Page 3 of Beauty and the Beach

More creative cursing, and this time I can’t help but smile a little. He’s so easily provoked. I shouldn’t enjoy that, but I do.

“Lawrence is going to get married soon,” he says, “and he’ll be ready to take over once your grandmother dies. He won’t remove you from your position; he won’t interfere in your plans. So give it up, all right?”

He’s probably right; Lawrence wouldn’t fire me or demote me. He’s too much of a coward. But he would find the pettiest ways to make my life miserable, and he would run the company straight into the ground.

There are so many things I’d like to say to Clarence, frustrations to vent and accusations to level. Ultimately, though, they wouldn’t matter, because they wouldn’t change a thing. So I keep it brief.

“No,” I say.

Then I hang up.

“Drive a bit faster, if you can,” I say to Wyatt. I let my head drop back against the seat. “We’ll miss the last ferry of the day if we don’t hurry.”

We make the ferry,but only just. It’s a twelve-minute ride we spend in silence, for which I’m grateful; there’s too much going on in my head right now, a chaotic whirlwind of family and work and my marriage dilemma. When we reach the island, I drop Wyatt off at home—using a golf cart, because that’s the only kind of vehicle Sunset Harbor allows—and then I head to my office.

I’ve just finished unlocking the door when my phone buzzes again, and I check it with a sigh. I don’t think I can stomach another conversation with my family right now. I straighten, though, when I see who’s calling, and my exhaustion gives way to a burst of energy.

“What do you want?” I say when I answer.

The voice that speaks is clear, matter-of-fact, but simmering with anger. “I’m going to run you over with my car,” Holland Blakely says.

“Don’t be stupid,” I say. “You don’t have a car.”

“Did you put a dead fish in my mailbox?” she demands.

I let out an obviously fake gasp, flipping the office lights on; the fluorescent buzz fills the room as I answer. “I would never.”

“Yes, you would. This is disgusting. You better watch your back?—”

“I think you’ll find,” I interrupt her smoothly, “that we could now be considered even, and that if you retaliate, I will have no choice but to do the same.”

“What do you mean, we’re even? I did nothing to provoke?—”

“Did you or did you not mix Skittles and M&Ms into my giant bowl of Reese’s Pieces?” I say, passing the empty row of cubicles as I head to my office.

Silence.

“And did you or did you not replace the cream in every single Oreo in the package with toothpaste?” I go on.

Another silence, and I nod. “I keep exactly two sources of sugar in my home, both of which are sacred to me, and you know this. Youknowthat’s the only sugar I eat. And you tampered with?—”

But I break off as Holland begins to laugh. It’s not a fun, joking laugh; it’s merciless, evil.

“Are those the only two you’ve found?” she says through her witch’s cackle.

My eyes widen as I step into my office. “The only two—wait. Are there more? What did you do?”

“Nothing you didn’t deserve,” she says, and her laughter dies abruptly. When she speaks again, I canhearher facial expression in her voice—casual, nonchalant, eyes gleaming with triumph. “Because you changed the name of everyScontact in my phone toSalvadorand everyDcontact toDalí.”

My anger dissipates as an evil smile of my own unfurls over my lips. Dalí’s art has always freaked her out. “I did do that,” I say, grinning. “I have no regrets.”

“I loathe you with the fire of a thousand suns.”

“I’m heartbroken,” I say flatly.

“And I’m hanging up now.”

I roll my eyes. “So soon?”

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