Page 8 of Small Town Schemes & Summer Kisses
It was unnatural.
It was coming closer.
Then, racing into his gravel driveway like a mission statement on wheels, the bright pink menace came into view.
He blinked.
Surely, she wasn’t coming to see him. The golf cart skidded to a stop, and Beck knew in an instant he’d underestimated Caroline Hollis’s determination and his own reluctance.
Beck stilled. She parked next to his truck, the golf cart a bright punctuation mark in his colorless world. He watched, half-amused but mostly incredulous, as she stepped from the monstrosity and surveyed the beach house.
The echo of Sandy’s cheeky observations rang in his head. Caroline emerged with a flourish almost as bold as the contraption she drove. Her hair, tousled by the wind, gave her an air of frazzled elegance. Despite the intrusion, and despite himself, Beck couldn’t help noticing how the bright pink sweater made her look fresh and stubbornly out of place against the muted gray of the sky.
She hesitated, taking in the driftwood porch and the hammock swaying lazily like it had all day. Beck’s eyes narrowed as he noticed the clipboard clutched in her hand. Of course. Tropical Storm Caroline: the agenda-bearing menace. He braced for impact.
Taking a breath, more for show than necessity since feigned disinterest always worked best, he stood up, leaning casually against the porch post with practiced indifference. “You lost, Hollis?” Her eyes found him, and the familiar, unyielding set of her jaw told him this was no social call. “Do I need to call the authorities?”
She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. She was manic energy wrapped in a pink sweater.
“Really, Beckett? You’re going to run and hide when I haven’t even made it to your porch?”
“You lost? Off course? Got the famous Caroline GPS malfunction? This doesn’t look like City Hall,” he remarked,watching her step with purpose across the gravel in shoes hostile to Bluebell Bay’s casual terrain.
He put his mug down on the railing and curled his hands, shoving them into his pockets. Caroline wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in his space. Certainly not in his head.
“Nope,” she said, her voice breathless with certainty and sea air. “I’m right where I need to be. Turns out City Hall needs a lot of help,” she replied, her steps rhythmic on the porch.
Those words got his attention.
“Well, Mayor Hollis, what can I do for you?”
Caroline stopped at the bottom of the stairs and put her foot on the first step. Pulling a planner from her oversized tote, she flipped it open with military precision.
“I need help.”
He blinked. “Not usually how people start conversations with me.”
“Bluebell Bay needs a rebrand. A website. A summer campaign. According to your very nosy fan club atThe Holler & Fork, you’re exactly the man for the job. You have a background in marketing.”
“Had,” he corrected.
“You’re retired.”
“Blissfully.”
“Not anymore.”
His brow lifted. “Excuse me?”
She looked up from her planner, sunglasses still perched on her nose like a shield.
“Bluebell Bay is floundering. Tourism’s down. Businesses are struggling. We need a campaign. Something fresh, modern, and effective. You used to create that kind of thing, didn’t you?”
“Used to.”
“So, you’re capable.”
For a moment, Beck stared, with a mix of confusion and grudging admiration on his face.
