Far From Over

5. CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

KINSLEY

A fter a mostly sleepless night, I shovel a stack of Derrick’s mini pancakes down my throat, then Tessa and I make our way to Fletcher’s Farm.

Out front, we’re met by a short elderly woman with gray hair wound in tiny curls on top of her head.

“Theresa and Kinsley?” she asks, though she doesn’t wait for a response before she goes on. “Which one of you was interested in the house?”

“I am,” I say, making my way forward to shake her hand.

“Well,” she says, ignoring the gesture and turning on her heel, “I can show you around, but we can’t stay long. I have a tight schedule.” With that, she’s up the steps and unlocking the door.

“Every detail is custom. The previous owner built it himself. There are four bedrooms upstairs and two full bathrooms.” She punches a number into the keypad and opens the door. “As well as another full bathroom on the main level. At the back of the house, there’s a large room that was probably used as a study. Nowadays they’re calling it a flex room. The living room and kitchen were ahead of their time, so there’s a lot of open space.

“Everything inside stays. As you can see,” she says, stepping aside so we get a full view of the inside, “there’s a lot here.”

“Oh my God,” Tessa cries out. “There’s so much—”

“Shit?” the older woman responds.

“I was going to say clutter. I don’t remember it ever being like this.”

I run my hands along a stack of boxes near the door and then take a few steps toward the kitchen, dodging baskets of clothes and books. Wood carvings of gnomes and fairies stare back at me from every corner of the room, but I don’t bother inspecting them. I knew about the hoarding.

Instead, I take in the old ceramic kitchen table in front of the French doors that lead to the backyard. As a kid, I sat there more times than I can remember. Playing cards and drinking tea. Talking about school, my favorite books, and boys. It was here that I told Maggie about Ethan leaving for the marines, and it was here that I told her that it was time to move into Sunny Meadows.

“Kinzie.” Tessa tugs on my arm. “Did you see the listing price?”

With one look at the flyer she holds out, my stomach sinks.

I really want this house, but the only way I could afford it would be to take out all of my investments. That isn’t realistic either. I can’t survive on the income from my blog alone. Besides, Maggie’s home was made for a family, not a single female who spent too much of her life chasing after a far-fetched fairy tale.

Chest aching, I huff. Regardless of the conversation Maggie and I had about her will, I’m not her child, and I don’t have any rights to this house. That doesn’t ease the hurt or quell the nausea that rolls in my stomach when I think about a random stranger moving in.

I look around a bit more, making my way from room to room, soaking in one memory after another. I was barely four when we moved to Hope Island, and as far back as I can remember, Fletcher’s Farm was my home away from home. As a single working mother of twins, my mom relied heavily on the support Maggie and Ezra offered her.

I turn back toward my sister. “Somebody else will love this house,” I say. “It will be their happy place.”

As we’re stepping outside and I’m working up the nerve to say goodbye to the house, feeling a whole lot of sorry for myself, a black truck pulls up and parks beside Tessa’s Prius.

It’s no doubt another interested client on the long list of scheduled home buyers ready to snatch up Maggie’s home. Probably a young couple ready to grow a family on Fletcher’s Farm.

Instead, the person who climbs out of the driver’s seat is Ethan. He’s dressed in a dark blue uniform displaying a badge and a patch that reads Hope Island Police.

“Officer Tate. You’re late, but I heard about the commotion in town, so I won’t hold that against you,” the surly realtor says in her newfound upbeat voice, smiling like his presence makes her whole damn day.

“Ethan,” Tessa says with a large grin. “Two days in a row.”

He smiles back at her, but his mouth flattens when his attention drifts over to me.

“You’re a cop,” I say more than ask.

He huffs. “What gave it away?”

With my hands on my hips, I choke down the mixture of emotions swirling inside me and hit him with a glare. “Why are you here?”

He stops halfway to us and tilts his head. “This is Fletcher’s Farm, isn’t it?” He looks to the realtor and then back to me.

The cranky old thing is practically beaming. “Of course it is, dear.” She loops her arm through his and steers him toward the house. “Now why don’t you come on up so I can show you—”

“Wait,” I shout at them, my heart hammering against my sternum.

They both look and wait for me to continue. Even my sister is watching and waiting.

Without my permission, my mouth opens, and the next words come rushing out. “He can’t go in there. I’m buying the house.”

“Kinzie,” Tessa says, pulling at my arm. “I thought…”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” the realtor says, giving me a look of mock pity. “You need to be preapproved before you can make an offer. And even with that, I have an obligation to show the home to everyone who’s set up an appointment. You know, in case it all falls through.”

“I don’t need to be preapproved. I’m paying cash.”

“Kinzie,” Tessa seethes, her grip tightening. “Let’s take the night to sleep on it. We can circle back in the morning.”

I shake my head, anger bubbling within me. I can’t let Ethan buy this house. This house doesn’t mean anything to him. Not like it does to me.

“You’re moving back to Hope Island?” he asks.

“No,” I bite out.

Ethan’s lips pinch into a frown. “But you’re buying a house here?”

“No. I mean yes. I mean—” I blow out a breath. “I haven’t figured out all the details yet.” Isn’t that the damn truth? I have no idea what I’m even saying. Just being in his proximity is making it hard to think straight.

“Looks like I was right.” He turns back to the realtor, who is no longer smiling. “You didn’t need me to move anything. The house speaks for itself.” He angles in close to the woman and plants a kiss on her cheek. Then he jogs down the steps and stops in front of me.

Instinctively, I hold out my arm and regretfully place my hand on his hard chest.

“Wait. You weren’t interested in buying the house?”

His brown eyes smolder when he fixes them on me. “From what I’ve heard, there’s a lot of interest in the house, but no, I only stopped by as a favor to Cindy. She asked if I could move the boxes into the corner so it would show better, but it looks like she didn’t need me after all.”

My heart jackhammers inside my chest. He’s too close, his pine scent too tempting.

I don’t know how long we stand like this. In his orbit, time becomes irrelevant. Though when he dips his chin and focuses on where my hand is still pressed to his chest, I finally shake myself out of my stupor and pull back.

“I hope it all works out for you,” he whispers, and then he hops in his truck and disappears.

The next two weeks go by in a blur. First, I was outbid on Maggie’s house by a few thousand dollars. Honestly, it was a blessing in disguise. As badly as I want the house, there’s no way I can afford it in the long run. I can’t believe I allowed the idea of Ethan owning it to cause such a huge lapse in judgment.

In order to not think about Ethan or the house, I clean up my website and work on autopilot, updating my blog and writing about the latest and greatest in the land of love, or the lack thereof. I had a few good stories that kept me busy, including one about a bridezilla who refused to believe her fiancé would pull the plug on their big day.

“You’re crazy,” she’d said, waving me off. “You have the wrong woman.” She was in the middle of her dress fitting, and while I don’t normally intrude on such events, her fiancé insisted it had to be done at that very moment in order for her to understand the gravity of the situation.

“Your name is Megan? Megan Monroe?” I’d asked as she was telling the seamstress to pin on more lace decals.

“And your fiancé, his name is Joseph Hunter?”

“Yes, but do you know how many Joseph Hunters there are in Charleston? Twenty-one. I searched it online.”

“And,” I stretched out the word, “you think there’s more than one engaged to a Megan Monroe?” I tilted my head, silently willing her to come back to earth.

She didn’t even flinch. “I mean, it’s possible.”

Finally, as she left me with no other alternative, I opened the envelope and read the note. “Megs. I’m sorry I hired somebody to do this, but I’ve already tried five times to call off our wedding, and each time, you thought I was joking. I am not joking. Now please, for the love of God, stop charging our credit card and tell that nice seamstress lady to stop adding more rhinestones to a dress we can’t afford.”

Megan laughed.

The seamstress did not.

That story generated thousands of likes within the first few hours, and by the time I woke up this morning, I’d made it well into the millions.

With nothing planned for the day, I work on gathering ideas for a new article. Whichever direction I go, it won’t be wedding related. I try to keep my blog balanced, because while everyone loves a good wedding cancellation, I don’t always love writing about it.

I scroll through the camera roll on my phone, perusing the dozen or so pictures I’ve recently taken. When I get to the image of Ramon and his lemon drop martini, I stop and stare at it. This is it. I could use his picture, plot out a good story, and have it uploaded in less than an hour. The lighting is perfect, his skin is flawless, and the bright yellow lemon slice complements the dark masculine décor behind it.

But the longer I stare at the photo, the more my stomach twists.

Ethan.

I can’t not think of him. I visualize his stoic expression at least ten times a day. He infiltrates every part of my being. I’m usually pretty good at keeping my emotions at bay, but I can’t stop letting my mind drift to the way he looked at me at my sister’s house and then again at Maggie’s house. The way his eyes smoldered when I met his gaze.

A buzzing in my hand startles me as an incoming text flashes across the screen.

Tessa: What are you doing this weekend?

Sighing, I consider ignoring my sister. But it’s Friday, so if she’s texting me, that only means one thing.

Me: I already have a date .

Tessa: Ohh, a date? What’s his name? Where did you meet him?

I shake my head and laugh. My sister, bless her heart, wants me to find love more than I do. I think she feels guilty. Not so much because of Jay, though she was the one who introduced us, but because she found the love of her life before I did.

It was never a secret that while I craved passion and romance, Tessa was too wrapped up in her studies and work to think twice about a boyfriend. Yet here she is, married and living in a picture-perfect house, ready to start a family.

The last thing she should feel is guilt. Over the years, my outlook has changed, and it has nothing to do with her love life. As one man turned into the next, and as lust faded into unfaithfulness, my belief in love faded away.

I scan the contents on my countertop as I rack my brain for a fitting response. When my eyes land on the amber bottle, I type out my reply.

Me: His name is Jack. I met him at the liquor store.

Three dots dance on my screen and then quickly disappear. A few moments pass before Tessa responds.

Tessa: Jack Daniels does not constitute as a date. Now get off your ass and come visit this weekend.

I’m typing out a response when another text pops up.

Tessa: I have big news, so you can’t say no. And I won’t set you up with anybody this time, I promise. But wear something nice.

Big news? My mind immediately jumps to pregnancy. Since college, she’s been focused on nothing but her career, so I’m not sure it’s likely. But now that I think of it, she got sick the last time I was over there. It could have been morning sickness. Excitement bubbles up inside me at the prospect of being an auntie.

Me: So you’re having a party? Tonight or tomorrow?

Tessa: Tonight.

I jump out of the chair and rush around the house, digging out my overnight bag and stuffing it with all my essentials. When I reach for my phone again, Ramon’s picture is back on my screen. I notice, for the first time, the slight crook to his smile. I put that there. I forced him into that pose after he’d just helped me cancel his friend’s engagement.

My heart pangs. I’m an asshole.

I check the time. If I leave now, I can stop at the Clubs at Savannah on the way to Tessa’s and apologize. Then, if he lets me, I can snap a few new photos, get to know him better, and write my story over the weekend. It could be a win-win for everybody.

Two hours later, as I’m sitting in the parking lot of the golf course, it dawns on me that Ramon might not even be here. And if he is, he may not be willing to talk to me. I wouldn’t blame him. I never even apologized for putting him in such an awkward position.

I don’t normally stress out about the details like this, but I definitely didn’t think this through. This isn’t like me. I’m a planner. I prepare. I take notes and keep all the information secure in my journal. From there, I talk myself through the process, from beginning to end.

Today, I didn’t do any of that. Not even on my drive down. Once I hit the expressway, my brain diverted from Ramon straight to the one man I can’t get out of my head. The one man I have no business thinking about.

I take a deep breath, blow it out, and then pretend I’m not anxious at all. The moment I step into the Clubs at Savannah, I’m greeted with a blast of cool air just like I was two weeks ago. Like last time, I walk to the back and then turn right, into the cozy bar.

Ramon, thank God, is here. He’s standing at the other end of the bar, mixing cocktails for a couple not much older than I am. He’s tall and slim and boyishly handsome. But it’s the smile that does it for me.

I slip into the seat I occupied the last time I was here and wait for him to notice me.

It doesn’t take long, but rather than smiling when he catches a glimpse of me, he scowls and gives me the cold shoulder.

With a cleansing breath in, I tap my fingers on the bar, giving him time to throw his little tantrum.

When his pouting continues with no end in sight, I say, “I’ll take one lemon drop martini, please,” and flash him a smile.

Though he’s glowering, he pulls out a glass and works his magic.

“What happened to you?” he snarls as he sets the yellow beverage in front of me.

Straightening, I frown and peer at myself in the mirror behind the bar. “Me?”

He squints when he inches back from the bar top. “You’re not dressed like you want to sell me something.”

I lower my chin and take in my outfit. Sure enough, my white NSYNC T-shirt and gray cotton shorts are a sharp contrast to what I wore the last time. “I was in a hurry.”

“Who’s the unlucky bastard this time?”

I sigh. “I’m not here to cancel a wedding. I came to see you.”

“ You were in a hurry to see me ?” he asks, one brow lifted skeptically.

“Well, no. I was trying to beat traffic because I wanted to…” I trail off. Why am I here? I didn’t have to stop and apologize to a complete stranger. And while I’d like to write an article about his bartending skills, coming here wasn’t necessary in order for me to do that. But as I study him now, it hits me.

He frowns. “You wanted to…”

I clear my throat. “I’m here to tell you that I’m sorry. You know, for putting you in that weird position with Ethan. And, well, you know those pictures I took of you that day? I’d like to feature you on my blog.”

“Hell no. You’re a traitor.” He turns his back to me and begins to shimmy away.

“Wait,” I say loud enough to capture the attention of the cute couple at the other end of the bar. “Please, just hear me out.”

He cranes his neck and glares at me. “I’m not giving you any more ammunition to destroy Ethan. He’s a good man.”

With a hand to my forehead, I rub at the lines bunching above my nose.

“I’m not here about Ethan. And I’m sorry about what happened. Under any other circumstance, I would have stopped you,” I say, blinking heavily, “but there’s history between the two of us. And, well, I couldn’t seem to formulate any words at that moment.”

“History?” he asks, taking a step closer.

“Yes, history. As in, I dated him once upon a time.”

His eyes go wide, and there’s genuine concern in his voice as he says, “That’s not Jay. Jay isn’t an alias for Ethan, is it?”

A small laugh escapes my throat. “No. I did not use any pseudonyms when I blogged about Jay. Ethan was a lifetime ago, before my blog.”

Ramon rests his hands on the bar top, scrutinizing me silently.

“How about you let me feature you in my blog?” Sitting straighter, I lift my chin, ready to move on. “I don’t want to write a boring article about a drink. I want to write a story about you . And in return, I’ll spill some of the dirt.”

He rubs a hand over the back of his head, smoothing down his already smooth black hair, and gives me an uncertain look. “You’ll leave my name out of the epic Victoria fail?”

“Queen who?” I laugh. There’s no way I’ll use that story.

“Okay, but first, I want the deets about your history with my handsome hottie.”

With a slow sip of my drink, I brace myself to dive into a history I’ve done my best to forget. “Once upon a time, Ethan was my handsome hottie. We dated throughout high school. He swept me off my feet and ruined me for everyone else.” One memory after another assaults me, like they’ve been pounding at the door, waiting to be released. Our first kiss. The way Ethan’s sweaty body pressed against mine the first time we made love.

Ramon fans himself, then lowers his head and arches a brow, clearly waiting for more.

Because I don’t want to relive every moment, I cut to the chase. “Then he joined the Marines, and I never saw him again.”

My bartender friend goes ramrod straight and lets out a scoff. “Wait. He Dear-Johned you?”

“I think it’s called a Dear Jane when the man writes the letter,” I say past the lump that’s formed in my throat. “But yes, shortly after he got to boot camp, I received a letter. In it, he told me that he didn’t think a relationship was a good idea while he was in the Marines. Said he’d be in the field more often than not, deployed, and too busy. He claimed he was doing me a favor. He didn’t want to hold me back. Told me I should follow my dreams.” I close my eyes, and for a brief second, I let memories of that day flood me. The thrill of receiving the letter, the scent and heat from the envelope as I opened it that late summer afternoon. The gut-wrenching pain that followed.

“He never came back,” I continue. “I spent my entire senior year waiting for him, hoping he’d change his mind, but he never so much as visited his family that year.”

“Damn.”

I nod, choking back the hurt. “Yeah, but in all honesty, we were young. I can’t completely blame him.”

I leave out the pieces I hold too close to my heart to share. The secret only my sister, my mom, and Mrs. Fletcher know about.

“But that time with him shaped the way I’ve viewed men all these years. He was my everything. Until he wasn’t. And now, he pops up, and you swear that he’s this super nice guy that I shouldn’t hurt.”

Ramon tightens his lips and scans the room, as if to make sure no one is within earshot. “Girl, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but it’s not like it’s a secret.”

“Then why are you whispering?”

“Because Victoria’s daddy owns this country club, so hush.” He presses a cold finger to my lips.

“Wait, I thought Victoria’s dad was a senator,” I say, finding myself whispering along.

“He is, but like every other politician, he had to get his start somewhere.” Ramon rests his elbows on the lacquered surface between us. “Lucky for him, his family was loaded and helped finance this place when he was in his twenties. Anyway, his son, Victoria’s brother, served with Ethan.” He pauses to lick his lips. “Ray was shot and killed in Afghanistan a few years ago. Ethan was part of his convoy. I don’t know all the details, but I think Ethan was injured too. He never went back. He stayed here and met Victoria. Then, before anyone knew what was happening, they were announcing their engagement. But the two of them, it was never going to last. He’s a romantic, and she’s a spoiled she-devil.”

I laugh at his appraisal of Victoria. Though I didn’t know her well, she did strike me as an entitled rich girl. Though she seemed to have genuinely cared for Ethan.

“You seem to know a lot for a bartender,” I say. “How long have you been working here?”

“Fifteen years.”

Instinctively, I let out a scoff, which forces me to spit my drink all over the bar. “What?”

Ramon hands me a napkin, then takes another and wipes my spit off the ledge. “I washed dishes when I started and worked my way up.”

“Fifteen years is a long time to invest at a country club.”

“I want to be a club manager one day. This here,” he waves his hand around, “is all temporary.”

“But you’re so good at this.”

“Anyone can be good at making drinks, but that’s not my goal.” He struts back for another stack of napkins. “I want to run this place one day.”

As he talks, I pull out a small notepad and a pen. This is the reason I came. To learn about his dreams, his aspirations, and what makes him tick. Thankful for the change of subject, I ask, “Have you always wanted to run a golf club?”

Ramon looks at me for a moment, his eyes narrowed. They widen again when it registers that I really want to write a piece on him and I’m not just interested in his mad martini skills.

“My family immigrated from Puerto Rico when I was fifteen. My papi was hired as a janitor, and he got me a job washing dishes. My papi would have been content living the rest of his days mopping floors. Back then, I didn’t know any different. I, too, would have been happy earning a wage to help support my family.

“But Senator Donnelly changed all that. He pulled us into his office one day and told us we were the hardest working employees he’d ever had. He wanted to know what our dreams were and asked where we imagined ourselves in five years. My papi just shrugged. Said he was happy with what he was doing and appreciated the opportunity to work there.” Ramon drops the napkins into the trash can behind the bar, then rinses his hands in the sink. “When Mr. Donnelly looked at me, I’ll never forget the expression on his face. He said, ‘Ramon, if you could have any job, any in the whole world, what would that be?’ I turned to my dad and then back to Mr. Donnelly. No one had ever asked me that before. I was raised to appreciate what we had and never ask for more.”

“So, what did you tell him?” I ask, scooting to the edge of my stool.

“I said I wanted to be a firefighter,” he says matter-of-factly.

“A firefighter?” Sitting straighter, I frown. “I thought you were going to say something profound, like that’s when you knew you wanted to be the club manager.”

“Oh God no. I had no idea what a club manager was back then.”

“What changed?”

“Girl, does it look like these skinny arms were built to carry people out of burning buildings?”

I let out a snicker.

Over the next hour, Ramon fills me in on his family dynamics. He tells me how his dad, while now retired, still trains the janitorial staff at the club and how his mom only learned English for the sole purpose of cooking American food.

But it’s when he talks about his sister that his eyes truly light up. Kamilla is the brainiac of the family and is studying medicine at Augusta University.

“She sounds lovely,” I say, jotting everything down as fast as I can.

“You’d love her. She comes into town at least once a month to help Ethan.”

I stop writing and look up. “Help Ethan?”

He nods. “After Ray passed away, Senator Donnelly invested in a veteran’s outreach program. It’s free and run solely by volunteers. Kamilla runs the medical side and does what she can when she has time in her schedule. Ethan handles all the outings and activities. They were here last weekend for a ‘Fuel your muscle’ event,” he says, using air quotes. “Kamilla and her team taught the veterans how to use carbs and protein the right way while Ethan taught meditation.”

His words cause me to choke on air, sending me into a fit of coughs.

“Girl,” he says, ducking in close, “are you okay?”

I nod, still coughing.

“It was the mention of Ethan. Am I right?” Ramon asks, handing me a glass of cold water.

Ignoring the question, I take the water and sip it slowly.

Ramon doesn’t let up. He hits me with an intense look, his brows pinched in anticipation.

When I finally have enough oxygen flowing through my lungs, I say, “I can’t imagine Ethan meditating, that’s all.”

“A hot man doing meditation. I get it,” he laughs, fanning himself. “If he wasn’t so damn straight, I could get myself into a lot of trouble with that chiseled body of his.”