Chapter 4
Theo
Laney takes a million hours in the shower, and when she finally emerges, she’s in shorts and a tank top.
No bra.
And the shorts are short , which show off the slender legs hiding under her ass.
I’m staring at her ass—swear to god, even her ass is sophisticated—as she heads to the main door of my suite, opens it, and pulls Sabrina Sullivan inside.
If Emma’s the smart one of the trio they formed when Em skipped second grade and joined us in third grade when the rest of us were eight, Delaney’s the perfect one, and Sabrina’s the green-eyed, red-haired fun one.
Sabrina’s also the biggest gossip in all of Snaggletooth Creek.
She knows things she shouldn’t.
But she can also keep a secret. Most of the time. Unless it’s beneficial for her to not keep the secret.
Which is what has me on edge as she surveys me with a cool glance. “Theo. Lovely to see you and your underwear.”
I have a babysitter, and now I have the town gossip way too close to my kittens.
I’m in paradise and it fucking sucks. “Sabrina. Missed you at the pool.”
Her nose lifts a quarter-inch in the air. “I was having my own fun.”
Yep.
She’s still pissed at me.
She’ll get over it. Or she won’t. But since helping with her problem would make bigger problems for me, she’s gonna have to find another solution.
“We’re going out for a little dinner,” Laney says, clearly avoiding looking at me and my underwear. “Back in a bit.” She gives me a finger wave, grabs Sabrina, and the two of them slip out the door.
I give it a minute, head to the door, and look out the peephole.
Yep.
They’re whispering right outside.
Perfect.
I leap into action. Have to hide my recording equipment under the bed. Shove my knitting under my underwear and swim trunks in my duffel bag. Unplug my computer and stash it behind the wedding gift that Chandler will hate and Emma will laugh and laugh and laugh over.
And then I peek out the peephole again.
The women are still there.
I could leave off the deck on the ocean side of the bungalow, but that would put the kittens at risk of discovery when Laney goes snooping, and right now, I don’t have a better place to keep them or a way to get them there without being spotted and questioned by my guard at the front door.
I’m trapped.
I hate feeling trapped.
Hate. It .
Reminds me of school.
Rather be back at the pool. Hanging out. Drinking tropical drinks. Flirting with a few ladies. Eating fish.
Eating .
Just eating.
But instead of wallowing in self-pity, I indulge in kitten therapy.
Miss Doodles—yes, that’s mama cat, and no, I have no regrets about her name—isn’t as hostile as she could be, but she’s still a scratch risk while she’s being protective of her kittens, which I’m guessing are about a month old.
Eyes are open. Ears are up. They’re playing with each other.
Using the litter box. Attacking the toys I picked up yesterday after I found them.
And still nursing off of Miss Doodles, whom I’m working to fully win over.
If I could move in here and close the kittens inside the ginormous bathroom in this primary bedroom, I would. But I can’t.
This bedroom is an open-concept suite. A half-wall separates the bed from the tub.
Two sinks are opposite the wide shower, and the closet has no door.
I’d have to trap them in the throne room, and I’m not doing that to the kittens.
And putting them in the other bedroom wasn’t an option.
Not when cleaning up their messes requires access to water.
The kittens have clearly had an eventful day exploring in here.
It’s not long before they get tired of me and pile on each other to sleep next to their mama, so I leave them to rest. I’m back in the main living area flipping through channels between sit-ups and push-ups and burpees—never have sat still well—feeling more like myself, more like I can handle being babysat , when Delaney lets herself back into the room.
I brace for impact, waiting for her to freak out on me over my side hustle since I’m assuming Sabrina would’ve told her how best to manipulate me into behaving, but she doesn’t say a word.
Just leans against the door and looks at me like she’s tired and doesn’t want to be here.
I’m not a sigher. Prefer to spend my time and energy living, having fun, building up everyone around me the way my mom used to build me up instead of grumbling.
But a weighty sigh leaks out of me right now.
“Take the bedroom,” I grunt.
“I don’t mind sleeping on?—”
“Take. The fucking. Bedroom.” She has a bigger job than I do this week. Not only is she in the wedding, but she has to make sure Chandler isn’t pissed at me for breathing.
That’s a Chandler problem.
Not a me problem.
I know he’s not pissed that I’m breathing. He’s pissed for other reasons.
But no matter why Chandler needs a buffer from me, Emma thinks he does, and Emma thinks Laney’s the person for the job. So Laney should have a real bed.
And that’s why I’m staring down the Tooth’s original Little Miss Perfect and giving up the fight against having a babysitter.
To make my sister happy.
No matter how pissed I am that I went from being my normal happy-go-lucky, mischief-loving self an hour ago to being a problem who needs a solution in the form of Delaney Kingston as my babysitter now.
This is so much like high school I want to check the date on my phone to make sure I haven’t been sucked into a time machine. And I don’t want to talk about what it’s doing to my mental health.
Her whole body sags, and she glances down at her own bare feet before looking up to meet my gaze again. “Thank you. We can trade off. I don’t mind. I can?—”
“Stop at thank you next time.” Fuck, I hate being grumpy. But when it comes to Laney, there’s rarely another way.
Call it self-preservation.
She eyes me for way too long, then looks way too long again at the closed door to the other bedroom.
“Okay,” she finally says. “Thank you. I’ll be quiet when I get up in the morning. If you want me to bring something in for breakfast?—”
“Go to bed, Laney.”
Thank fuck, she listens.
As soon as the bedroom door closes behind her, I poke my head out of the bungalow.
Sabrina lifts a single brow at me. She’s standing at the edge of the porch like she has Theo radar, arms crossed, taller than genetics made her thanks to her chunky sandals.
Don’t take on a five-foot-two redhead who knows all the dirt on you.
Just don’t do it.
“Hey, Sabrina.” I grin at her like I’m not agitated as fuck over how far down the toilet this day has been flushed. “Like your shoes. That flower between your toes is a nice touch for the tropics.”
“If you’re going to sneak out, you should put on pants first.” She snaps a quick photo of me, then pockets her phone. Blackmail material. Awesome. “Emma would appreciate it.”
I like Sabrina.
She never judged me for being a crappy student. Occasionally has a drink with me. Sometimes slips a little hint about who I should or shouldn’t piss off or help out.
You want to know what’s going on in the Tooth, she’s your person. Provided she deems you worthy of the information.
And right now, I want more information. Because the bomb she dropped on me yesterday is still sitting heavy, even if I have no intention of being the one to bail her out.
Plenty of people around town would do what she asked me to do.
For instance— “Why didn’t you ask Laney what you asked me?”
“Reconsidering?”
“Nobody’s giving me a loan to hand over to you and you know it.”
“You don’t need a loan, and you know it.”
I shrug.
While she’s not wrong—my side hustle brings in a pretty penny—I don’t like that she knows it.
And she probably doesn’t like that I have dirt on her now.
Not that I’d use it. That’s not my thing.
Won’t catch me holding it over her that Bean & Nugget is overextended after expanding into neighboring communities that weren’t as interested in Snaggletooth Creek coffee. Or that they’re two years behind on taxes. Or that they’re at risk of shutting down.
Sabrina wants help bailing the shop out.
And she came to me.
Wonder if she knows I’m paying for the wedding this week too. At Chandler’s request. Which I doubt Emma knows.
And yeah, his damn pride over that is the reason I have a babysitter and he doesn’t. Working hard to not be pissed about that.
Not there yet.
But I’m not refusing to help Sabrina because I’m a dick, or because I want Bean & Nugget to fail.
I know she can get the money. She has friends like Laney, whose family could bail out the café without hardly blinking. Kingston Photo Gifts has done fucking awesome for themselves.
The Kingstons might not be my favorite people in the world, but I can’t deny they’ve been successful, and they’ve done a lot of good things for the town and the people in it.
And they’re not the only people who could afford to help Bean & Nugget.
Much as I love my hometown and the people in it, I don’t want them knowing anything about my side hustle or what it’s done for me.
The minute people find out you got yourself something of a windfall, it’s no longer let’s go hang pickles off the tree in the park and see how long it takes people to figure out it was us .
Then, it’s hey, wanna get a box at the Avs game?
Or you need a financial planner, because I’d love to help you make your money make more money for you.
Or yo, Theo, we should hit Vegas and see if we can get into the high-roller rooms. Or, can I borrow a fuckton of cash because my family’s café shouldn’t have expanded to more locations that we can’t support and now we’re in debt up to our eyeballs?
Add in how I make my money with my side hustle, and there are even bigger problems.