Page 18 of The Beach Trap

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As soon asthe door closes behind the woman, I take a deep breath and turn to face Blake O’Neill for the first time since that fateful day in 2007.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” I ask, but I don’t stopto hear an answer. “You have no fucking right to be here.” The words keep coming, building momentum and gaining fury as I go. “It’s bullshit. I don’t care what my dad or the lawyer or anyone else says. This is not your house. You cannot steal what belongs to me!”

My voice is getting louder, and I curse myself for failing once again to remain calm. But I can’t help it. These words haven’t just been building up over the last five hours in the car, or even the last few weeks. They’re full of the hurt and heartbreak I’ve been carrying around for more than a decade.

“It’s un-fucking-believable,” I yell. “This house belonged to my grandparents—you didn’t know them! They didn’t even know you existed, and they wouldn’t want you here. You or your stupid dog.”

I pause to let my words sink in, but Blake just stands there in her cutoff jean shorts and some kind of sporty T-shirt with her hand on her hip like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

My cheeks flush with anger. She seems unaffected by the whole situation, and I need her to hurt like I am.

Before I can stop myself, I narrow my eyes and lower my voice to deliver one final punch. “It didn’t work the last time you tried to steal something from me,” I remind her. “My dad didn’t want you then, and I don’t want you now. You don’t belong here.”

Silence settles between us, and the only thing I hear is my heart pounding in my chest and the dog, panting as it watches us.

“Do you feel better now?” Blake asks in a smug tone that matches her expression.

I clutch the monogrammed towel tighter in my hands. I hate that she’s acting like the bigger person, the kind of person my dad always wanted me to be. I wonder if she grew up hearing the same lectures, only with her, the lessons stuck.

“You were very rude to Harriet,” Blake says when I don’t answer.

The way she so casually mentions the real estate agent reignites the spark of anger, but this time I manage to keep my voice steady. “She had no reason to be here in the first place—you can’t sell this house without me, and I don’t want to sell. It’s half mine,” I say, even though I hate to admit, even by default, that the other half is hers.

“I don’t care about this damn house,” Blake says.

“Exactly!” I yell, grateful she made the point for me. This house means nothing to her, so she has no reason to stake a claim on it unless she just wants to hurt me again, which I wouldn’t put past her.

Blake’s blond hair falls in her face, lifting slightly as she exhales a quick breath.

The gesture instantly takes me back to a day we were at the archery range and a boy from the other side of camp started picking on Blake, saying the only reason she could hit the bull’s-eye was because she didn’t have boobs yet. Instead of fighting back, Blake untucked her hair from behind her ears so it hung in front of her face, but I could still see her cheeks burning bright red as she turned and walked away.

“Listen,” I say, hoping we can find a way to meet in the middle.

“It’s my turn to speak now,” Blake says, cutting me off.

I take a step back, surprised and a tiny bit impressed. I’m not a fan of conflict, but when it can’t be avoided, it helps having a sparring partner who’s willing to fight back. The Blake I used to know would have caved right away to avoid conflict like she did at the archery range.

“As I was saying,” she continues, “I don’t care about this house, but I need the money.” Her eyes narrow and I know she’sthinking that I have plenty of it, but she’s mistaken about that. “You’re welcome to buy me out, but on the house’s future value.”

“The future value?” I ask with a laugh. What, is she psychic now?

“This land is worth a lot,” Blake says, and she’s not wrong. “But the house isn’t worth much in this condition.”

I frown and look around the living room. Sure, the white wicker furniture went out of style a few decades ago, and I wouldn’t exactly call the seashell wallpaper on trend—but it’s on-brand for a beach house. The dusty blue carpet is the same as it’s always been, and there’s an old-fashioned phone on the side table. I still know the number by heart: 850-555-1005.

“It could use a little face-lift,” I admit.

Blake laughs. “I’m thinking more like reconstructive surgery,” she says. “All the carpet, the wallpaper, the kitchen. New lighting, knocking out this wall,” she says, nodding toward the kitchen wall.

I fold my arms in front of my chest and keep my expression neutral even though the spark of an idea is formulating. I should be offended at all the major changes she’s suggesting, but if the rumors are true about the Worthington brand expanding into the home décor space, a little home renovation project could give me an even bigger advantage than I already have.

Surely my eye for fashion can translate to home décor. If I take before-and-after pictures and document the process, a stylish renovation could be the cherry on top for my application.

I can feel Blake watching me, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing I’m on board, and maybe even a little excited about this prospect.

Channeling my high school drama instructor, I let out a long-suffering sigh. “Be my guest if you want to make a few updates. But I’m not going to let this house leave my family.”

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