My cheeks warm as I try to extract my foot from my mouth.
“This is a matter of island pride,” he proclaims. “I can’t accept anyone hating Sunset Harbor—it’s bad for community morale, and it presents a safety threat.”
I put my hand to my chest. “Me? A safety threat?”
“Definitely,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Besides, I don’t want you turning away perfectly good home buyers with anti-Sunset Harbor rhetoric. What do you say?”
I don’t respond right away. Not only do I not want to accept help from Beau Palmer, I don’t want to go on a Sunset Harbor tour where he’s trying to convince me to like a place I’ve resented most of my life. Besides, if anyone could make me like Sunset Harbor—not that they could—it wouldn’t be a Palmer.
But what about Grams? A Palmer is the only one who can smooth things over and make sure she gets to stay at Seaside Oasis. It seems selfish of me not to do what I can to ensure that happens. And it’s not like Beau will only hold up his end of the deal if he’s successful transforming my opinion of the island. That would be a lost cause.
“How long would thisisland explorationlast?” I ask, doing my due diligence to make sure I’m not agreeing to a multi-day operation.
Beau thinks for a few seconds. “Let’s say four hours. An afternoon and evening.”
“You realize you’re chasing waterfalls with this, right? It’s not like the jury’s out on my opinion of this place.”
“The jury is always out when it comes to people’s opinions. But, at the end of the day, it’syouropinion. I’m just doing my part. Presenting my evidence. To a hostile witness,” he adds with a wink.
“Har har,” I say. Little does he realize thathe’sthe evidence. “What happens if you fail at smoothing things over with your brother and dad?”
“I won’t fail.” That confidence kills me, but I believe him. “So, areyou in?”
I wait a second, then step toward him and stick out my hand.
He grins and takes it.
I’m officially selling my soul to the devil.
For Grams.
I take Beau’s hand,which is firm and warm—probably because his veins run with blood the temperature of hellfire.
“Should we get this over with, then?” I pull my hand away. It’s not like I can’t handle a not-date with the devil, but I’d rather not draw things out if I don’t have to.
His mouth quirks up at the edge. “I love the enthusiasm, Gemma, but I can’t today. How about tomorrow? Provided there are no island emergencies, of course.”
“Can never predict when those Sunset Harbor gangsters will strike with their sidewalk chalk graffiti, right?”
“Crime never sleeps. I’ve got a meeting with a member of the city council at three tomorrow, but it won’t take long. I should be back around four.”
The city council is a sore spot. I almost ask who’s on it these days—is it made up entirely of Palmers and Palmerites?—but I figure I need Beau on my side today. “That works.”
“Maybe you can just watch for me from your window?” he suggests, looking far too innocent.
My cheeks flame. “I was showing my sister the backyard on a video call.”
“Youdorealize your property ends right there?” He gestures to a place well inside of the fence. He’s enjoying this so much.
I make the fakest smile I can manage. “Your family hasn’t ever let us forget it. See you tomorrow, Officer.” With a salute, I head toward the house.
My morning is sucked awayby a meeting with the best island realtor Sunset Harbor has to offer. Well, not thebestrealtor. Grams wouldn’t use Vivian Chase because she’s a well-known “Palmer lapdog” (her words, not mine), so she went for the person who does real estate part-time and hasn’t sold a house in a decade. Sounds like a rock-solid plan, right?
Eugene Hawthorn takes some notes as we talk, but most of the time is consumed by my asking questions that he waffles on and never gives a straight answer to, like whether it’s worth staging the house and what exterior improvements might help with curb appeal. The few suggestions he does offer tell me he hasn’t been up on home design in…ever, probably. But I could’ve guessed that from the 70s sweater vest he’s wearing.
He assures me he’ll get to work putting together the listing and schedule photos to be taken as soon as possible. That means I have my work cut out for me. Between all the stuff still in the attic and getting the rest of the house ready? Time is ticking. I’d like to get all the difficult stuff taken care of before I leave. Knowing this town, if I leave anything important until after I’m gone, the house will never actually go up for sale. Grams needs the money from the sale to pay for the exorbitant monthly fees at Seaside Oasis, so this is important.
As I shut the door on Eugene, a call comes through on my phone. I recognize it from yesterday and answer right away.
