“Fine.” I wasn’t interested in discussing this in front of these people. I nodded to the crates on his dolly and gave him a pointed look. “Good catch?”
“You know my answer to this, man.” He yanked off his cap and ran a hand over his forehead and the hair tied in a short ponytail. “There are no good days, no bad days. The water knows what to give us.”
Though it wasn’t a response that made any sense to me, and it ignored the considerable resources I poured into predicting oyster harvests, I didn’t argue with him. Hale’s family and their Narragansett ancestors had been raising oysters in this area for at least five hundred years. I’d defer to generational wisdom here.
“Doesn’t the place look good? Hard to believe it used to be the old bait shop,” he said with an elbow to my ribs. “They’ve put a ton of work into it this winter.”
“About that,” I started, glancing at the women who looked like they wouldn’t mind taking a shovel to my head. It was obvious I wasn’t going to make any progress here and shouldn’t waste any more time when I could resolve matters with the people in charge. “Is your manager here? Can I speak with them? Or would you give me their number so we can get to the bottom of this?”
I knew I’d made an enormous mistake when the dark-haired woman seemed to buzz with evil glee. She looked like she was prepared to torture me to my death and she was really fucking happy about it too.
“Yes, the manager is here.” She stepped around the broken pot and held out her hand. “Sunny Du Jardin.”
My life, it really was an endless series of getting fucked in new and unsatisfying ways. No end. No stopping point. Not even a lull in the action where I could contemplate throwing myself off a cliff simply to avoid the next round of fuckery.
This woman—this adult woman who was old enough to make her own decisions about piercings and flowerpots and bras wasSunny Du Jardin.And that would’ve been fine under any other circumstance except for the minor issue of her being my best friend’s little sister. And bylittle sister, I meant that she existed in my mind as a child. Not that she was much taller than the last time I’d seen her but this woman—the one I’d had flattened against me a few minutes ago, the one with the sadist’s smile, the one I would’ve considered pursuing if not for my entire life—was so far off-limits, she might as well be a mirage.
When I left this town for good after college, she’d been ten or eleven, a kid with short, curly hair, braces, and an obsession with horses. She loved to get her brother Lance in trouble and his parents always believed her since they hovered and doted on her because of her seizures and—
I snapped my fingers at the German shepherd beside her. “Wait. Is that Buster?” I knew it was a dumb question the second it was out of my mouth and I knew I was an idiot for asking about her old service dog, the one Lance had called Buster Nuts because we’d been stupid,stupidchildren, even as teenagers. Especially as teenagers. But somehow that was the first thing to push through the collision in my head of the Sunny I’d known twenty years ago and the one I’d had pressed up against me moments ago.
The Sunny who wasn’t wearing a bra and had the kind of wide, sumptuous hips that were meant for dragging into laps. For gripping hard and holding on tight. For—
Fuck, she’s Lance’s little sister and I am a pervert.
She rolled her eyes and I had to swallow a groan. Pissing her off tickled at something deep and uncivilized in the back of my skull, and there was no way for this to get any worse. I needed to stop with all these feelings. They weren’t doing me any good and they were quite likely to land me in a world of hurt. But goddamn, I liked the prickly side of her. Too much. Way too much.
“Buster died fifteen years ago. Now I have Jem”—she patted the dog’s head—“and that’s Scout. And I have Naked Provisions, a vegan café sharing this cozy little area with Small Point Oyster Company.”
I nodded at the renovated saltbox-style building. I’d missed the black-and-white sign along the side of the building due to the stress-coma. And the skirt that almost hid the curves my hands itched to explore. As if that would ever, could ever happen. Lance would detonate, to start, but then Sunny would kill me. Chop me up and bury me in her flowerpots. And I didn’t have the time to chase a skirt or the exceptionally smart-tongued woman wearing it. Not when I was now managing an oyster company and also the guardian to a seventeen-year-old.
“This is your place?”
“It is. This weekend is our soft launch.”
“Then why aren’t your parents here? Or Lance? Why isn’t anyone helping you?” I asked.
She gave a slow shake of her head, that evil glee still shimmering in her eyes. “This might be difficult for you to understand but I’m not the eight-year-old I was when you moved to town, although it does seem as though you’re permanently stuck with the maturity and temperament of a sixteen-year-old.”
This was not my finest hour. I was an actual mess—dirty, tired, mentally toasted. My mouth was moving much faster than any portion of my brain. The rest of me was still reeling from the feel of Sunny in my arms, which was a noteworthy problem that compounded every time she threw a glare in my direction because she was my best friend’s little sister and there was no set of circumstances in the universe where knowing the status of her bra was acceptable. If I had any sense, I’d shut up and walk away. Take the loss and put an end to this supremely confusing interaction before life could find a new way to fuck me.
Then again, holding Sunny Du Jardin before knowing she was Sunny Du Jardinwasa whole new way of getting fucked. If we wanted to talk about unsatisfying, this was it. Front and fucked-up center.
“Aside from the fact Lance lives inSan Franciscoand wouldn’t be useful for much more than setting up the wi-fi, I don’t need his help. Or my parents’. I’m sorry that I have to be the one to explain to you that I’m capable of running a business without the assistance of my parents or brother. Not when I have extremely competent partners.” She motioned to the others. “These are my partners and very dear friends. Partners, this is Beckett Loew. He and his family own the oyster company.”
A tall white woman with a pair of dark braids spilling over her shoulders crossed her arms over her black dress. “Meara Monahan,” she said. She looked like Wednesday Addams’ twin sister. She’d take the shovel to my head first and then she’d sign my tombstone like she wanted the credit.
An Asian woman with bright pink lipstick waved, saying, “Hi! I’m Bethany Shawpscock.”
“Shawps…cock,” I repeated.
“Yep!” she said with a bubbly nod.
“I run the kitchen. I’m Muffy McTeague,” a Black woman wearing a denim apron and thick gold hoop earrings said. She had intricate tattoos all down one arm and lime green glasses. She’d also kill me but she’d do it with knives and make a stew from my bones.
“I’m sorry. Did you say your name is Muffy Mc…Tease?”
“McTeague,” she repeated with a tolerant smile. She’d heard that one before. I’d make a fine stew.
