2. Annoyingly muscular body. This isn’t a calendar.
The next image that presents itself to me is him helping Grams at chair yoga. I push the image away, but the one that takes its place is him lifting the couch earlier today.
3. Him helping others. It’s the job.
It’s not like he’s handcuffing hardened criminals here. He’s got to make himself useful somehow. Apparently, that takes the form of helping Grams with her cardigan and acting as a moving service.
I put down the pen and stare at the list, then give a satisfied nod before shoving it in the drawer.
See, brain? That’s all he’s got going for him.
The next morning,I sit in the golf cart, parked a block away from the town center with my phone out, considering whether I should text Grams and askone more timeif she’s sure she wouldn’t rather spend the rest of her life in a retirement home elsewhere. Surely, Seaside Oasis can’t be worth what I’m about to do.
I haven’t been able to avoid multiple trips to the retirement home, but other than that, I’ve tried to keep my interactions with the islanders to a minimum. And yet, here I am, about toenter into the belly of the beast: the weekly farmer’s market where I can expect to see more than half the island while I meet up with Beau.
I glance in the rearview mirror and smooth my hair back. I found a can of Grams’s Aqua Net and gave my hair a good spray.
Why am I so nervous?
I shouldn’t care what people here think of me. Either they’re already on my side, or they gave up the privilege of Sawyers caring about their opinions a long time ago.
I get out of the golf cart and walk toward the square, ignoring the way my heart beats faster than usual as the hum of the market grows louder.
The squareischarming—I’ll give it that. With a fountain in the middle and small, colorful shops lining all four sides, it gives the island residents everything they need in the same place. Today, market stalls are set up around the fountain on the side nearest me, offering everything from produce and artisanal goods to friendship bracelets being sold by three little girls.
On the opposite side of the square, my gaze zooms right to Beau, running his own little booth next to the one with an enclosure full of dogs needing new owners. He’s got on his blues and is crouched down, talking to a little girl who’s petting Xena. She can’t be older than two and a half, with blonde pigtails and a sundress that doesn’t quite cover her diaper.
The girl says something, and Beau breaks into a laugh that sends a cascade of butterflies beating against the walls of my chest.
What is happening to me? That smile is literally number one on my list of things not to pay attention to. Maybe I should have made a list of all the problems I have with him and his family. That thing would be pages long.
What I really need is Grams. Every time my body or mind reacts positively to Beau, she can smack me. Pretty soon, I won’t be able to look at him without fiery hatred. Like it should be.
For now, I’ll have to settle for tightening my ponytail until my head hurts.
Movement at the pet adoption booth grabs my attention, and my brows go up as Beau’s friend Phoenix from the cafe picks up a pretty young woman and throws her over his shoulder, then marches out of the square.
What in the world is happening? And why am I imagining Beau throwing me over his shoulder like that?
Probably so I can sue him for misuse of force. Yeah. That’s definitely it.
I make my way toward the booth, aware that I’m drawing more than a few looks. A couple of people wave at me, while others just stare.
“I hear you’re selling that house,” a man calls to me from a booth full of custom woodwork.
I hesitate for a second before smiling. “Working on it.”
“Who’re you selling to?” His mouth is pulled down at the corners like he’s expecting me to admit I’m selling it to a member of a terrorist watch group.
“If I knew that, I’d save myself a lot of work, wouldn’t I?” I keep walking, hoping my smile strikes the balance between polite and stop-talking-to-me.
I texted with Eugene this morning, and we’ve got pictures happening Monday, which means I’ve got two days to get the place looking amazing.
I take in a slow, deep breath at the thought of all the work—the moving of furniture, which Beau has promised to help with, but also the cleaning.Remind me why I’m at the farmer’s market right now instead of working on that stuff?
My gaze falls on Beau again. He’s still talking to the little girl, but they’ve migrated to the pet adoption booth, and she’s trying to reach over the enclosure for one of the dogs.
Her mom is busy chatting with one of the people running the booth, but Beau taps her shoulder, and theytalk for a second. She nods, and he turns back to the little girl.
