“I don’t even know where I’d start with a PR campaign,” he says.
I walk backward and put out my hands. “That’s why you’ve got me.” My face falls slightly at my poor choice of wording.
“That’s why I’ve got you,” he repeats, clearly thrilled to say the words.
“For an hour and a half,” I say to bring him back down to earth.
“I can do a lot with an hour and a half,” he says with a wicked grin.
My body heats up, but I keep an unamused expression, vowing to be sure the time I’ve promised him is massively boring for him.
His phone rings, and he holds it up. “Gotta jet. I’ll be backsoon to claim my ninetyminutes with you, though, Gemma.” He turns and jogs toward the driveway, and I stare after him, wondering what possessed me to make that offer and how much sand he’ll manage to heap onto the scale in an hour and a half.
The next morning,I pull the garbage bin up the driveway and put it where it belongs, grateful the trash guy was nice enough to take the boxes and the birdfeeder too. There are still some decent people in Sunset Harbor.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and glance at the screen. No notifications. I’m waiting to hear from the realtor to see what his research has told him about how to price Grams’s house. Since she’s owned it for decades and people don’t tend to sell houses very often on the island, it’ll be a little tricky to list it at that sweet spot where it’ll sell quickly but at a favorable price. It’ll be even trickier if the real estate agent is slow or bad at his job, both things I fear more and more each day.
I’ll add it to the list of my current fears, which includes getting the house ready before I leave. Grams’s home is a comfy place—except that miserably hot attic—but it’s not about to appear inBetter Homes and Gardens, and I’m still not done sorting through all the stuff upstairs.
Ideally, I’d have time to stage it, or at least remove some of the clutter so that it looks better. But I have just three days before I leave, and even though the week I booked for myself here felt like an eternity when I bought my flights, now I’m worried I seriously underestimated the work I’d have. Not to mention that I’ve barely spent time with Grams, and she’s one of the only good thingsaboutSunset Harbor. I promised myselfI’d check in at Seaside Oasis to make sure everything is going okay since the hunger strike.
That’s the real priority here.
I grab the keys to the golf cart and head outside, but I’m not optimistic it’ll start, given my last attempt. The engine rumbles to life immediately, however, and I sigh with relief. It always surprises me when things go my way here.
I drive the cart toward Seaside Oasis, feeling like a woman trapped in a windowless and doorless airplane in bad turbulence. Maybe we can include the golf cart in the house sale. Or maybe we’d have to pay the buyers to take it.
Whatever happens, I need Grams to never drive this again.
I pass the spot where Beau pulled me over the first night, and I give it the side-eye. I’m not sure when he’ll come to cash in on last night’s rain check, but I’m seriously regretting it. What do I care if he’s full-time or not? If he doesn’t have the fight in him, that’s his problem, not mine.
The cart comes to a shuddering halt in the parking lot of Seaside Oasis, and I make my way inside. Lo and behold, Beau is standing at the front desk talking to his brother, decked out in his blues, Xena at his heels.
Tristan waves at me, and Beau turns to see who he’s greeting, looking over his shoulder until his gaze finds me and his mouth pulls into an acknowledging smile.
Has every cop I’ve seen in my lifetime been hideous, or have I never noticed how attractive that uniform is? Maybe I shouldn’t write off the sexy cop calendars so quickly.
I make something between a smile and a grimace—my way of being polite without being too friendly. We have a family feud to maintain, and a couple of waves and smiles don’t undo all the garbage the Palmers put us through over the years.
“Do you know where I can find my grandma?” I ask Tristan.
He grabs a clipboard and runs a finger down a few lines. “She should be…doing chair yoga on the west lawn.”
“West lawn,” I repeat, trying to think where that is and how best to get there. The only places I know here are Grams’s room and the cafeteria.
“I can take you,” Beau offers.
“Do Ineeda police escort at this place?”
“Now that your grandma’s here? Can’t hurt.” He winks and jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, inviting me to follow.
I don’t think handsome cops should legally be allowed to wink.
“Stay, Xena,” Beau says to the ball of fluff bounding after us. “You’ll disrupt yoga.”
She stops in her tracks, her happy-go-lucky expression floundering.
“I’ve got her,” Tristan says, and he calls her to follow him into his office.
