Page 9 of In Your Wake

Robyn nods, but the worry that fills her soft brown eyes breaks my heart. I wrap my arms around her in a big hug, wishing I could spend more time with her when she needs me, but her son being back makes it impossible.

“It’ll be fine. Call me if you need anything.”

She may not be my mother, but Robyn Adams is dearer to me than the one who gave me life. Still, I flee before she mom-guilts me into staying. She has an uncanny talent of convincing people to do things they aren’t sure they can do.

The garden out front needs some work. Weeds are overwhelming what used to be a bright and colorful path. I should offer to tackle them soon, or at least clear it all out before summer ends, but then consider asking Celia if she could do it instead. She’s so good at gardening. Way better than me, that’s for sure. All I own is a fake houseplant.

Desperate for fresh air to cleanse the smell of hospital gear and bitter disinfectants from my nose, I take a deep inhale. The perfume of Robyn’s daylilies doesn’t mask Mitchell’s warm, spicy scent still floating around. It’s different from how he used to smell, but there’s something about it that screams Mitchell Adams.

Something strong and masculine.

Something sexy as fuck.

Something that makes me feel how I shouldn’t for the man who hates me more than anyone else in the world. The man who shattered my heart into so many pieces that I never fully recovered.

The low rumble of a sports car rips me from my thoughts, and seeing the red Porsche rounding the corner ties my stomach into even bigger knots. I sigh.

This is the last thing I need.

Tucker Bradshaw parks out front and gets out of his car, strutting up the path. He’s wearing those sandy-colored pants I hate, the ones that remind me he’s a preppy rich kid, and he’s paired them with a checkered blue and white polo. Likely Ralph Lauren.

Tucker’s a good-looking guy, in a clean-cut, Ivy League sort of way. He’s the opposite of the bad boys with chips on their shoulders I’m usually attracted to. Breaking away from my norm, I figured a ‘good boy’ might make me happier than they ever did.

The verdict’s still out on that one.

“Hey, Maxy,” he says, his pearly white smile blinding, and leans in, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

I hate when he calls me Maxy, but since I’m trying new things…

“What are you doing here?” I answer, forcing a smile.

“Well, you said you were helping Robyn today, so I thought I’d drop by. Take you to lunch.”

“That’s sweet,” I reply.

Behind the money, the handsome J. Crew looks, the sports car, that’s what Tucker is—sweet. Unlike his father, multimillionaire sleaze-ball Bradford Bradshaw, Tucker is kind, funny, and smart. Sure, he’s a trust-fund baby, but a sizeable chunk of Oakwhite Bay residents is, so I try not to hold it against him.

I take his hand, lacing my fingers through his. They’re not the strongest hands—sort of soft and gentle as if they’ve never seen an honest day’s work.

We met at a club about a month ago and had a good chat. He made me laugh, and we’ve had fun ever since. It’s nothing serious, and we haven’t discussed the long-term. Also, he’s four years younger than me, which isn’t a big deal, but sometimes I wonder if that might stand in the way of a future with him.

Not that marriage is in my cards or anything, but I’m nearing thirty, so it pops into my mind sometimes. I’ve tried to picture myself living the good life in Hallstead or even in Connecticut, and I guess I could do it. Marrying a wealthy socialite’s son is not the worst way to spend my life.

“So, what do you say?” he asks, squeezing my hand. “Lunch?”

“I’d love to, but I need to get back to the inn.”

Under different circumstances, I’d prefer to spend time with Tucker, avoiding my duties managing the Adams Inn. The job is slowly draining me, but the only fix for my mood today is something Tucker can’t help me with.

Let’s just say in romance terms, Tucker is what we’d call ‘slow-burn.’ It’s endearing that he wants to take his time, but I’m not sure why. We’ve made out. We’ve gone to second base. But not much else. Whenever I’ve tried to take things farther, Tucker has come up with some random excuse for why we—or rather, he—couldn’t. And, like I said, I’m twenty-nine—a girl has needs. Needs that aren’t being met by my vibrator. If something is going to happen between us, it better be soon, because this restless boredom inside me isn’t dying down.

Then again, moving faster likely won’t change any of that. To quote my girl, Tay-Tay: I’m the problem, it’s me.

“Holy shit!” Tucker exclaims, dropping my hand.

I hear the front door squeak open behind us and cringe when Tucker’s eyes widen. He moves around me and I purse my lips.

“Tucker, this is—”