by London James
As much as I don’t want to admit it, she’s still getting to me. The backdoor leading into the kitchen is locked, so I have to walk all the way around to the front of the bed-and-breakfast to get back in. As I come around the side of the building, I notice someone standing on the porch, leaning down so close to one of the railings it almost looks like he’s passed out and conveniently landed with his forehead flat on the white-painted wood.
“Do you need some help?” I ask, stepping up onto the veranda.
He snaps up sharply, and I see it’s the red-faced man Avery refers to as GPS. I still think it’s possible she was so wrapped up in the idea of the blogger showing up at Hometown Bed And Breakfast and giving her a review she projected it onto this guest, but I have to admit the small notebook in one of his hands, and the picture he snaps with his phone don’t bode well for my theory.
“Not as much as this bed-and-breakfast does.”
He says it like it’s offensive Hometown Bed And Breakfast would think of itself under that title.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He looks around conspiratorially. “I guess I can speak freely. It’s not like the owner is here. I don’t think I’ve seen her more than twice since I checked in.”
“Her name is Avery,” I tell him, the defensive edge in my voice evident enough to bring his eyes away from whatever he’s scribbling on his notebook.
“I’m more concerned about her business.”
“Oh, really?” I ask. “And why is that? As far as I can see, Avery is doing just fine for herself.”
The shade of his face brightens, and he shoves his notebook into his pocket like he thinks I’ll forget he was holding it and not figure out who he is.
“Because I’m staying here. As a fellow guest, doesn’t it bother you?”
“Not really,” I tell him without a hint of humor. “But I have a fairly high tolerance.”
It takes a few seconds for what I said to sink in, and he lets out a huff. “You may not be concerned about woefully insufficient amenities, faded paint on the porch, a repetitive and derivative breakfast each meal, and a total lack of customer service, but I am accustomed to better.”
Did he just say derivative breakfast?
He stalks past me, and I watch him disappear into the backyard before I start down the driveway. I’m halfway to the village when I notice a woman coming toward me. Her face is buried in the book she’s holding, and I have to swerve to avoid running into her. A rock in the path doesn’t extend her the same courtesy.
I’d been able to walk around it, but she was so invested in her reading she steps directly on it and stumbles. She manages to stay on her feet even as everything in her arms goes flying around her and scatters on the ground. I go back to help her, tucking a wide assortment of snacks into the canvas bag that’s sagging in the dirt and then reaching for the book. As I hand it back to her, I catch the title.
“The Stranger Beside Me?” I ask.
It doesn’t fit with the cropped, fading blonde hair and wire-rimmed glasses that look back at me, but she smiles broadly. I met her over breakfast this morning but can’t remember her name.
“Are you a fan of Ann Rule?” she asks enthusiastically.
“Can’t say that I’ve read anything of hers,” I tell her, handing her the last few objects from the ground and helping her up.
“Oh, you should. She’s so insightful. Of course, I might be a little biased considering we share a name, but her insight into the mind of killers is…” She lets out a sigh just a tad too close to exhilarated. “Incredible.”
“Maybe I’ll try one of her books sometime.”
She bats her eyelashes at me. “Any time you want to borrow one of her books, come on by my room. You’re more than welcome to anything.”
Well, that’s uncomfortable.
“Thank you for the offer. Have a nice day, Ann.”
She blinks at me a few times.
That has to be her name, right? She said she shares her name with that writer.
Could her name seriously be Rule?
The silence stretches for another few seconds, becoming increasingly awkward until she finally smiles again and waves before heading toward Hometown Bed And Breakfast.
I make it to the village and roam around for a while, simultaneously enjoying taking in my surroundings and looking for Avery. Without having experienced the island at any other time of the year, I can’t say with certainty this is the best time, but what I’ve seen from the fall here so far, it’s hard to imagine any other season being better. Far from a tropical oasis, Vidalia Isle is a cozy small town that happens to be floating around, surrounded by the bay.
The trees that line the edges of the island and sneak in throughout the houses and other buildings almost glow in shades of red, orange, and yellow, making them decorations on their own. Along the main street of the village, autumnal leaves and arrangements festoon old-fashioned light posts, and curved glass storefronts boast pumpkins and hay bales.
As if the decorations going up gave the climate a hint, the temperature has dropped over the last few days, creating cool, crisp days, and nights chilly enough to warrant a comforter rather than just a blanket. I was even compelled to buy a cup of apple cider to sip as I stroll along the sidewalk. I don’t know if I’ve ever purposely purchased apple cider in my life.
It’s impossible to go anywhere in the village without hearing people chattering excitedly about the upcoming festival, which is exactly what Avery’s talking about when I hear her voice. Looking around, I notice her going into the little shop that looks like a gingerbread house, the one where she bought the sprinkles. Crossing the street in a village that doesn’t allow cars is much simpler than in the big cities I’ve visited, and I jog across, wanting to take the chance to clear the air with Avery.
As I reach for it, the door to the shop swings open, smacking me in the gut with the heavy metal handle. Reacting to being startled by the impact and also trying not to stumble back into the women crossing behind me results in a strange bucking movement that sends my apple cider flying.
Directly onto Avery.
Her gasp quickly turns to something very close to a growl as her frustration grows. She brushes at her shirt, but droplets slip down into her neckline.
“Avery, I am so sorry,” I say.
Her eyes narrow at me, and she takes a step away as I take a step toward her. “Owen, do you always have to be in the way?” she snaps.
“Wait. In the way? I wasn’t in your way. You’re the one that flung the door open without looking. I only apologized because it’s the decent thing to do.”
She scoffs. “I don’t usually take the time to check around outside before I open a door.”
“Maybe you should,” I tell her. “Then you wouldn’t open doors into people.”
She looks down at the cider dribbling off her and sighs. “This is the second time you’ve managed to soak me.”
“At least it was apple cider and not iced tea. That would have been a lot more unpleasant.”
There isn’t even the hint of laughter in her eyes, and I relent.
“Look, I’m sorry you got splashed again. Let me buy you some dry clothes so you aren’t cold.”
Her expression shifts as dramatically and darkly as if I’d recommended she just strip off the wet clothes and spend the rest of her afternoon in the bright pink bra I can see through her cream-colored shirt.
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Throwing your money around and showing off. Well, I don’t need your money, and I’m not impressed. I’ll be fine. Now, please, let me out of the shop so I can continue my day.”
Her anger is shocking. The tension between us has been palpable since the first day I arrived here, but it has wound up inside her, tighter and tighter, until she is like a walking time bomb.
“I’m not showing anything off. It’s chilly out here. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” I tell her.
“You are so unrealistic,�
� she says.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around her outburst when she pushes past me and stalks down the sidewalk, Skylar slinking out behind her.
Chapter Twelve
Avery
"Should I not mention what just happened, or are you going to explain it to me?" Skylar asks as we push through the door into the coffee shop.
Betsy behind the counter makes eye contact with me and goes to work putting together our usual order. Not having to stand in line means I can go to my favorite spot and slump down into the seat, dropping my forehead to the table.
"It was as bad as I think it was, wasn't it?" I ask.
"It wasn't good," she says. "The man offered to buy you dry clothes because he spilled some cider on you, which by the way, was completely your fault, and you went all Rambina on him."
"Rambina?" I ask, peeling my forehead off the table so I can give her the full effect of my confused expression.
"Yes. The feminine of Rambo."
"I don't think it actually is, and does there really need to be a feminine of Rambo?"
"There does because if you decided to start roaming around shirtless with a strip of fabric wrapped around your head being all sweaty and violent, I'd be forced to host an intervention." She straightens in her seat and brushes her hair back over her shoulder. "That and I might not accurately remember the movie."
I make a confirming sound and rest my forehead to the table again but lift it almost instantly.
"Wait. What do you mean it was completely my fault?" I ask.
"It was completely your fault," she reaffirms. "You're the one who shoved the door open like you were about to start kicking ass and taking names. He was just standing there."
"Are you defending him?" I ask.
"Is there a reason I shouldn't be? This loops us right back to your little temper-tantrum out there. Is there some reasoning behind your inordinate reactions to Owen?"
"No," I say. "I mean, yes. But... no."
"Well, I'm so glad we cleared that up."
I sit up straighter, but I still feel like something is pressing down on my shoulders. "Did Sebastian tell you the big revelation?"
"Of course he did," she says. "I'm kind of hurt you didn't call me."
"I was planning on talking to you about it today," I tell her.
Skylar looks at me expectantly. "So?"
"So, what?" I ask.
"Exactly. So, what? I'm failing to see the connection between Owen being a literal prince and you going all…"
"Don't call me Rambina again," I cut her off.
"Postal on him. There. Am I allowed to say that still?"
"I don't think anyone has ever been allowed to say that," I sigh. "It doesn't make sense, and I know it doesn't make sense. But when I get near him it just feels like…" I give a sharp wiggle and shake my hands to the sides like an angry cat getting out of the water. "He just gets under my skin."
"Why?" Skylar asks.
"He is so condescending and totally negates how hard I work to keep Hometown Bed And Breakfast running and try to get my apples off the ground. But then he brings back a stack of box lunches because he couldn't decide which to get and wants to share. He can be such an arrogant ass and just push all my buttons. But then he has a long talk with the hammock because he can't figure out how to use it and it's…"
"Adorable?"
"Aggravating." I sag a little further. "But, yes. He was my first crush, Sky. You remember what that's like."
"The Resin Boyfriend," she says with a knowing nod. "The guy you preserve in your mind in a pristine, perfect form and by which all other guys are consciously or subconsciously compared."
"Exactly. After that week in the palace—" I almost gag on the word as it tries to come out of my mouth. I still can't believe I thought it was a resort. Where the hell did I think the room keys, ice buckets, and other guests were? "Owen stayed in my mind. We fought a lot of the time we were together, but he was like the miniature version of the bad boy with the heart of gold. I turned him into a fabled heroic figure who represented all that was good and noble about having a kind of messed up childhood and knowing the value of hard work and independence."
"You Prince-and-the-Paupered him. Literally," she says.
"I what?"
"You Prince-and-the-Paupered him. You remember that story. The prince meets the peasant boy who conveniently looks exactly like him and they both bitch about their lives, so they decide to switch places. Essentially, it’s The Parent Trap just without the unrealistic custody arrangement and unhealthy attempts at reuniting a bad marriage. Anyway, the whole point is people see them a certain way because of who they think they are and treat them likewise. You thought you were meeting the pauper when you were actually meeting the prince. Same person, just a different title."
"What title?"
My coffee shows up in front of me, but the voice attached to the hand holding it doesn't belong to Betsy. I look up at Chad and roll my eyes.
"Son of a bitch," I mutter.
"Well, that was a pleasant greeting," he says. "You've developed such charm since we broke up."
"That's the point, Chad. We broke up. So, why are you here, and what are you doing with my coffee?"
"I want to talk to you," he says. "You didn't even give me a chance at the ball."
"Grabbing me when I try to get away from you isn't the way to get a chance to talk to me," I point out.
"Who was that goon you sent after me?" my ex asks.
"Goon?" I ask, unable to hold back a mirthless laugh. "When did you become a Prohibition-era gangster?"
"That's something you might have wanted to mention to her," Skylar interjects. "It might have made you more interesting."
"Thank you, Sky," I say in my 'this-is-already-uncomfortable-enough-I-appreciate-you-but-please-shut-up' voice.
"Yes. Thank you, Sky," Chad hisses in a much less pleasant tone. "I really don't need you sticking your nose in."
"At least that would mean I got to stick something in," she snaps back.
"OK, that's enough of that. You," I say, pointing at Skylar, "uncalled for. And you"—I turn to point at Chad—"just unwanted. There's nothing left for us to talk about. Our relationship didn't work out. It's not the end of the world, but this is the end of you trying to bring it back."
"I'm not going to accept that, Avery," Chad says.
"You don't really have a choice. I've moved on. It's time for you to do the same."
"You've moved on?" he asks, unable to conceal the seething note from his voice. "With that masked idiot from the ball?"
"No, Chad, I've moved on with myself. I'm focusing on my businesses right now and don't need anything to distract me or take away from the time I have to devote to them," I tell him with a sigh.
"Your businesses? Since when do you give a damn about that bed-and-breakfast? You've said yourself you never wanted to run it and don't think you're cut out for it."
"What I want is none of your business anymore."
"Excuse me," an embarrassed voice says from behind Chad.
He steps out of the way and Betsy approaches the table. She holds a brown paper shopping bag out to me. A flourish stamped in peacock-blue ink near the handle tells me it’s from a little clothing boutique a block down.
"A gentleman just brought this in and asked me to give it to you," she says.
"What gentleman?" I ask.
"What did he look like?" Skylar asks, her tone curious and excited.
"Tall. Handsome." She lets out a sigh. "Hazel eyes."
Yep.
"Owen," Skylar and I murmur at the same time.
"Who is Owen?" Chad asks in disgust. "Are you going to tell me you renamed your business and it's buying you gifts now?"
I reach into the bag and pull out a soft pale blue sweater. "He's a guest," I tell Chad. "And someone I've known for many years. He spilled a drink on me earlier."
He scoffs. "Convenient."
"Are you finished?" I ask. "I
came here to have coffee with Skylar and talk through some business things."
"Of course," he says bitterly. "Your precious business. That's so much more important than the promises you make to people."
"I never promised you anything, Chad," I say.
"You did. You know you did. Just remember, Avery, businesses fail. You never know when things could go wrong, and when that happens, who is going to be there for you?"
He backs away from the table for a few steps, his icy eyes burning into mine, then turns and leaves the shop.
"Holy creepy ex, Batman," Skylar says.
I shake my head and take a sip of my now-lukewarm coffee.
"He's harmless," I tell her. "Everyone had just built up our relationship so much; it got into his head. You know he's always been an overachiever. It drives him crazy he's not the one in control of this."
"Just be careful," she warns.
"Be careful about what? Did something happen?"
I hear Owen's voice before I see him coming toward us carrying a new drink, his expression concerned. The showdown with Chad has left me shaking, but the protective look in Owen's eyes calms me.
"Just my ex-boyfriend," I tell him. "It's fine."
"You don't look like it's fine," he says. "What did he say?" His eyes flash between me and Skylar.
"That her business might fail. It was vaguely threatening," Skylar says.
"He threatened you?" Owen asks angrily. "Do you need me to talk to him?"
An unexpected shiver rolls through me. "He was just annoying me. Really. I can handle Chad," I say, trying to keep my face neutral.
"Let me know if you change your mind," he says. He glances at the bag still sitting in my lap. "Do you like the sweater?"
"Oh," I look down at it. "Yes, It's beautiful. Thank you. You really didn't have to do that."
Or make someone else bring it over to me.
"I don't want you to be cold. Besides, I know you will look amazing in that color." His eyes slowly slide over to Skylar, who is openly staring at him. "You look busy. I'm going to go check out the library. My parents suggested I see it, and there's a tour this afternoon." He walks away from the table, then turns back. "I'm sorry I didn't bring the sweater over to the table. It seemed like a good idea to avoid holding it and a drink at the same time. Just track record speaking."
