14. June
JUNE
“What are you doing today?”
I turn to see that Ashton has gotten out of bed, casually leaning against the doorframe that looks into my kitchen. The sweatpants he just put on hang loosely on his hips, leaving his broad chest bare and exposed—distracting enough for me to pour too much milk into our coffee.
“Shack stuff.” I quickly recover by very casually handing him his cup. “There are a few details I need to iron out before the soft launch.”
He hums appreciatively as he takes a sip. “Found a photographer yet?”
“Sarah is calling in a few favors for me.”
“That’s your friend with the British accent, right?” Ashton smirks at my confused look. “She was there the day I first came to the gallery.”
“Right.” I’d forgotten all about that.
In truth, I had gotten used to mentioning names in front of Ashton without expecting him to know or remember who I was talking about. But it is, after all, a small island. Sooner or later, he would recognize a few names beyond those of the owners of second homes here.
Ashton throws me a knowing look. “You could introduce me, you know.”
“I could.” I take a sip of coffee, not blinking away from his stare.
“But?” he caves first.
“It’s only been a month. What’s wrong with what we’re doing now?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
I shrug. “There you have it.”
“Great.”
“Good,” I say and make a break for the front door.
“I’ll see you later then?” he asks.
I glance up at the spare set of keys hanging by the door and don’t think twice.
Because, yes, we’ve spent the last three evenings together, and for a casual, super-easy, not-intense relationship, that’s probably a bit too much.
But I already know it’ll be a long day, and it’s just so nice to come home to someone waiting for me.
Besides, where else is he going to sleep? His million-dollar yacht? Pfft.
He’s smirking at me when I return.
“I’ll be back late, so just let yourself in.”
He doesn’t take the keys from my hand; instead, he takes my entire hand in his, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against his bare chest—my heart stutters within my own.
“Thanks,” he says, kissing my cheek.
And it’s very hard not to melt into him. It feels a little too comfortable, a little too much like sacking off the day and getting back into bed. But because I have a million things to do today, and Ashton knows this, he pulls away first.
He takes a step back, looks me over once—not bothering to hide his admiration—and says, “You look great today.”
I want to bottle up the moment and keep it for tomorrow, the next day, or when he’s no longer there to say it. Even better, just keep him right here. Make sure he never leaves so he can see me off every morning with that smirk, a kiss on the cheek, and a compliment I never asked for.
It’s so nauseatingly domestic, but in such a way that I can’t quite bring myself to care about the sting when he leaves.
“I know,” I say instead of begging him to stay right there until I get back. Until the end of the summer, the year. Until my heart doesn’t race every time I look at him.
That would be crazy, wouldn’t it?
“You’re incredible, you know that?” he says.
You make me crazy, I think.
“Don’t worry about it, darling,” Sarah’s voice rises from where my phone rests on my lap. “I’ll get it sorted.”
“Thanks, babe.”
I take a corner a little too quickly, and it’s the years of driving down this road that cause me to overcorrect on autopilot.
Not even a tire crosses the markings. The satisfaction of the maneuver makes me think again about what life would have been like if I’d grown up around cars instead of boats.
“Tammy Anderson was talking about you the other day at Westmoor,” Sarah says, signaling the end of our business and diving straight into gossip. “Singing your praises, if you can believe it.”
“Oh?”
She hums in confirmation. “You’ve stopped sleeping with her son, then?”
In truth, I’d forgotten all about Charlie Anderson. “Been a bit preoccupied reviving my dead dad’s business,” I say casually, surprised by the lack of bite. “Anyone talking about the Shack?”
“Too busy discussing this art dealer from New York who’s been looking at properties around Tom Nevers.” And oh, is Sarah’s tone loaded. “You might know him—dark blond, preference for a Burberry trench coat and, you know, apparently courting one Miss Holloway into a ‘lucrative collaboration.’”
I mentally take a vow to never sell the Andersons another painting. “Mind your own business, you gossipy troglodyte.”
“Never, you’d become entirely too bored.”
There’s a pause I know she’s expecting me to fill in with some kind of explanation.
Honestly, I’d forgotten how nice it is to talk to Sarah—sharing my feelings, complaining, gushing, laughing, or commiserating. And there’s no one I’d rather talk to about that moment this morning—the one where I had to walk away from Ashton before I grabbed him to keep him from walking away.
But I also know how this works.
I love Sarah, and I love this absurd island.
But if I tell Sarah, her new husband will figure it out by the end of the week.
Then someone will mention Ashton on a yacht over some beers, and he’ll say something off-hand that will reach Tammy Anderson.
If Tammy Anderson finds out, then Marlene Abrams will catch wind of it the next time Tammy visits her boutique. And if Marlene Abrams finds out...
“Listen, I’ve got to go. I just pulled up.”
“June!” Sarah all but whines.
“You’re amazing, and I love you, and I’ll see you at the opening. Okay, bye.” I hang up before I can hear her protests, deciding it’s better to sit in silence for the remainder of the journey to the beach house.
“Mom?”
Her voice comes from down the hall, calling out, “In here, baby!”
I push through the door into the living room and see Eleanor bent over the coffee table, holding a paintbrush in one hand and a large, wooden A in the other.
It takes me a moment to understand everything—the other letters scattered across the space, some already bright yellow and drying near the window.
She’s working on the Holloway Lobster Shack sign.
I swallow. “This looks fun.”
“Thought I’d help out where I can.” She returns to her painting with a soft smile. “You just missed Mer and Sophie.”
“Yeah, they texted me on my way over.” I draw my eyes away, trying to figure out the swell of emotions that suddenly feels quite suffocating.
Honestly, I’ve hardly talked to my mother. Not since the day she took us sailing, and even then, we didn’t discuss the Shack much. All our conversations, even before this summer, have always seemed like they were missing something important.
Conversations just go a lot smoother if we ignore the bigger things—both of us love each other too much to pick at old scabs.
“I actually wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Oh!” Eleanor puts her crafting down. “Of course, anything.”
I want to ask, “Why didn’t you tell us about Dad’s debt?
Why did you keep running the Shack all these years without asking for help?
Why did you let it fall into such bad shape?
Do you know what your husband has been saying about Aiden Holloway?
” But instead, I say, “I was wondering if you’d like to bake a pie for the soft launch?
If not, we’ll get inundated with requests. ”
“Of course. I’ll get the cranberries out to defrost.” Eleanor smiles, relaxing into her seat. “It’s definitely for the opening, isn’t it? You haven’t had another heartbreak?”
What familiar territory we have fallen into. Boats and my abysmal love life—the only two safe areas of conversation. I can almost taste the cappuccino and the tight smile that’s etched onto my face.
“Nope,” I say, popping the p childishly. “This would be for sale.”
“That’s nice. You know, last year, the Shack was more of a pie store anyway. I couldn’t get myself behind the grill unless Maya down the road—you know Maya, she does the ice cream—would hop on the register for me.” Mom laughs dryly.
So, things really were dire back then; no wonder Richard was so eager for her to give up.
There’s something close to guilt forming in my stomach, but I tell myself to disregard it.
If she had wanted my help, she should have asked.
It wasn’t like I was monitoring the Shack last year.
Heck, until six weeks ago, I had no idea Mom was still running it.
I thought she had brought in one of the old chefs to oversee everything.
I guess that’s on me for paying attention to gossip.
“Eddie would help out too when he could. But that boy was knee-deep in renovations,” Eleanor continues. “Birdie’s must be almost finished by now.”
“Yeah, it’s…” Something snags in my chest, leaving behind a burning sensation like the sting of a snapped rubber band. “Mom, Eddie renovated like three years ago. I saw you at the reopening, remember?”
Eleanor smacked her forehead playfully. “Oh, of course. Was that really three years ago? Time keeps slipping me by in my old age.”
“You’re hardly old.”
“I’ll be sixty in August, Junebug.” She winks before picking up her paintbrush again.
I watch her for a moment, the sound of the bristles against the wood soothing, even if the smell of the paint and the room is wrong.
“Are you okay? With all of this?” The question bubbles up without warning, and I half-expect her not to answer. But she finishes the A and puts the brush down again.
“I wasn’t expecting you to want to save it. The Shack, that is. I thought you girls might want to say goodbye, but…” Eleanor finally meets my eye. “Is it making you happy?”
Now, isn’t that a question?
How am I supposed to answer that when there are so many unhappy things about it?
The sheer amount of grime in the storage cupboard, for one.
The ghost of my dead father, for another.
The uphill battle with every vendor I’ve encountered, trying to convince people to come to the soft launch, and having to rely solely on a reputation that expired fifteen years ago.