Page 94 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
I could be a mom. I could be agreatmom.
Not like I know what I’m doing or am, in ANY way, practically equipped right now, but I feel like I’ve passed some entry-level exam of even wanting to be a parent. I will read the parenting books and listen to the podcasts and do all the things to fill in the gaps of years spent not even considering the idea. And I’ll probably screw up. A lot.
But now … it seems possible. Even like something Iwant.
I hook a hand around Liam’s backpack strap, tugging him away from the curb as a car zips past. As soon as it’s safe, I let him go, and we cross the intersection together.
I could have this life. Walk these streets with my own kids. With Hunter.
I could. And I don’t even need to go back to New York to know I not onlycould, but Iwantto.
I’m so distracted, I almost miss someone calling my name.
“Merritt Markham.”
Benedict King saunters toward us, all confidence and easy charm in worn boat shoes and a brand-name polo that screams,I just stepped off a yacht!Which, given that Ben owns Oakley Island, might actually be true.
“How’s my main man, Liam?” Ben asks as soon as we’re close enough. He tousles Liam’s hair.
Liam gives him a look that could dry up a succulent, and I fight the urge to laugh.
“I’m good,” Liam says, smoothing back his hair. “Uncle Jake forgot me again, so Merritt is walking me to his office.”
Ben’s eyes lift to mine, offering a smile. “I suspect the forgetfulness won’t get better until your sister comes back. The man’s got a real bad case.”
“A bad case of what?” Liam asks. “Is Uncle Jake sick?”
“In a way,” Ben says, chuckling.
I give Ben a look, then turn my attention to Liam. “He means that your uncle Jake islovesick. It’s an expression.”
Liam scratches his arm, and it really looks like the wheels are turning. “That makes sense. Uncle Jake is writing Eloise letters. Maybe that will help him not be so lovesick.”
“Letters, huh?” Ben says.
“I even wrote one,” Liam says. “I bet it’s her favorite.”
Ben’s smile grows wider. “You’re probably right.” He runs a hand over his jaw, looking thoughtful. “Old fashioned love letters. That’s very . . .”
“Eloise,” I say, suddenly realizing exactly how romantic Jake’s letter writing truly is. He’s speaking Lo’s language. “It’sveryEloise,” I repeat.
Like Hunter bringing me art supplies.
He didn’t need any words to tell me how he felt when he handed over a box full of things he knew I would love. He may not be a man full of easy words, but heisa man of action.
A new idea comes alive, buzzing with fresh energy, the way new ideas do.
Oakley has a pretty thriving downtown, as far as tiny islands go. Harriett’s deli and Frank’s barber shop. The Big Tuna. A bakery that makes the best almond croissant I’ve ever eaten. A used bookshop. A touristy store full of seashell necklaces and t-shirts with slogans likeBeing Southern Is a State of Mind.
But there isn’t an art gallery or a place to buy upscale furnishings and decor. Nothing for the clients building and renovating homes here, the ones like Hunter’s nightmare client with the Versailles tile that Dante told me about. People like that are always looking for high-end decor to match their high-end renovations. They’d probably also love touting their one-of-a-kind things are locally sourced from artists and artisans living on Oakley or in nearby Savannah.
Things like Hunter’s tables.
Like my paintings.
Well. Maybe my paintings, if I ever work up the courage to paint again. But absolutely for sure—Hunter’s tables. Assuming he’d agree, even if just to clear space in his full workshop to make more tables.
Best of all, this idea would solve my problem of what to do for work. Running a gallery … it’s different. Not similar to my old job, at least not on the surface. But I do have an idea of what’s going to make people tick. I know marketing. And I know art. Marrying the two together feels very …me.
