell her she looked gross? Maybe because I’m annoyed about her date with some surf hippie. I know nothing about him, but I already know he’s not good enough for her.
She’s supposed to be here, helping my uncle, not out flirting with randos.
So later, when I catch up with Malachi, I say to him, “It’s your last night here, let’s go out.”
My delivery could have used some finesse. It’s less of an invitation and more of an order, but Malachi doesn’t seem to notice.
“Sure,” he says. “Where to?”
“The Low Tide Lounge.”
When we walk inside thirty minutes later, I do a double take when I spot Francesca.
She’s wearing a red mini dress that skims along her curves in a way that makes my mouth water. She looks like a piece of candy that I desperately want to bite into.
Where the hell did that thought come from?
This is Francesca. Who eats processed garbage and drives me absolutely bonkers.
I shake the thought away. I must be losing it.
“Is that Frankie?” Malachi asks, eyes wide and locked on to where she’s leaning against the bar.
I don’t mean to look, but it’s impossible not to.
The dress is red—bright red—like she wore it specifically to be noticed.
And it’s not just the color. It’s the way it fits, hugging curves I’ve somehow never paid this much attention to before.
The smooth line of her waist, the way the fabric clings to the curve of her hips. It’s difficult to keep my eyes off her.
Her date has shaggy, sun-bleached hair, blue eyes, and an easygoing grin that probably lets him get away with way too much.
He’s leaning against the bar, one forearm resting casually on the counter as he chats with Francesca and the bartender.
His other hand fidgets with a cocktail napkin, absentminded, like he’s not good at standing still.
He laughs at something—a loose, effortless sound—and tosses back a sip of his drink like he has nowhere to be and all the time in the world to enjoy it.
It’s annoying, really. Watching Ryder like some kind of case study in laid-back, surfer-bro charisma.
Ridiculous.
“Let’s get a drink,” I grumble.
Malachi leads the way to a table that’s tucked into the farthest back corner of the bar and is perfect for observing from a safe distance.
Francesca is explaining something to her date with a lot of laughter and exaggerated hand gestures.
Malachi seems transfixed.
“You’re staring,” I point out.
He shrugs. “I’ve never seen her look so . . . put together.”
I clench my jaw and look away, irritated with myself. It’s Francesca. The same woman who gives me grief at every turn and has an entire section of her brain devoted to ranking gas station snacks.
Malachi drums his fingers on the table, eyes flicking to mine. “Serious question—if you had to pick one theme song that plays every time you walk into a room, what is it? And before you say something boring, just know mine is ‘Return of the Mack.’”
“What?” I blink at him. My gaze betrays me again, dragging back over to her just as she leans over the bar to grab a cocktail napkin, the dress stretching just enough—
I exhale sharply and down the rest of my drink.
This is a problem.
I signal our server for another drink since mine seems to have disappeared.
Thankfully, our server appears at just the right moment, and after we order another round, Malachi does his best to steer the conversation away from Francesca. And I’ve never been more grateful. Soon though, he catches me staring again.
“I love humans with golden retriever energy.” He chuckles.
I glare at him. “This conversation would be even better if I knew what you were talking about.”
“Frankie. She’s fun and adventurous. And don’t try and tell me you haven’t noticed how cute she is.”
“Stop. She’s not cute, she’s ridiculous,” I all but snap at him.
“She could be good for you,” he muses, tapping his chin.
I rub at my temples, where a sudden headache is forming.
He gives me a look, grinning like he’s got a secret. “You have a crush on this girl.”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“Why are you still talking?” I snap.
“If you don’t stop scowling at them like that, you’re going to age yourself prematurely.”
“Will you stop? I’m not scowling. My face still moves because I haven’t had any of that toxin you insist on injecting into yours.”
Malachi flings a straw across the table that hits me in the chest. “It’s called Botox, and you need it.”
“Whatever.”