Page 22 of The Beach Trap

“I’m not staying here if you’re here,” she says, as expected. “We’ll have to trade off. I get a week, then you get a week.”

“I’m not going to waste money on a hotel when I own half a beach house. And I can’t drive back and forth to Minnesota each week.”

“That’s not my problem,” Kat says.

“Yes, it is, because you’re the one who doesn’t want to stay here together.” I assume this will make her back down; I’d love it if she would go back to Atlanta until I’m done.

Kat’s eyes light up, like something has occurred to her. It’s the same look she got when she talked me into sneaking out of our cabin one night to take a canoe out on the lake. I was terrified that we were going to be caught and punished. It ended up being fun—magical, actually, staring up at stars, the boat rocking with the waves—but I’m not in the mood to entertain positive memories of Kat Steiner. My shoulders tense in anticipation of what she’s going to say next.

“Since you don’t appear to have a problem with a little construction,” she says, “how do you feel about cleaning? My friend lost her housekeeper. You could stay in their casita—they won’t even be there until the Fourth of July. They need someone to tidy up the main house, make sure it’s clean and dusted when they come back. They’d even pay you. It’ll be easy money and you can stay there the weeks I’m here.”

I bristle. Kat thinks of me ashired help? Someone she can farm out to her rich friends? I open my mouth to spit out a retort, but then close it again. I refuse to spend the summer allowing Kat to get under my skin.

It wouldn’t be a good idea for us both to be here at the same time; there’s too much tension. Plus, I could use the extra money, and my weeks away could be a chance for me to make plans, buy supplies, and learn how to tackle the renovation. As much as it irks me, I need to swallow my pride and play the long game here. I’m determined to get what I deserve out of this inheritance.

I take a deep breath and nod. “We can trade off weeks. During the weeks you’re here, I’ll stay at that casita and clean your friend’s house. During my weeks, you’ll leave.”

I don’t mean for my words to sound so abrupt, and I catch a flash of surprise in Kat’s eyes. “Fine,” she says. “Since I’m already here, I’ll take this week.”

She says this as if it’s a done deal, which makes me bristle again. Is this how it’s going to be all summer long, Kat bossing me around, and me allowing it?Play the long game, I remind myself. I also need to work on growing a backbone; I’m going to need one with Kat around.

Without another word, I go inside and head upstairs to pack. Halfway up the stairs, I turn and look behind me at the living room, the old carpet, the dated furniture, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the magnitude of what I’ve taken on.

My head spins. Sure, I’ve helped my granddad with projects, but I’ve never spearheaded anything myself. I don’t actuallyknowhow to demo a wall or replace light fixtures by myself. I don’t even have any tools. Not to mention, I don’t know how I’m going to work with Kat when we can barely speak to each other without arguing or one of us running away.

But I do know one thing for sure: it’s going to be a long summer.

CHAPTER SEVEN

KAT

Upstairs, I hear Blake moving around, packing up her suitcase.

I just got off the phone with CoCo, who was beyond thrilled I’d found someone for her—I left out the fact that it’s someone who shares half of my DNA—and she forwarded me an email with all the information Blake needs to get in the house and the casita.

When CoCo asked if Blake would mind getting paid under the table, I agreed on her behalf. I figured if she was okay being the “other daughter” of a married man, accepting a little tax-free cash wasn’t too big a stretch.

Blake didn’t seem too happy about the whole arrangement, but I’m sure she’ll change her tune once she sees the Rooneys’ mansion. It’ll be like living in a luxury hotel every other week—hell, maybe she’ll want to stay there all summer. I know it’s a long shot, but if a girl can’t dream about her estranged half sister running away and never coming back, then what can she dream about?

My shoulders are tight with tension from all these badmemories that’ve been stirred up. I honestly thought I’d dealt with my feelings around Blake O’Neill more than a decade ago, but seeing her here, in this place where she doesn’t belong, brought everything back up.

The sense of betrayal—both from Blake and from my dad—feels so fresh. I can still remember the way my stomach dropped to my toes in that moment: standing in front of the lodge at Camp Chickawah when I realized my “best friend” had been lying to me, and my dad had, too.

I’m sure I’ll feel better once Blake’s out of the house. Maybe spending time in one of the few places I was truly happy will help me find a little bit of that happiness again.

I grab my suitcase from the car and head upstairs to get settled in my old room. I pause at the top of the stairs, and before I realize what I’m doing, I turn and look toward the guest room. The door is open, and I see Blake carefully folding her clothes and placing them in the suitcase.

A shiver runs down my spine as I remember the night all those years ago when I was the one packing my suitcase to leave. I’d been so distraught, I was just throwing things from my drawer into my suitcase, but Blake had taken my crumpled clothes, folding them one at a time like each T-shirt was precious.

She didn’t just help me pack that night—she stayed with me and asked me questions about my grandpa. Somehow, she knew I needed to talk about him, to keep him alive in that moment and for as long as I could.

It’s nearly impossible to reconcile that girl from my memory with this cold, money-hungry, house-and-inheritance-stealing bitch.

Blake must hear me, because she turns and glares in my direction. Her eyes are shining with tears and I instantly soften. Maybe I had this whole thing wrong. Maybe she’s not just here for themoney; maybe she’s as lost and alone as I am. I’m about to tell her I’m sorry, that she doesn’t have to go, when she snaps at me.

“I’ll be out of your hair in two minutes,” she says, pulling a ratty old teddy bear out of her duffel bag.

I gasp.It can’t be.

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