Even if I wasn’t leaving, this—I stare at Beau as he grabs a towel from the seat of his boat—can’t happen. Beau Palmer and Gemma Sawyer can’t happen. It’s 21st-century Romeo and Juliet, but my Romeo wouldn’t drink poison to join me in death. He’d shrug it all off and be smiling and laughing within ten minutes.
He hands the towel to me with just such a smile—the kind that’s wreaked absolute havoc in my life since I got here.
“Thanks,” I say as he grabs a second towel and starts drying off his hair.
The guests next door migrate inside, and the volume of noise goes down enough for me to hear my phone ringing where I left it in the bushes.
I wrap the towel around my shoulders and hurry over. It’s a video call from Mia. My eyes widen a bit as I think what would happen if I answered it. Even if she couldn’t see Beau in the background, she’d see it all over my dripping face: I KISSED BEAU PALMER. TWICE. AND I WANT TO DO IT A MILLION MORE TIMES.
I silence it but hold it up. “I should answer.”
He looks at me for a second before nodding. “’Course.”
“I’ll see you…later,” I say, already backing up toward the sliding doors.
His eyes are on me, a hint of confusion in them. “See you later…Gemma Girl.”
With a last look at him, I pull the door open and slip inside. Once I’ve turned the corner into the living room, I slump down on a chair and stare at the wall for an undetermined amount of time, Beau’s wet towel wrapped around me.
I wakeup the next morning to a text from Eugene letting me know we’ve got a showing with an interested investor for twelve o’clock if the time is convenient for me. I hurry to respond affirmatively, then let my head fall back on my pillow and breathe out a huge sigh of relief.
I’ve been starting to worry that leaving tomorrow will mean leaving everything in Eugene’s hands. I have nothing against the man. He’s just not quite the motivated agent I’d prefer to run the show.
My mind veers away from Eugene, drawn like a magnet to last night’s happenings with Beau. Is it normal to be able tofeel the exact spot where his hands were, even twelve hours later?
I swing the covers off my legs and climb out of bed, then walk over to the window to look over the backyard and the canal. I need visual proof that I didn’t dream it all up.
I look for my sandals on the dock, where I kicked them off before jumping in the water, but they’re not there. My gaze flies around the yard until it lands on them, neatly placed side-by-side on the deck by the door.
Did I just Notorious B.I.G. a citizen’s arrest, a chase, and a kiss with Beau Palmer?Wasit all a dream?
I feel like I’m losing my mind. My eyes dart to where I put the birdfeeder for Beau to steal back. It’s not there, but there’s a little hole in the grass—the first evidence I didn’t imagine it all. The actual feeder isn’t far away either. It’s in the Palmers’ yard, a couple of sparrows going to town on whatever’s left in the feeder well.
A glance at the floor at the end of the bed reveals the red towel Beau gave me to dry off last night.
I’mnotcrazy.
Beau did say those knee-weakening things to me. He did kiss me with the kiss—no, kisses—to make every other one I’ve experienced look like child’s play.
But it doesn’t matter. I’m still leaving tomorrow, and he’ll be completely fine when I do.
“Get it together, Gemma Girl.”
I grimace. Apparently, I’ve accepted his nickname for me enough to use it on myself.
I turn my music on full blast and work to tidy up the home in preparation for the noon showing. I desperately need this buyer to come through, because last night made it abundantly clear that Sunset Harbor is doing a number on my mental state. I need to get back to my real life. To my job. To LA.
Cat’s cleaning makes it easy enough for me to get thingsto a satisfactory point in that department. The rest of it is just putting things away that have migrated around the house over the past couple of days. There are still two boxes in the attic that need going through. I’m not sure why I haven’t just bitten the bullet and done them. I guess, deep, deep down inside, there must be a bit of reluctance. Once those boxes are sorted, it’s all done. Which is what I want. Right?
It’s just after noon when Eugene opens the door and lets the buyer and his agent in. I come out of the kitchen into the hallway, and Eugene stops mid-sentence at the sight of me.
“Gemma,” he says in surprise—not totally welcome surprise, at that. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I wanted to meet Mr. Wallace.” I realize it’s not standard procedure for the seller to be home during a showing, but I don’t want Eugene to mess this up. Besides, I’m not the seller, technically. Grams is.
I shake hands with Mr. Wallace, a man in his mid-fifties wearing a button-up shirt and pressed khaki slacks. He’s got quiet money written all over him.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he says. “I actually own the property next door.”
