23
Princess Peach
Max
At a little past six p.m., the inn’s back garden looks as if a Pinterest board threw up all over it. It’s pretty. Gorgeous, even. A kaleidoscope of colors and twinkling lights, and so far beyond what I could have put together by myself.
White string lights zigzag between the old oak trees, casting a soft glow without blocking the dusky sky above.
Round tables pepper the lawn, covered in navy linens Bethany insists fit the theme of “vintage coastal chic,” which sounds fake, but somehow works.
Near the rose arbor, someone hung framed photos of Vennie Gardner and Asher Levitt—mostly candid shots from their restaurant, Bayou and Bagel.
They have flour on their faces, ladles in hand, smiling as if they genuinely enjoy each other.
And it’s annoyingly cute.
The whole party came together in less than forty-eight hours after Asher proposed, and Mabel, Vennie’s grandmother, apparently decided the entire town needed to celebrate immediately before she “died of happiness.”
So here we are.
Alone, I stand near the bar setup—courtesy of the Four Brothers Brewery—and force in a deep breath.
I inhale the scents of the roses, cut grass, and the citronella candles we’ve scattered around to ward off the demon mosquitoes.
Unfortunately, the peachy dress Bethany chose for me is too tight around my ribs, cutting off my airways, so I keep tugging at it.
Kegs are being tapped, glasses polished, laughter drifting through the garden while the inn glows warmly behind it all.
It’s all lovely. Not just the party. The inn. The fresh paint, the repaired shutters, the flower beds blooming. A month ago, this place looked exhausted, but now it feels alive.
Maybe Mitch was right all along, which I find deeply irritating. If only I had the same positive outlook that he has.
Bookings aren’t soaring, and I’m still skeptical that no matter the changes we’ve made, the inn will never be what it used to be. Like a lot in life, some things are often better left in the past.
“Came out pretty good,” Bethany says, appearing beside me in a sharp white satin pantsuit that molds to her curves perfectly. She clutches a clipboard with the deranged joy of someone who thrives on this sort of shit.
I shouldn’t be surprised she pulled this off. The fundraiser she threw together last year for Spencer’s mom turned out wonderfully, so I never doubted her skills.
“Look at this turnout!” she adds.
The garden’s packed. Guests mingle while waiters with trays of beignets and miniature crab cakes weave through the crowd. A jazz band plays on the small stage near the bar.
“Honestly,” I begin. “If editing doesn’t work out, you should become a party planner.”
She blushes slightly. “That’s what Spencer says, too.”
I ignore the fact that Spencer and I somehow agree on something for once and scan the crowd instead. Immediately, I regret it when my eyes land on Mitch.
Of course, he’s here. He’s Asher’s friend. And unfortunately for me, he looks offensively good tonight in dark pants, a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and broad shoulders that seem unfairly large.
I quickly look away before my brain embarrasses me further.
We haven’t really spoken since Spencer’s boat. Since his mouth devoured me. Since the awkward conversation afterward that somehow felt even more intimate than the physical part.
I’ve spent the last few days pretending none of it affected me. Avoiding him at the inn. Keeping conversations short. Hiding behind work. Which would be easier if every cell in my body didn’t light up each time he entered a room.
“You okay?” Bethany asks, eyeing me.
“Never better.”
Her expression says she doesn’t buy it, but thankfully she gets distracted when her younger sister, Marcy, appears across the lawn looking mildly panicked and waves her over.
“Food crisis,” she mutters before hurrying off.
Celia arrives next with her daughter Ella attached to her side. Ella quickly gives me a wave before running toward the dessert table like a tiny sugar-seeking missile.
“Max, this place looks amazing,” Celia says, hugging me.
“You can thank Bethany. I mostly moved furniture around and stress-cleaned.”
Hunter sneaks up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing the side of her neck. Celia laughs softly, shoving him away while he grins like an idiot.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my brother this happy. It’s almost disgusting.
“Did you see the bagel tower?” he asks.
Celia’s jaw drops. “There’s a bagel tower?”
Hunter nods. “Asher insisted. Said it was necessary to balance out Vennie’s spicy food choices.”
I look at the appetizer table. There’s an entire decorative tower of artisanal bagels surrounded by smoked salmon and cream cheese.
“It’s a true thing of beauty. Like some sort of shrine dedicated to carbs,” I joke, earning Celia’s laugh.
They leave my side, and not long after, Zayne shows up. Wearing dark jeans and a light gray button-down, he looks handsome and suspiciously guilty.
“Hey, stranger,” I say, pulling him into a hug that lasts exactly how long you’d expect for two besties who haven’t seen each other in days.
“Hey yourself.”
“All done with summer school?”
“Yep.” His eyes drift away too quickly.
Weird.
“Now to enjoy my few weeks off before the next semester.”
“I called you this week,” I point out. “A few times. You didn’t answer.”
“Sorry, I’ve been busy.”
“With?”
He shrugs. “Studying.”
Something is definitely off with him. I believe he had to focus on his final exams for the term, but he’s not making eye-contact, which is a total red-flag. “And?”
“You know, stuff.”
“Ah yes. Stuff. My favorite.”
A strange sensation twists in my stomach. Not jealousy exactly, but close enough to make me uneasy. Zayne’s hiding something. Then again, I haven’t shared the sordid details of my time with Mitchell, so I guess I can’t judge him for being shady.
Before I can interrogate him further, movement near the garden gate catches my attention.
Tucker.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
He strolls in wearing a charcoal blazer and those stupid khakis I hate, looking around with what I used to think was calm confidence, but now realize is entitled smugness.
He scans the garden before his eyes land on me and he struts my way.
“Wow,” he says, reaching me. He looks impressed, or he’s doing a good job of faking it. “This looks great.”
“Thanks. If you’re here to congratulate Vennie and Asher, fine,” I say coolly. “If not, you can leave.”
“Who are Vennie and Asher?”
I release a long exhale. “Why are you here, Tucker?”
“Still angry, huh?”
“I’m not angry. You weren’t invited.”
“So, is this the plan? Hosting stuff like this to make the inn magically profitable?” he asks, ignoring me.
“Are you for real?” Zayne says, glaring at Tucker.
“It’s okay, Zee.” I place a hand on his arm to calm him down. “You should leave,” I say to my ex.
Tucker scoffs. “Relax, Maxy. I’m only saying I’m impressed you pulled this together.”
There’s the subtle condescension wrapped in fake charm.
What did I ever see in him?
“Great. Now go.”
“Come on. Can we talk? I’ve been thinking—”
“And I haven’t. Not about you, that’s for sure.”
People nearby go quiet, but I don’t care. The concern in Zayne’s eyes is palpable.
“I made a mistake,” Tucker says, lowering his voice like that will help. “I was an idiot, but I’ve realized that I want you. Screw what my family thinks. They’re not me. I miss you.”
“No, Tucker, you don’t miss me, you miss toying around with me. And you are exactly like your family. Don’t pretend you’ve suddenly changed.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off, having the decency to drop my voice. I even place a hand on his arm and force a kind smile.
“Please leave before you embarrass yourself even more.”
He shrugs my hand away. “Do you realize how lucky you are that a guy like me even looked your way?”
“What the hell did you say?” Zayne snaps, stepping up, but before I can respond, another voice cuts in.
“That’s enough.” Mitch steps beside me, tall and solid. His jaw flexes as he looks at Fucker with barely restrained anger.
“I don’t need backup,” I mutter under my breath.
Mitch keeps his eyes ahead. “Didn’t say you did.”
Tucker laughs humorlessly. “What’s this now? Bam-Bam Adams playing bodyguard?”
Mitch steps slightly closer, calmly, but his fierce glare is no less scary. “I’m the guy telling you not to ruin this lovely evening because your little ego got bruised.”
Tucker looks between us, something ugly flickering across his face before he finally snort-laughs and walks toward the bar.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Zayne says, looking impressed and fighting hard to hide his grin.
He steps away and I huff, wishing he’d take me with him because I don’t want to be left alone with Mitch.
I can already feel his gaze washing over me, soft and warm like butter on a stack of pancakes.
But I refuse to let him see how intensely affected I am by his simple presence.
He can’t find out that all I want to do is bite those bare forearms, or rip that stupid shirt off his body.
No, I cannot let him see that I’m flustered, aroused, and that my thighs are clenched tightly.
“I had it handled,” I say.
“I know you did,” he replies.
And somehow hearing him say that makes it worse because he means it. He wasn’t rescuing me. He was supporting me. Literally standing by my side. And that’s a huge difference.
I don’t speak. I can’t. Not with the garden so alive with curious ears, and especially not with this unresolved tension humming between us like a live wire.
So, with a forced smile, I straighten my shoulders and go back to hosting.
Otherwise known as running away.
“Bastard.” I swat my arm, pulling my hand away to reveal a speck of blood and the remnants of a mosquito.
By eleven-thirty, the engagement party has turned into drunken dancing, loud laughter, and group photos. Vennie and Asher are swaying together on the dance floor while someone sings an aggressively terrible version of Can’t Help Falling in Love on stage.
Across the lawn, Mitch keeps looking at me. Not subtle glances either. Full, steady attention that makes my skin too warm beneath my dress.
Is he trying to intimidate me, to piss me off? Is he mentally undressing me like I’ve caught myself doing to him several times tonight? Whatever he’s doing, I’m feeling it all. No doubt I’m being attacked by bugs because I’m emitting millions of pheromones.
I sip my beer and pretend not to notice him, which soon fails once he starts walking toward me, wearing that determined stare and telltale smirk. It’s identical to when he’s on a breakaway, or headed to smash someone into the boards.
Fine, I’ll admit; sometimes I watch his games. So, sue me.
I should get out of here. Leave this spot. But my high-heels sank into the soft grass a while ago and I wouldn’t make it too far before he caught up.
“So,” he says once he reaches me. “Turned out to be a pretty good night.”
“Yep.”
“You look beautiful, by the way.”
“I look like Princess Peach,” I reply, wincing.
“Nah, nothing like Princess Peach.”
“Gee, thanks.”
He laughs softly and lets his gaze linger a second too long. “I mean she doesn’t hold a candle to you tonight.”
I immediately roll my eyes because otherwise I’ll combust. The sincerity in his voice completely ruins me. I’m melting like a fucking ice sculpture set in the midday sun.
I clear my throat. “You cleaned up pretty good yourself.”
He glances down at his shirt and shrugs. “Spencer bullied me into dressing like an adult.”
“Miracles do happen,” I answer with a smile.
We stand there quietly for a second, watching our friends dance. Then Billy Joel’s Just the Way You Are starts playing through the speakers.
“Your favorite,” I say, remembering Mitch’s obsession with the song.
“Damn straight. Billy Joel’s a legend.”
“If you say so.”
“Still not a fan?”
“Nope.”
“Will your hatred of him stop you from dancing with me?”
I groan. “Absolutely.”
Mitch grins. “Come on.” He offers me his hand, anyway. “Dance with me.”
“I am so not dancing with you.”
His smile fades as he nods once. “Okay.”
The disappointment etched on his face hits me squarely in the ribs.
Damn it.
“Fine,” I mutter, putting my beer down. I grab his hand before I can rethink my decision and pull him toward the dance floor.
We’re easily a few inches away from each other, but he settles his hand against my back, warm and steady, drawing me closer until our bodies brush together. If our clothes weren’t creating a safe barrier between us, I’m sure my skin would ignite.
I let my head rest against his chest and shut my eyes, reminding me of when we went camping and I fell asleep on his shoulder. Only this time it’s entirely on purpose.
I don’t move away. And neither does he.
The music swells softly around us while his heartbeat thuds beneath my cheek. Somewhere between the lights, the music, and Mitch’s solid arms around me, one awful realization settles quietly into place. A realization I’ve been trying to avoid for days now.
There isn’t one ounce of hate left in me for Mitchell Adams.
Not one itty bit.