“Perfect. Then you’ll eat with us. Here, start chopping.” She passes Holly a white onion and points to the block on the counter with a variety of knife handles protruding from it.
For the next thirty minutes, the women cook side-by-side in Buckhunter’s small bungalow kitchen, sipping at the white wine that Fiona’s poured into tumblers, for lack of any real wineglasses.
“Why is Buckhunter coming home this early for dinner?” Holly asks, looking at the watch on her wrist. It’s only nine o’clock, and he normally stays at Jack Frosty’s until closer to midnight, even on a Wednesday.
Fiona takes a swig of her wine and tops off the glass. “I wanted to ask him to marry me.”
“What?” The glass in Holly’s hand nearly falls on the floor, but she catches it and sets it on the table heavily instead. “You’re asking him?”
Fiona shrugs. “Yeah. I thought I might. It’s time. I decided while you were gone that I was ready to make a move.”
“No thoughts of waiting for him to ask you?”
Fiona shrugs again. “Sure. I considered it. But the clock is ticking. I’m ready. And we’re unconventional, so…it kind of works.”
Holly thinks about this. Fiona’s right. She watches as her best friend takes the pot of noodles off the stove and dumps them into a strainer in the sink. They are a pretty unconventional couple, but somehow it works. Fiona and Buckhunter have been happy together for the better part of a year, and Holly feels an inexplicable sense of joy flood her heart at the thought of her uncle and her best friend sharing a happily ever after.
“Come here,” she says to Fiona, pulling her into an embrace in the middle of the kitchen. “Congrats, girl.” She lets Fiona go and grabs her glass off the table to drain the last of the wine. “I’m going to leave you to it.”
“No! Stay!” Fiona insists. “I want you here.”
“I shouldn’t be here. This is a special night for you two. Call me tomorrow.” Holly leans in close and plants a kiss on Fiona’s cheek.
It takes her less than five minutes to find a pair of shoes, load Pucci into her golf cart, and drive across the island in the dark. The night sounds surround her as she bumps down Cinnamon Lane with her dog next to her, a hot summer wind rustling the leaves of the trees overhead and all around her. Holly reaches out a hand and rests it on Pucci’s side, feeling the comforting rise and fall of his steady breathing. This is all she needs right now: familiarity, reassurance, things she knows and understands as well as she knows and understands herself.
There’s really no point in giving her destination any thought. Overthinking it will only lead to her turning around, and she can’t afford to do that tonight. She drives down the quiet streets in silent contemplation, passing the B&B with its soft front desk lamp shining through the front window.
When she gets to where she’s going, she puts the cart in park and switches off the headlights, leaving Pucci on the seat with the instruction to stay put until she calls for him.
Her hand feels detached from her own body as she stands in front of the door, fist raised and ready to knock. But before she can rap her knuckles against the wood, the door swings open.
“I saw you pull up. Is everything okay?” Jake is standing in his doorway, shirtless and concerned. His black basketball shorts hang low over his toned hips, and his hair is disheveled and slightly damp as if he’s just come out of the shower.
Holly’s heart skips a beat as the words fall from her mouth, unbidden and unconsidered. “Is it still too complicated?”
Jake frowns, moving his mouth to speak. Before he does, understanding dawns over his dark features. “Holly…”
They stand there—Holly on the porch in her jean shorts and untied Converse, Jake inside the house, one hand on the doorjamb as he looks into her wild and pleading eyes. The summer night sky winks above them. An entire unspoken conversation passes between them, but it yields no real conclusions, only more questions that will need answering.
“Is Pucci going to come in, or are you making him stand guard out here?” Jake says, nodding at the golden retriever sitting obediently on the seat of her cart.
Holly’s head whips around, her loose hair flying around her shoulders. She gives a whistle that her dog recognizes instantly, and they both watch as Pucci hops out of the cart and trots up to Jake’s front door. Without invitation, the dog slides past them both and disappears into Jake’s house. Holly laughs.
“Well, I guess you’d better come in then, too, huh?” Jake says, looking down at her with a flash of understanding in his eyes.
Holly slips in, turning her shoulders so that she won’t brush up against Jake as she does. She kicks off her shoes in the entryway and pads across the cool tile in her bare feet, disappearing into the kitchen to pour a bowl of water for Pucci. The way she does this feels so familiar to both of them—so right—that there’s really no question about whether she should or shouldn’t have come to him on a night like this.
Jake stands in the doorway for another moment, looking out into the night. Satisfied that the street is quiet and that no one has seen Holly come in, he closes the door and follows her.
About the Author
Stephanie Taylor is a high-school teacher who loves sushi, "The Golden Girls," Depeche Mode, orchids, and coffee. Together with her teenage daughter she writes the American Dream series—books for young girls about other young girls who move to America. On her own, Stephanie is the author of the Christmas Key books, a romantic comedy series about a fictional island off the coast of Florida.
https://redbirdsandrabbits.com
[email protected]
Also by stephanie taylor
There’s Always a Catch: Christmas Key Book One
Wild Tropics: Christmas Key Book Two
The Edge of Paradise: Christmas Key Book Three
Coco’s Story: A Christmas Key Novella
Jake’s Story: A Christmas Key Novella
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