Chapter Thirteen
That evening, I hunched over a board at home while Margot lounged on the couch. My brush slipped, dragging a crooked streak of orange across my knuckles as the sign smeared and “Marigold’s” became indecipherable.
“They just waltzed in,” I muttered, “Dropped a line about some mysterious contact, and suddenly he’s everyone’s hero.”
Margot tapped her phone screen with a glossy red nail and snorted. “Sounds like someone’s jealous.”
“I’m not.” My voice cracked. Did I want to break the sign over Rhett’s head? Maybe. Was I jealous? Hardly. “I’m… frustrated,” I finished.
“Yeah, I can tell.” She pointed at the paint dripping down my hand. “But denial doesn’t make things any less true.”
I set the brush down with a little too much force, orange splattering across the newspaper underneath. “You’re supposed to be helping. Not psychoanalyzing me.”
Margot smirked. “Hey, I’m multitasking. Besides, if you don’t admit it soon, you’re going to explode. And I, for one, do not want to be in the blast radius.”
I groaned and tossed the brush into the rinse jar. “Remind me again why I volunteered for this?”
“You didn’t.” She flopped sideways on the couch, balancing her phone above her head. “You got volunteered. There’s a big difference.”
???
By the next morning, Captain’s had turned into a war zone.
Ruth’s upstairs office looked like someone detonated a confetti bomb of sticky notes, crumpled paper, and half-finished lattes.
Margot was hunched over her laptop, vigorously swiping her stylus across her laptop, the Excel spreadsheet having burgeoned into a monster.
Meanwhile, I fielded phone calls with a notebook wedged under my arm, scribbling in barely-legible handwriting.
“Right, yes, I understand your concern, Mrs. Henderson, but we can’t make a gluten-free funnel cake vendor materialize overnight.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Maybe you could—hello? Hello?” I squeezed my phone and tried not to scream.
Across the room, Margot muttered curses at her email. “Another vendor just backed out.”
“Which one?” My heart thudded.
“The popcorn guy’s worried about the weather. Says soggy popcorn will ruin his brand.” She rolled her eyes and jabbed her screen. “And now the woman who was supposed to do the shaved ice said her machine broke. Something about her nephew sticking a Lego in it?”
I pressed my palms to my eyes. “Will you make fun of me if I cry?”
“Just let me know when and I’ll turn around,” Margot deadpanned.
Before I could reply, the door creaked open. And—because, of course—Rhett filled the frame and leaned to one side. Two cups of coffee in hand and his hair dusted with sawdust, he hovered like he wasn’t sure he was welcome.
Margot perked up immediately at the sight of coffee. “Are you going to come in or just stand there looking like a lost puppy?”
He shuffled forward, and she snatched a cup before I could blink. “What are you doing here?” I asked, proud of how steady my voice sounded.
“Well you weren’t at Marigold’s,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Figured you’d be at the cafe, but then—ah… Rachel mentioned you’d be here. And I thought you might want your—” Rhett’s eyes drifted across the office. “Twelfth latte of the day?”
He extended the drink toward me, a soft smile pulling at the edges of his lips. I dropped my eyes and accepted it. Our fingers brushed, and I caught the gasp in my throat as the familiar warmth bloomed in my chest.
Margot and I exchanged looks. She raised her eyebrows as if to say, ask him. My cheeks flamed.
“Is there anything I can do?” Rhett asked, oblivious.
“You’ve done enough,” I muttered and glared at the tips of my sneakers. It came out sharper than I meant.
“You could help field phone calls!” Margot chirped with a suspicious amount of cheer, swishing the ice of her coffee. “Vendors are dropping like flies. And Georgie is this close—” she pinched her fingers together. “—to having a nervous breakdown.”
“Am not,” I mumbled, though I was pretty sure I’d start crying if anyone looked at me funny.
Rhett’s chuckle was low. “Good thing I’m getting used to Georgie breakdowns.”
I forgot I was supposed to be mad. “I thought your specialty was bursting pipes,” I shot back.
“Call me a Renaissance man,” he replied.
???
The next hour blurred into caffeine, phone calls, and crisis management.
Or maybe my head spun because Rhett kept leaning over my shoulder, offering suggestions in that calm, deep voice.
His aftershave carried something woodsy—pine and leather, maybe—and it kept drifting closer every time he did.
I shook it away and forced my eyes back to the spreadsheet.
By midday, the vendor list looked… marginally less disastrous. A few loyal regulars had already agreed to stay, even if it meant setting up in the rain or in the somewhat depressing high school gymnasium. For the first time all week, things were starting to look up.
Margot stretched her arms above her head. “Alright, when are you going to spill about your mystery contact?”
My stomach twisted. I knew what she was doing—subtlety wasn’t part of her skillset.
And if I was the type to avoid conflict, she was the type to light it on fire just to see what happened.
That was Margot: self-assured, precise, and completely unafraid to cut straight to the point with a well-sharpened verbal sword.
Rhett ran his hand through his hair. If he was looking at me, I couldn’t tell—I was too busy pretending to research something on the computer.
“She’s an event planner from home. Last-minute disasters are kind of her thing,” he finally responded.
I ducked my head between my hands as a flush rose to my cheeks.
The first event I was in charge of was a confirmed disaster.
Of course, I didn’t need the reminder—nervous Bluebell Cove business owners and an onslaught of disgruntled vendors kept me humble.
But hearing it from him made my stomach churn.
Margot huffed. “What can she do that we can’t?” I was sure she had accompanied it with a devastating roll of her eyes.
“She has connections,” Rhett quipped.
“And she’s helping us out of the goodness of her heart?” Margot’s tone could cut glass.
Rhett hesitated. “Yes.”
I didn’t wait for her to dig deeper. My chair squealed as I stood. “Well, I’m hungry!” I announced, and bolted for the door.
The diner downstairs had mostly cleared after lunch. I slid into a booth, aiming for space, but Rhett followed and took the seat across from me. Margot slipped away, presumably to find her mother in the kitchen.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said, as casual as the weather report.
“I’m not.”
“You are. You’ve barely looked me in the eye all day.”
“That’s because I’m busy.”
“Mhm.” He leaned forward. “See, I was under the impression that we were friends.”
My stomach soured. “We are.”
“Friends don’t ignore friends for no reason.”
He drummed his fingers on the table, waiting. I had no words. How was I supposed to tell him that every time he smiled, I forgot how to breathe? That his dark-eyed, incisive looks made me unravel? That, somehow, it seemed like Rhett Briggs understood me better than anyone else?
“Georgie.” His voice softened. “I’m not trying to make this harder. I just want to help.”
Something in my chest twisted. He used the same tone I’d heard yesterday. To Claire.
Rhett’s phone buzzed and his chin dipped. Thumb hovering over the screen, his expression began to harden.
“Everything okay?” I asked automatically, startled by the shift.
“Yeah.” He shoved the phone back in his pocket and shook his head. “My parents are… eager for me to get back home.” His words came clipped, like he’d carefully filed off any traces of emotion.
Home. The life waiting for him there—a career, a city, and someone named Claire—three thousand miles away, yet looming and shadowing my every thought of him.
I had to remember I was just a blip on his radar.
An unfortunate speedbump that he’d forget about the second his plane touched down in California.
Claire or no Claire, I didn’t have a place in his life.
Margot strode up to our table and saved me from searching for the right words.
“I put our orders in. Hope you like a burger, Everett.” She scooted into the banquette beside me, completely unaware that she wasn’t supposed to know his full name. Or, knowing Margot, she did it on purpose.
“Everett, huh? Word travels fast around here,” he responded, a smile in his voice as he stared at my profile.
I was too busy counting the number of cobblestones on the sidewalk outside.
???
“So, you really have no idea what the inside of Marigold’s looks like right now?” Rachel asked later that afternoon as we walked Easton along the beach.
“Maybe if I sneak in at midnight,” I muttered.
“Okay, that’s ridiculous. You can’t just keep avoiding him.”
Easton barreled into the surf, drenching the bottom half of my jeans.
I couldn’t help but laugh as he flailed around in the shallow.
Swathes of watercolor clouds streaking the sky reflected cotton candy on the sparkling horizon beside us.
The encroaching evening blew a crisp gust across the water, the occasional loose curl tickling my face.
Still, something sharp and restless pulled at the corners of my mind.
Rachel dragged her toes through the sand, sweater cinched around her while the wind whipped locks of scarlet hair.
“I’m not avoiding him,” I finally answered, grimacing as Easton shook a spray of saltwater at both of us. “He’s under contract. It’s a business relationship. There’s no need for us to be around each other more than necessary.”
“Ah, yes. A completely normal thing for you to say,” Rachel returned sarcastically. “We should head back, it’s about to get dark—and I need to feed Steve and Chicken.”
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get used to Rachel’s names for her cats.
We were silent for a while longer as we trudged through the sand. She hummed quietly to herself before speaking again. “You know, it’s okay to admit that you like him.”
Her gentle words landed like a stone in my stomach. “I know,” I whispered, unsure if I believed it. “But it doesn’t matter.”
Shoving on our sandals once we reached Harbor Street, Rachel graciously changed the subject to the cafe’s open mic nights.
We crossed to an emptied Main Street just as the lamp posts flicked on.
The sky above us darkened to a shade of lilac.
The only shop still open was Captain’s, where orange light poured out onto the street and the buzz of chatter could be heard through the windows.
Everything looked exactly as it always had.
Except one thing.
My feet froze on the sidewalk of their own accord, planted like a statue even as Easton whined and yanked on his leash. Rhett was on the other side of the glass, sitting in a booth across from Janice and Frank, completely unsuspecting as I stared from the dim street.
Rachel followed my eyeline. “Who is that?”
A head of glossy, honey-colored hair leaned on his shoulder. Something hot and sour washed over me. The answer couldn’t be more obvious.
“That’s Claire.”