Page 20 of Beauty and the Beach

“I know,” she says. “I really have no idea. I can say this, though: if I were an ultra-rich hot guy who could feasibly get any woman I wanted?—”

“Hey,” I say.

“I wouldn’t propose to the woman who hates me. But hey, I have to go, Holls,” she says. “I need to go strip a few beds and get the linens washed.” Cat runs a bed and breakfast, located on the other side of the town square; I send a little wave in the direction of the pale-yellow house with a white porch and white shutters.

“I’m sending my love from over by the salon,” I tell her. “Talk to you later.”

“Later!” she says, and we hang up.

I take a deep breath and begin walking again, turning her words over in my head. Despite the breeze that was so pleasant before, I find myself feeling too warm now, the prickle of sweat on my scalp and clammy hands still clasped around my phone.

“Another deep breath,” I say. It takes more than one to steady myself, however.

Because the thought of Phoenix Park havingfeelingsfor me—it’s laughable. Unfathomable. And even if he doesn’t…if we got married, we would have to pretend to like each other. I would have to look at him every single day. Could I handle that? For much-needed income and health care and Maggie’s tuition…could I handle that?

No.

Right?

Maybe. I don’t know. But if he does have feelings for me—there’s no way.

The oxygen feels heavy in my lungs as I breathe, and I can’t seem to swallow properly. So with clammy fingers, I dial Phoenix’s number before I can think better of it. He answers after the first ring, and I don’t even let him say anything before I speak.

“We need to talk.”

“Do we really, though?” he says, sounding distracted.

I roll my eyes. “Yes.”

“In person?”

I swallow. I need to see his face to know if he’s telling the truth. “Yes.”

“I’m at the office,” he says. “So if you insist, you’ll need to come to me. Preferably before it gets dark, as I don’t trust your self-defense skills, should you be ambushed.”

Relief floods through me as the tightness in my chest eases. This Phoenix is familiar—this, I can handle. “Our crime rate is famously low,” I say. “Beau said so.”

When Phoenix responds, his voice is less absent. “When did he say that?”

Oops. “I don’t know. I just—remember him saying something.” Very recently, in fact, when I reported that I’d been scammed. Now that I think about it, I should have made sure he wouldn’t tell Phoenix; they’re good friends.

Thankfully, Phoenix doesn’t ask anything else; he just hums. “Well, come over, if you must.” Then he hangs up, and I’m left glaring at my phone. I hope he can feel it from here.

It’s a fifteen minute walk from the salon to Phoenix’soffice building, and I make it just as the sun is starting to sink in the sky. It’s a small, two-story building, with neatly maintained rock beds and palm trees. There’s nothing beachy or island-like inside, though; the temperature drops as soon as you enter, and it looks like I’d imagine all big city corporate offices look. An overall sense of gray, mostly, with fluorescent lighting and neatly arranged cubicles. The windows save the whole place; the sunlight streaming in during the day makes the environment bearable.

I look decidedly out of place in my sundress and white sneakers as I stroll past the nearest row of cubicles, but the people smile at me anyway; I blink in surprise when a guy at the water cooler actually greets me by name.

“Hi, Miss Blakely!” he says, sounding more chipper than I would sound if I worked here.

“Hi,” I say, but the greeting trails off in my confusion. How does he know me?

I clear my throat and tuck my hair behind my ear—nervous habit—before hurrying to the stairwell in the back. I take a direct left when I reach the top floor, passing more cubicles and listening to the sound ofclick-clackingkeyboards and pleasant, professional phone calls.

When I finally reach the floor-to-ceiling windows of Phoenix’s office, I slow down. I can’t see what he’s doing in there, since the windows are lined with blinds, but it’s probably something stuffy and bossy. I hesitate briefly at his door, and then I knock.

If I wait too long, I’ll lose my nerve.

“Come in.” His voice, clear and professional and authoritative, filters out to me, and I enter, closing the door behind me again—rustling blinds and a littleclick.

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