Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
ISLA
I enter the Thorn’s roomy kitchen and instantly relax.
This is where I feel the most comfortable. The wide counters are made of smooth, pale wood, the old refrigerator wheezes away, the ceramic blue-and-white jars full of flour and sugar and salt sit at attention on the small kitchen island. My fingers itch with the excitement I always feel when I’m about to create a new confection. I want to lose myself in the careful measurements and preciseness that comes with baking, in the scent of sugar and flour, and the sound of a whisk against a glass bowl.
I decide to make my favorite—macarons.
It’s always been my dream to go to Paris, to eat my way down the Rue de Bac, feasting on French delicacies from millefeuilles to Paris-Brést to pain au chocolat. I shared that dream with Caden once. He even told me he’d take me to Paris. I swallow and push the thought aside. Luke can take me to Paris. I’m only thinking about Caden because of the new wedding locale. But really, I’m starting to be genuinely excited about getting married at Everton Estate. The late summer roses will be blooming, the vines heavy with grapes. And it will be so much easier for my friends to attend—they won’t have to trek all the way into the city. I see myself in the beautiful dress I chose earlier, standing with Luke among the vines, the sky a cloudless blue, the air scented with earthy richness.
I hum to myself as I get the carton of eggs out of the fridge. Technically, I should age the egg whites for twenty-four hours, but I didn’t realize I’d want to make macarons so badly and I don’t have that kind of time. I grab the almond flour from one of the cabinets. I’m just reaching for the confectioner’s sugar when the front door to the Thorn opens. At first, I think it’s one of the guests, but then I hear Charlotte’s voice.
“Isla?”
“In the kitchen,” I call back.
She comes in and wraps me up in a hug. We’d all been in our nicest attire for the dress fitting but she looks more herself now. Her thick dark curls are tied up in a messy bun and she wears cutoff jean shorts and a baseball tee. “Okay seriously. Getting married at Everton. Tell me the truth.”
“I’m fine,” I say, laughing.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Would you like me to swear a blood oath?”
“You know I faint at the sight of blood.”
I grin. “I know.”
“Okay fine, I believe that you don’t care that you’ll be getting married to your new man on your ex’s property.”
I sigh. “He wasn’t my ex, Charlotte. We weren’t…anything.”
“Right. And that’s why it took a year for you to get over him. Because he wasn’t anything.”
I frown at her and she holds up her hands.
“I’m your best friend, it’s my job to speak the truth.”
“Well, darling best friend, you have nothing to worry about.” I start to crack the eggs, carefully separating the whites into their own bowl. “I do appreciate you looking out for me. But I’m really fine. I’m excited actually—this will be so much easier for my side of the aisle to attend, don’t you think?”
“Ooh, that is an excellent point. You know I like to be able to make a quick exit.”
“Plus, it’s a gorgeous locale, plus it’s peak Magnolia Bay?—”
“Just like you,” Charlotte teases.
I smile. “Exactly. I think this all worked out for the best.”
I finish the egg whites and frown into the bowl. Charlotte glances at the contents and looks up at me.
“Have the eggs done something wrong?” she asks.
“I really should let them age for twenty-four hours.”
Charlotte claps her hands together. “Excellent! That gives us plenty of time to go get a drink at the Screw. Celebrate your dress and spread the news of your wedding venue change. I bet Linda May will start trumpeting this information up and down Main Street before we finish our first glass of wine.”
I chuckle. Linda May Cheswick is a notorious gossip—it seems every generation in Magnolia Bay has one, and she’s ours. She gives old Mrs. Greerson a run for her money.
“Luke can join us if he’s in town,” Charlotte adds.
“No, he’s staying in the city tonight. He has work to do, and then he’s golfing with clients I think.” This is another reason why we’re so compatible—we simply don’t need to spend every waking moment together. I love that he’s really trying to stand out in his family’s business and working late nights and weekends is part of that. It’s the same as how I have to wake up at the crack of dawn to get pastries ready for the guests.
“Let me just change quickly and make sure my parents don’t need anything,” I say.
My parents have a small apartment at the back of the B&B, and while I don’t live here anymore, I keep some extra clothes on hand. I slip into a comfortable pair of jeans, a yellow tank top, and a pair of ballet flats. When I tell my parents I’m heading to the Crooked Screw with Charlotte, they wave me off happily. Well, Dad looks a bit crestfallen about the lack of macarons in his future, but I can make them tomorrow once the egg whites have aged and I finish the breakfast pastries for the guests.
The Thorn is in walking distance from the center of town, so we stroll along the sidewalk beneath the sugar maples and gray birches that line the road, past houses painted in cheerful pastels. The center of Magnolia Bay is bursting with life, as it always is in the summer months at the height of tourist season. Charlotte and I wave to Franco Amercini, the owner of Osteria Fortuna, as he pours wine for a couple seated at one of the outdoor tables beneath the red striped awning of his busy Italian trattoria. Dev Chadhra, who runs the Grater Good, is doing a tasting for a tour group and the scent of cheese makes my mouth water as we pass by. An athletic-looking couple holding hands follow a sign that points toward the bay with the words Cochran’s Bike and Kayak Rentals on it.
The Crooked Screw is on the next block, kitty corner to Magnolia’s Petals, the flower shop that I live above. Just past the corner, the shops fall away, revealing a large green that sits on the water. That’s where the booths and tents will be set up for Magnolia Day later in the summer. The Thorn doesn’t have a booth, but I usually help out anyone who needs it, from Eric Kim crafting his latest coffee concoction to Sara Summers featuring her handmade jewelry.
I’ve secretly dreamed of having my own booth for Magnolia Day. Showcasing my baking skills, from the comfort foods to more elevated patisserie. But it’s not like I have a shop to promote the way Sara and Eric do. I don’t want to take a permit from someone who really needs it.
The Screw’s exterior is pale brick, with industrial style windows and a skylight, a wrought-iron corkscrew hanging above the entrance. The windows are thrown open and even though it’s early, there’s a healthy crowd already inside. A couch and several armchairs surround a dormant fireplace at the front of the room. There are high-top tables and more seating in the back, plus a patio that looks out over the bay. The long bar is recessed, with exposed beams above and sleek wooden stools with low backs.
Linda May is seating a couple of tourists. When she sees me and Charlotte, her face lights up.
“Oh my god, you guys! Have you heard?” she says, pushing us over to the corner by the fireplace.
“Heard what?” I ask.
“Whatever it is, can we get a drink first,” Charlotte says. She always pretends like she doesn’t care about Linda May’s gossip, but she eats it up just like everyone else in town.
“No! You won’t believe who’s here!” Linda May hisses.
“Is it someone famous?” I ask. We do get some celebrities in town from time to time and by the way Linda May is bouncing on her toes, this feels like it’s someone big.
She giggles. “Kind of,” she says, and turns to the bar. Charlotte and I follow her gaze.
A couple have just paid their check, and as they get up to leave, I see the three men seated behind them.
All the air in my lungs seems to evaporate. My heart slows, pounding a dull rhythm as my brain processes what I’m seeing.
There were days—months really—when I used to catch a glimpse of mahogany hair and think, that’s him. He’s come back . I saw him in strangers’ faces, in the flash of a dimple, in the deep baritone of a laugh. But it was never really him.
Until now.
Caden Everton is sitting at the bar with his brother Alistair and Noah Patterson.
Caden . His name breaks through the carefully crafted wall I’ve built over the years and crashes down around me. Heat flames over my skin, and my heartbeat sounds too loud in my ears.
The world moves in slow motion as Caden turns and catches sight of me. Those eyes. I’m pinned in place, remembering how they raked over my naked body and saw me for who I was. Steel-blue eyes that were filled with so many promises—they look hard as flint now. His jaw is more angular, his cheekbones sharper. His hair is longer, almost shaggy like Noah’s, and he wears a tight-fitting white T-shirt that hugs his massive expanse of chest. He was always muscular, but this is something else—something primal. Those muscles weren’t carefully crafted in a gym. There’s a ruggedness to him that was never there before.
One arm is entirely covered in tattoos.
Caden’s gaze burns into me, molten, like blue-gray lava. It feels like my heart is about to beat straight out of my chest. I feel an ache between my legs that I can’t stop because even as my brain rejects this man, my body craves him. It doesn’t care that he hurt me. My body only remembers his touch.
I think Linda May is saying something. The sounds around me are muted, dim. Caden makes a sudden movement, like he’s about to stand.
I have a panicked instinct to run.
“Charlotte! Isla!” Noah calls to us and the volume of the world turns up so sharply, it’s disorienting. He’s waving us over.
“What do we do?” I hiss to Charlotte, turning away so Linda May won’t hear.
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” I moan.
“We can’t just stand here.”
Linda May pops her head into our conversation. “It’s Caden Everton!” she whispers excitedly.
“Yes, Lin, we deduced that,” Charlotte says.
I realize I can’t act weird. No, more than that—I don’t want to act weird. Who cares if Caden looks hotter than a blowtorch and has biceps for days?
Okay, that’s not helping.
But Magnolia Bay is my home. This is my chance to prove how far I’ve come.
I press my thumb to the diamond on my ring finger and square my shoulders.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get a drink.”
Charlotte snaps her fingers three times in approval. “I’m loving this energy,” she murmurs to me as we stroll over to the bar. “Hey guys. Caden, holy shit, when did you get back in town?”
“A few hours ago,” he says.
Oh god. His voice. I’d forgotten its potency—deep and rich and warm, like melted chocolate. I could lick it off my fingers and still want more.
I press my thumb into the diamond again. I see Noah looking back and forth between us, clearly gauging Caden’s reaction the way Charlotte is gauging mine.
“Hey ladies,” Jake says, coming over with two glasses of cab franc, my and Charlotte’s usual. “Look who finally came home to roost.”
“I’m not home,” Caden says and there’s a chill in his tone. “I’m only here for the summer.”
The news sets a strange tug of war in my chest.
“And to what do we owe the honor of your presence?” Charlotte says, handing me my wine. I wish she hadn’t—my hands are shaking. I take a large gulp, hoping to calm myself and reduce the damage if I spill it.
“Caden is here to play junior detective,” Noah says, grinning in that easy way he has. Caden’s frown looks carved out of stone. There’s so much of him now—surely there wasn’t always so much of him. He blocks out everything else in the room like an eclipse.
“I’m looking into my mother’s death before they ,” Caden jerks his head at Noah, “shove it into a drawer in some basement.”
I’m stunned. And impressed? And angry. There are so many feelings swirling inside me, I can’t parse them out clearly.
“Care to make a wager on that?” Alistair is saying to Noah.
He laughs. “I learned my lesson about betting with you, Al. No thanks.”
Alistair turns to Charlotte. “Would the lady care to take the bet? I’ll give you good odds.”
“I’m no lady,” Charlotte scoffs. “But tell me about these odds…”
“Twenty to one he comes up with nothing.”
“Thanks, Alistair,” Caden says dryly. His eyes keep flashing to me. I feel totally unprepared for this moment, which seems a bit ironic given how much time I used to spend thinking about the day Caden returned to Magnolia Bay. I take another gulp of wine.
“I’ll take that action,” Charlotte says.
Everyone is laughing and acting like this is normal. That he’s here. Just slipping back into the usual pace of town in the summer. Like he didn’t up and vanish, breaking my heart almost past repair and turning my life on its head.
It’s all too much. I can’t breathe.
“Excuse me for a minute,” I say, pressing my glass into Charlotte’s hand and fleeing out the patio doors.
It’s quiet out here. There’s only one small party at a table for four. I walk over to the railing and look out across the bay, taking a deep inhale. I’m okay. I can handle this. It was a shock at first but?—
“Isla.”
I whirl around. Caden followed me. He’s breathing deeply too, his stupid giant chest heaving. My eyes flash to his arm, to the intricate design that patterns the thick ropes of muscle.
“Where have you been ?” I blurt out.
I wasn’t planning on saying that. I don’t know what plan I had, but it probably should have involved icy silence and maybe a haughty look or two, to show I’ve moved on. Instead, I feel cracked open like an egg, my heart spilling out like a runny yolk.
“Argentina,” he says.
I’m shocked he actually answered me.
“Argentina?”
He nods. “I was working at a winery there.”
“A winery?” I sound like a parrot but I can’t help myself. I don’t know what I pictured—him living the high life in Monaco or cruising the Amalfi Coast maybe. Billionaire things.
“And you?” he asks. His voice is faintly gentle. “How are you?”
I want to laugh and I want to rage at him and I also feel so very tired. “I’m fine,” I say.
“Good,” he says, nodding again. “That’s…that’s good.”
There’s an awkward silence. I wonder what he’s thinking about. And if he’s wondering what I’m thinking about. I’m not sure even I know what I’m thinking.
“Did you really come back to solve your mother’s murder?” I ask.
His gaze drops to my mouth for a brief moment, but it’s enough to send a flicker of heat up my spine.
“Yes,” he says. He stares out at the bay and scratches the back of his neck. My eyes are drawn to the way his tattoo dances across his bicep with the movement. “Noah told me I was a suspect at first.”
“I know,” I say.
His eyes snap back to mine. “You do?”
“I was the one who convinced the cops it wasn’t you.”
Caden looks surprised. What did he think would happen? He basically fled the scene of the crime.
I make a sort of halfhearted gesture. “I was your alibi. Remember?”
His jaw gets tighter, a line of tension running through it. “Of course I remember,” he says, his voice a low growl. I feel it echo in my chest. For a moment, we just stare at each other. I wonder if he’s thinking about that night now, just like I am. My head pounds and my skin itches. Caden’s gaze drops to my mouth again and I lick my lips.
“Thank you,” he says. His voice is soft but fervent. Did it always have this many tones? Did I always feel each one like its own pressure inside me?
“I only told the truth,” I say.
“I didn’t realize…” He trails off. “I didn’t know what my leaving would mean.”
“Didn’t you?” I say. Caden blinks. I run my hand through my hair nervously.
And then I see it. His eyes flit to my ring finger then widen in shock. His jaw goes rigid and I can see a muscle twitching in his cheek.
Darkness crawls across Caden’s face like a storm cloud.
“Congratulations,” he says tartly.
“Thank you,” I reply, equally sharp.
The air around us seems to expand and contract as we stare each other down. My fingers ache at his closeness, no longer a memory but present and real. My pulse throbs between my legs. I hate this. I hate him for making me feel this way. I can’t look away from him though. When he swallows, I follow the movement of his Adam’s apple.
“Who’s the lucky man?” he asks. His voice is tight.
“Noah didn’t tell you?”
He shakes his head. My stomach clenches.
“Luke Richards,” I say.
Caden goes entirely still, like he’s carved out of granite. His eyes are like two bits of iron, flat and unfeeling.
Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the bar.