Chapter Twenty-Five
Margot and I devoted most of the afternoon to festival decorations. We already had plenty tucked away from previous years, but with it being held in the gymnasium, I was determined to add a little extra zhuzh.
Normally, we’d be stringing lights along Main Street by now, creating that glowing tunnel that led straight to Seaglass Beach. The high school gym, though, was a far cry from the cobblestone sidewalks and ocean views we were used to.
We drove out to a fabric store on the edge of town and dug through the clearance bins for nearly an hour.
After that came a few extra stops—some thrift shops, an antique mall a couple towns over—just in case we stumbled across something that felt like Bluebell Cove.
Somewhere between a cracked teacup and a stack of postcards, I found it.
I didn’t say anything to Margot, just slipped it carefully into my basket and paid without another word.
In the end, we found bolts of fabric in white and seaside pastels to drape along the walls like faux curtains. The budget stretched just far enough thanks to a few vendors who’d backed out, and Margot graciously—and stubbornly—covered the rest.
“I’ll get the credit card points,” she had mumbled matter-of-factly, trying to appear nonchalant.
But Margot was seeming less and less apathetic toward Bluebell Cove the more she carted me around in her mother’s car and volunteered hours of time for the festival. No matter how much she said that she just wanted to avoid Ruth, I could tell something else was simmering beneath the surface.
I refused to push. She would have to tell me when she was ready.
When we grabbed lunch at Captain’s, I half-expected Claire and Rhett to be cuddled up in a booth. Instead, it was buzzing a little more than usual, a cluster of unfamiliar faces crowding a couple tables.
“Think they’re here for the festival?” I had muttered to Margot at the bar. “Or the gala?”
She openly peered at them. “The festival. Definitely the festival.”
By mid-afternoon, I finally made it home.
All day, I avoided Marigold’s like the plague, tucking my chin or studying my cuticles if we walked past. I didn’t know how long they’d been in there, and I wasn’t masochistic enough to spend time wondering.
Just picturing them in my shop made my chest ache.
I had no right to be jealous, really. I didn’t own him, and neither did she. But if either of us had any type of claim, it would be her—she was a part of his life in California, and even his parents wanted them together.
I was just some random Bluebell Cove townie. A blip. Someone he’d forget in a week’s time.
Easton nudged his head into my palm as I leaned against the kitchen entryway and stared at the blank space. Things would be back to normal soon, and that uneasy feeling would be gone.
When the knock at my door sounded, I laughed and yelled, “You know you don’t have to knock, Rachel—”
Only it wasn’t Rachel.
“Hey,” Rhett said, sleeves rolled up and two chairs slung over his shoulders. “Hope this is a good time.”
My stomach did that flip-flop thing again.
“And here I was thinking I’d need to post flyers for my missing dining set,” I joked, half in a daze.
Easton whined and rammed the back of my knees, knocking me from my wide-eyed stare.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, swinging the door wide and holding Easton back by his collar.
We watched, sitting on the floor of the foyer, as Rhett carried the chairs to the kitchen and promptly left for the rest. After he lugged the table inside, I shut it and released Easton to sniff his new favorite person.
“Hey, buddy,” Rhett murmured, crouching so he could scratch him behind the ears.
“I think he likes you more than me at this point.” I shook my head at my traitorous dog as he flopped down before Rhett, tongue out and belly to the ceiling. Hopping to my feet, I peered curiously at the dining set that hardly looked like my own.
“Are you sure that’s mine?” I said, eyebrows raised. “Maybe this is another girl’s kidnapped furniture.”
Rhett looked up and patted the glossy, dark-stained surface. “I used the same stain as the floors on Marigold’s,” he replied, “Since you seemed to like it.”
“Yes,” I whispered, stepping forward to trace my palm across the table. “It doesn’t look like I found it on the side of the road anymore.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You what?”
“Nothing,” I quipped with a tiny smile, slipping into the nearest seat. It didn’t wobble or shake as I shifted.
Rhett stood and fiddled with the tabletop. “You could probably build a house on this now.”
“Hey, what’s this—” I pulled another chair closer to me, a gasp catching in my throat as I traced my fingertips over the back of the top rail.
He’d engraved a network of tiny flowers and vines wrapping together and coiling to the sides in a flourish.
“You did this?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
An unmistakable pink blush rose to his cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s nothing special.”
I blinked at him, then at the chair, then back to him. He had lost his mind. Whatever it was, it was most definitely special.
Rhett crouched beside me, our hands brushing as he moved to inspect his handiwork.
“I know it’s not the same as the floors in the shop, but I thought…
” He trailed off and cleared his throat.
“I figured it could be something to remember your grandmother by. My uncle wasn’t the sentimental type, so… I know how it must’ve felt.”
California or not, I was a goner.
“Thank you,” I whispered, “It couldn’t be more perfect.”
Rhett shrugged, shoulders slumping in that shy, boyish way that I’d come to know. If I didn’t move on, I’d throw my arms around him and beg him never to leave.
“I was meaning to talk to you today, but I figured you’d be busy,” I said, voice admirably firm.
It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “Busy?”
I wanted to hide behind my hands. What was I supposed to say now?
“Er— I saw Claire at the cafe this morning. She insinuated… never mind.” My face had taken on a new shade of red. Fidgeting, I drummed my fingers on the table and tucked hair behind my ears even though it was gathered on top of my head.
After a beat of silence, the corners of Rhett’s lips began to quiver, like he was fighting a smile. “I told you, Georgie. We’re just friends. And I will continue reminding her of that for as long as it takes.”
And just like that, the bitter knots in my stomach that I’d been battling all day unfurled. It felt a little silly that those words were all I’d needed for the thorny feeling to fall away.
“Oh.” Was all I could say.
“Alright.” Rhett stood and extended me a hand. “Time for dinner.”
“Huh?” I muttered.
He stared pointedly at his upturned palm. Slowly, mind muddled, I slipped my hand into his and let him help me out of the chair. I cherished the warmth for the split second before he retrieved it and motioned for me to follow him.
“Wait here,” Rhett said suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
I shared a look with Easton, who appeared equally perplexed as Rhett launched out the door and down the porch. When it opened again, there was a large, brown paper bag in his arms.
“Dinner,” he explained, a goofy smile on his lips.
“What…” I shut the front door behind him as he strode back inside and set the bag on my kitchen counter. Easton and I watched from the entryway as he began methodically setting a spread out across the tile.
“I figured you wouldn’t have anything,” Rhett declared over his shoulder, turning to my fridge and frowning as he studied the contents. I flushed a deeper red. “I was right,” he muttered.
“I—” My protest died in my throat as he rummaged through the cabinets. Easton promptly abandoned me for his twelfth nap of the day on the couch.
“Ah, good.” Crouching at the cabinet by the dishwasher, he held up a few pans to the window light and grinned. “These will work.” They clattered lightly against the counter as he set them down and stood.
“Dinner?” I finally managed to squeak.
“I’m making you a proper meal,” he replied, inspecting a knife from my drawer before swiftly rolling up his sleeves.
“Why?”
Rhett looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “Because you said you forget to eat.”
I nearly keeled over from the butterflies that exploded in my stomach. He continued prepping in my kitchen as if it was the most normal thing in the world, and I watched as the meteorites in my chest collided at record speeds. This man was dangerous.
“Can I help?” I said, feet moving before I could figure out the proper plan of action.
Rhett and I worked in tandem as I chopped vegetables, and he prepared the steaks.
From the corner of my eye, I took in his attentive squint, the deftness of his fingers, and the way his shoulders hunched forward in concentration.
Everything he started—from fixing Marigold’s to my broken-down furniture—was finished meticulously.
That was just who he was. My stomach fluttered again.
“Ouch!”
I sucked in a breath and cradled my hand as the blood trickled down my finger. Rhett leaped into action, leading me to the sink by my wrist and placing my hand under running water.
“Bandages?” He questioned, already searching through my kitchen.
“By the fridge.”
I washed the blood off with some soap and hissed as it seeped into the cut. Brows furrowed and lips pinned together, Rhett shut off the water and pressed a piece of paper towel to my finger.
“Hold that,” he commanded, moving quickly to my container of random first-aid items.
“It’s not that bad,” I mused.
Rhett nimbly held my hand as he removed the crimson paper towel and wrapped the bandage around my finger. Dropping my hand, he shook his head and sighed. “I should’ve asked if you’ve ever learned how to cut vegetables.”
I gaped. “Hey!”
Smacking his arm with my good hand, his seriousness crumbled into a fit of laughter. Fighting the smile on my lips was a lost cause.