Then he turns and walks toward the beach, shoulders rigid, hands shoved in his pockets.
I watch him go until he is just a dark shape against the pale sand.
My heart aches painfully in my chest. I don’t know what to do. Everything feels wrong and confusing. It’s like I’m being torn in half. With tears in my eyes, I head back to Cal’s place. Giving him space feels like the last thing I want to do, but what choice do I have? I don’t have the time right now to smooth this out between us and that hurts.
Back at Cal’s cottage, I pull my suitcase out from under the bed. My phone buzzes with emails from the board, subject lines sharp and urgent. Cal is right. I should give him space and go back to New York.
I cry as I pack up my things because I don’t want to leave him.
But I know I have to.
32
Cal
The storm dida number on Cocktails & Chaos, but it could have been worse. We lost part of our thatched roof and half of the string lights. But nothing we can’t fix. The deck has been warped for a while and today is the day I decided to take my anger out on it. I drag a soaked patio table across the warped deck and set it upright with more force than necessary.
“You’re going to tear up more than you fix,” Jonah grumbles.
“It’s rotten,” I clip.
“So are you,” Jonah says as he watches me out of the corner of his eye.
“It needs to be sanded and repaired.”I glare at him.
He just lifts a shoulder and grunts in return as hestands a few feet away, stacking chairs and moving more slowly than usual.
It’s been two days since Silvie left, and I’ll admit I’ve been a bear. I’ve been waking up before sunrise and burying myself in work. My goal has been to stay as busy as I can so that I don’t have to think of her. Or the way I told her to go. When what I really wanted was for her to stay.
I pry up another board and toss it into the pile. I look over and wipe the sweat from my brow as I glare at the paparazzi van parked across the street. Same black SUV with tinted windows. They’ve been circling like sharks. They don’t care that she’s gone. They’re here for any dirt they can scrounge up.
The Coconut Beach locals are over it. One of the Bees tried to nonchalantly run them off the sidewalk the other day on a motor scooter. I can’t say I didn’t laugh. Because that was funny as hell.
And Lucille and Bitsy have been posting fake sightings on the Coconut Beach social media to watch them scramble. They’re catching on now, though.
Jonah follows my gaze. “They’re persistent little rats. I’ll give them that.”
“They’re more like weasels,” I grumble.
“Same thing,” he says, running a hand over his beard.
Birdie walks up, her oversized sun hat and sunglasses perched on her nose. She surveys the deck and says cheerfully, “You both look grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy,” I mutter.
She pats my cheek. “Of course you are, sugar. Jonah is always grumpy. But you? This is a new look for you. I don’t like it.”
Jonah snorts.
Birdie lowers her voice like she’s about to share a secret. “You’ll both be delighted to learn that the Bees have escalated operations.”
I close my eyes. “I’m afraid to ask.” Because when it comes to the Bees, this could mean one of many things.
“We’ve made it our personal mission to exhaust every single reporter,” she says proudly.
Jonah clears his throat.
Birdie continues, “Wouldn’t you know that they were under the impression that you and Silvie were out on the water yesterday? And they appear to have gotten stranded out there in the water. For hours.”
