Page 79 of Here & There

Today, I set down my pen as Chip gnaws on his nail in the kitchen doorway. “Chip,” I say. “You’re supposed to be pretending I’m not here.”

I already told him this yesterday. And the day before. This time he nods, then cringes like he wasn’t supposed to nod and scurries off again.

I have to fight a laugh. He is, in fact, extremely sweet.

Today’s my third day on the “revamp the Rusty Dinghy” project, which I’ve dubbed R2D2 in my notes, just because it was shorter than Rusty Dinghy 2.0 and it made me laugh. Deanie told me over text that means I’m an absolute dork, which, fine. Deanie and I have been texting all morning about work things—only because I asked. But now I’m sorry I did, because being dragged back into the drama of my business is making my anxiety start to ramp up.

My phone buzzes again, drawing my attention from the kitchen door.

DEANIE: I swear I’m going to need danger pay to keep your location hidden, Bryony. Clientzilla is threatening to take her private helicopter to roam the coast looking for you.

On top of the anxiousness of thinking about work, seeing my name on her texts makes a sick feeling curl in my stomach. All of it combines to give me a sobering reminder of how I felt before I got to Redbeard Cove.

SHELBY: I’m sorry. Do you want me to come back?

DEANIE: Fuck no. I’m just saying. You’ll be there for her launch, right? That’s the carrot I keep holding out for her.

The launch is at the end of July. Plenty of time.

SHELBY: I’ll be there.

DEANIE: That’s all I needed to hear. Now tell me about your hot roommate. Did you bang him yet?

I shake my head, laughing softly to myself. Deanie knows I would never consider sleeping with him. That’s why she’s making the jokes. But she doesn’t know how I’ve broken my cardinal rule of letting myself get sucked in.

Because every time I see Mac, every time I speak to him, I find it harder and harder to squash that burst of warm, feel-good endorphins he makes explode in me. I can’t hear my name come out of his mouth without a fluttering in my stomach.

I can’t fall asleep without his face appearing before my eyes, his scent swirling in my intake of breath.

“You okay?”

Mac’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I clap my phone face down on the tabletop.

He has a bar towel over his broad shoulder. He’s holding a plate of quiche, his big hand practically swallowing the little dish. He sits in the booth across from me, setting the plate down.

Heat rushes through me. I was daydreaming about him in his bar. While I’m supposed to be working for him. And not daydreaming about him.

“Fine,” I say, my tone perfectly clipped. Luckily I’m well-schooled in looking like I’m totally fine on the outside. “And you’re supposed to be pretending I’m not here.” He brought me lunch yesterday too, only he didn’t sit with me at the booth.

“Kind of hard when you write something down in that notebook any time anyone sneezes.”

“I’m taking notes! I don’t want to miss anything.”

“Well, I figured all that note-taking might be making you hungry. Again.”

“That’s not fair,” I say. I told him yesterday there was no need to feed me. But he knows the quiche is my favorite item on the current lunch menu. “How am I supposed to enforce the rules about ignoring me with Chip when you’re here very much acknowledging my presence?”

“You’re right. I’ll take it back.” He moves to get up, his hand going for the dish.

“No!” I exclaim. “Not the quiche.” I scrape it across the table to my side. “Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

Mac’s eyes twinkle. Then he says, “I’m afraid Chip’s a lost cause, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my mouth stuffed. God, this is good.

“He’s smitten.”

I swallow. “What? With who?”

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