“No idea.”
“It’s about the exact question you just asked, about whether we’re conditioned to find certain sights beautiful regardless of the emotion they conjure. It was my favorite poem as a kid.” He rolled his pant leg back down. “Super douchey as a tattoo, though,” he added sheepishly.
“Not gonna argue with you there.”
Zack laughed and shrugged out of his blazer before placing it over Olivia’s shoulders. “I can’t make the sand less itchy, but I can make you less cold.”
“Thanks.” Olivia felt a surge of warmth that had nothing todo with the new layer of fabric. She pulled it around her, then grimaced. “God, this is itchier than the sand! What the hell is this material?”
“It’s wool!”
“Who the hell wears wool to a July wedding?”
“Not everyone can afford a new suit for every event, Miss Manners.”
She scratched her arm. “I think it gave me fleas.”
“You’ve lost jacket-wearing privileges. I’m taking it back.”
Zack tugged on the sleeve, and Olivia pulled it toward her with a laugh. “No way! I’m freezing.”
“Guess you’ll learn a lesson for next time, then.” He yanked it again, but Olivia held on tighter. They played tug-of-war for a few seconds before Olivia let go, sending Zack tumbling backward into the sand.
“That’s it,” Zack said, wiping sand off his face. “You asked for it.” He wrapped his arm around Olivia’s waist and started to pull her down toward him.
“Stop it!” She laughed and tried to wriggle free. “I’m wearing silk!” As she squirmed in a half-hearted attempt to get away, she caught sight of Andrew watching them. He was standing alone, a drink in his hand, surveying Olivia and Zack with an expression that was hard to discern from a distance. A flicker of some emotion crossed his face, though perhaps it was just a shadow from the bonfire.
CHAPTER EIGHTEENMarigold
Marigold wasn’t surprised that she fell asleep during the short drive back to Hugo’s house. It had been one of the most physically and emotionally draining days of her life—in the past fourteen hours, she’d learned she’d potentially sabotaged her own wedding, flown to another country without so much as a toothbrush, spoken to her ex-husband for the first time in four years, and had an embarrassing fan encounter at pub trivia, all while lying to everyone she loved most. She could’ve fallen asleep at a death metal concert. But there was something particularly soothing about sitting in the passenger seat of Hugo’s truck at night, watching him drive with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lightly on the gearshift. Knowing that she was in such safe hands.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Hugo said as he opened the passenger door to help her out. She followed him up the front path while Humphrey ran circles around them, barking excitedly. “Justignore him. He thinks it’s time for his walk. I’ll take him out after I show you to your room.”
“I’ll go with you,” Marigold said. The sharp scent of the sea had revived her like old-fashioned smelling salts. “I’ll sleep better after a little beach walk.”
“Let’s see how you feel in a few minutes.” She followed him inside, through the living room, and into the small room she remembered being used for storage. The last time she’d seen it, it’d been stuffed with suitcases, broken furniture, and battered cardboard boxes, but since then it’d been transformed into a proper guest room, with a cast-iron bed covered in a blue-and-white patchwork quilt, a wooden rocking chair with hand-embroidered cushions, and a small antique dresser with a vase of dried flowers on top.
What had precipitated all this? She remembered what Lauren had said about the intense efforts Hugo had devoted to his abrupt career change:He was like a man possessed.Did that have anything to do with his sudden interest in interior decorating? “Wow,” Marigold said. “It looks great in here.”
“Thanks, yeah, I thought about renting it out on Airbnb at some point, but the idea of strangers sleeping here just felt too weird.”
Marigold nodded seriously. “You gotta be on your guard around thoseAnne of Green Gablestourists. Who knows what they’re capable of?”
“Easy for you to say—they’re not staying inyourhouse.” Hugo shuddered. “All those fake braids attached to those straw hats…”
“You know, it does sound kind of kinky, when you think about it. You’re right, I wouldn’t want them doing some Anne and Gilbert role-play in my bed.”
Hugo covered his ears. “No more, please!”
Marigold flung herself on the bed with a laugh. “Call meCarrots,” she said, trying to make her voice as husky as Richie’s.
Hugo dove onto the bed next to her, face down with his hands still covering his ears. “I don’t want to know what that means,” he said into the pillow.
Marigold sat up and stared at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve never read the book.”
“Nope,” he said, rising up onto his elbows.
“Your loss. It’s one of the only books I remember truly loving as a kid. My mom read the first two aloud to me and Olivia, back when we shared a room. Then we moved in with Bill, and I read the rest of the series on my own. They were my mom’s favorite, too, when she was growing up.”
