by Skye Jordan
My parents don’t know where I met these girls. They still have no idea how close I came to dying in that cyclone. And I don’t need any more told-you-sos than I already get on a regular basis, so that trip will forever stay my secret.
My dad picks up another line. “Hey, sweetie.”
With all three of us on the line, I’m slammed back in time, to the way they always spoke to me when I was away from home as a kid.
“Hey,” I say. “I need to talk to you guys about the lake.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” From the tone of my mom’s voice, I can tell she’s talking to my father, not me.
My dad chuckles. “I owe you breakfast in bed, my love.”
I roll my eyes. Before I can speak, my mother says, “The answer is yes, honey. We would never expect you to shoulder that burden on your own. You just have fun with your friends and come home. We’ll handle everything.”
Anger streaks across my chest. Logic with logic, I remind myself. Emotions get me nowhere with these two. “So, this was your plan all along? Let the property go to hell?”
“There’s no reason to sink money into it,” my father says, “when whoever buys it will level it to build new.”
“And Grandpa’s house? You didn’t think I’d want to know about that? That showing up with nowhere to stay was no big deal?”
“Oh, dear,” my mother says. “I had no idea you were planning on staying in that cabin. I thought you and your friends would get a hotel.”
She knows there are no hotels close to the lake. “You know that was partly my house too. I spent a lot of time there, and I loved it.”
“We can’t control Mother Nature, sweetheart,” my dad says. “The mudslide wasn’t our fault.”
Beside the point, but I know better than to argue with them. “When you said you had someone looking after the property, I trusted that you would keep it up, not let it die.”
“Honey,” my dad uses that you-silly-girl tone, “that place has been dying a slow death for decades.”
“Your father and I are still willing to buy the property from you. The lake would be a nice place for one of our hotels, don’t you think?”
“I couldn’t disagree more,” I tell her.
“I know you have emotional ties to that place,” my mother says, “but if you give it some real thought, I’m sure you’ll see selling it to us is your best option. That way, we can keep it in the family.”
Fat fucking chance. “Thanks, guys. You’ve just solidified my decision.”
I get off the phone without saying goodbye and grit my teeth as I pace the dock. I can’t remember the last time I left a conversation with my parents feeling good, which makes me feel guilty, because they’ve always given me every material thing I’ve ever wanted—good schools, nice clothes, a new car on my sixteenth birthday. But all I ever wanted was unconditional love.
I tilt my head back and study the swath of stars in the sky. It reminds me of the nights Grandpa and I used to lie out here while he pointed out constellations or told me stories or just talked about my day or my dreams.
“I’m sorry, Grandpa.” I close my eyes against the sting of tears. “I’m gonna make it right.”
6
Laiyla
My nerves are buzzing as I pace the lobby of the bank where my grandfather kept his accounts while he was alive, waiting for the big guns to come out from a cluster of offices in the back.
I look at the clock on the wall behind the tellers again. It’s been a full thirty minutes since the bank’s loan officer took my information back to the general manager.
I stayed up all night creating a business plan for the marina renovation, because the more I thought about it, the more I knew KT and Chloe were right. I am ready to put Saxon Hotels behind me and start my own venture.
I won’t lie, the thought of telling my parents I’m leaving the company makes me sick to my stomach in the same way walking a tightrope would. They won’t flip out, I know that. Most likely there will be a lot of disappointment and fear-mongering, which makes my excitement over this project a little shocking, even to myself. But this is a chance to be accountable to no one but me. A chance to see my ideas brought into reality.
This loan will get the project off the ground with a fleet of new houseboats and cash to renovate and expand as well as build a five-star restaurant. A retreat worthy of Hollywood stars and Santa Barbara millionaires. Best of all, I won’t have to use my own money to do it.
I glance at my phone. Nothing from KT or Chloe. They must still be asleep. Excitement bubbles up inside me when I think of telling them I’ve jumped in with both feet. They’re going to be so happy for me.
Movement in the hallway leading to the offices catches my eye. I recognize Mr. Gunderson, Erin Gunderson’s father. Erin was part of the crowd I ran with as a kid. Sweet girl. I didn’t realize her father still worked here.
He’s shorter than I remember, and he’s got a bigger gut, but still has a head full of salt-and-pepper hair and wears a warm smile.
I tug on the hem of my black suit jacket and smile through the nerves. When I got dressed this morning, I was glad to have come straight to Wildfire from a work conference. But now, seeing all these small-town bankers dressed down like it’s casual Friday, I’m feeling a little awkward. Like I’m trying too hard. Probably because I am.
Mr. Gunderson smiles and offers his hand. “Laiyla, good to see you again.”
“You too. How’s Erin?”
“Oh, she’s good. Married now with two little ones.”
As are all my friends my age. “Congratulations.”
He gestures me down the hall. “Come on down to my office.”
“Thank you.” I hate this sensation, those stomach-spinning jitters of standing on a cliff edge trying to decide whether or not to jump. The same feeling Chloe says means I’m in alignment with the universe, or whatever.
I follow him in and take a seat across from his desk, where pictures of his kids and his grandkids sit. “Great pictures.”
“Thanks. Are you married?”
“No.”
“So no kids, then?”
“Nope.” I bite the inside of my lip to keep the justifications from pouring out, which is really uncomfortable because I rarely have to do that in Los Angeles, where it’s accepted that women are powerful and careers come first.
He puts a hand on my business plan and smiles. “I read through your plan, and I’m so very impressed with your creativity and ingenuity.”
“Thank you.” Wow, I’m way out on a ledge here. And this doesn’t feel like the universe saying yes. It feels like all those angels Chloe prays to are clutching their hair screaming what the fuck are you thinking?
Mr. Gunderson looks at the proposal and turns the pages. “Your projected numbers look amazing, and your credit score is stellar”—he smiles—“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one that high.”
I laugh, one of those nervous laughs that’s a dead giveaway for stress, and I feel heat touch my cheeks.
He closes the proposal and clasps his hands on top of it. “I’m very sorry, Laiyla, but we aren’t going to be able to give you the loan.”
That’s a kick in the stomach. I can’t breathe.
I force my lungs to open and pull oxygen. “Can I ask why?”
“This whole community took Otto’s death hard, including me. We spoke quite a bit when he’d come into the branch to do his banking, and we built up a friendship of sorts. Your grandfather loved this community because of its small-town friendliness and slow pace. This plan of yours would change all that.”
“I guess I didn’t see that as a drawback. The resort will bring jobs to locals and tourists to the stores and restaurants.”
“The clientele you’re catering to with this proposal are the rich and famous. The rich and famous would bring undesired complications—security issues, celebrity groupies, that kind of thing.”
“Not necessarily—”
“Let me finish.
” His tone was friendly, but I still felt chastised. This was beginning to feel like a discussion with my parents. “To be honest, the proposal you brought me would never be approved by Otto if he were alive. He loved making a place for families at the lake. Where kids could scream and play without bothering anyone, where families could come together and decompress from hectic schedules.”
“That’s not any different from what I’m proposing,” I insist.
“The prices you would have to charge to make this plan work would preclude the average family from renting from you.” He sighs out a breath. “I assume you know how your parents got started in the hotel business.”
I actually don’t think they ever sat me down and told me about the birds and bees of the hotel industry. “They retired from stressful jobs and wanted a business that would keep them busy without the stress.”
“Not exactly.”
A spark of irritation flares. Who is this man to presume to tell me about my own family? “Then how, exactly?”
“Otto gifted your mother a boutique hotel in Santa Barbara when you were born. He’d hoped it would entice her to give up her long hours as an attorney so she could spend more time with you.”
I’m stunned. Slack-jawed stunned.
“Unfortunately, not only did she not stay home with you, she turned the charming boutique hotel into the first of a cookie-cutter hotel chain catering to the wealthy. Which is also why he willed you the lake property, because he knew exactly what your parents would have done with it.”
“I’m not my parents, and I have no intention of doing that. My proposal is to keep it as a houseboat rental facility. The only difference is that it would appeal to a wealthier demographic. We have LA and Santa Barbara around the corner. This would bring a lot of money into the community, which is why I came here. I know my grandfather banked with you, and I wanted to give a community bank the opportunity to be involved.”
“You’re right, this is a community bank, and I know my clientele. This community would absolutely not be onboard for this type of development in their backyard. Maybe if you’d spent more time here, rather than just a few summers, you would understand. Your grandfather really wanted that, for you to become part of this community.”
So not going to happen. I mean, no grocery delivery, no Starbucks, no Nordstrom, for God’s sake.
Mr. Gunderson offers the proposal back to me. “I’m sorry, Laiyla. I have no doubt you can find funding elsewhere, but I hope you take some time to consider what your grandfather would have wanted.”
I thank him for his time and exit the bank into sunshine so bright, I go blind until my eyes adjust. I’m reeling from the rejection, not just of the money, but of the idea. And of how he saw my idea of helping the community as actually hurting it.
It stings. Bad. And it’s frustrating as hell to have an acquaintance of my grandfather’s deign to know more than I do.
Did I seriously just think the word deign?
Fucking Levi.
I take a deep breath, shake it off, and cross the street toward my car. My mind is darting from the lake to my job to my parents, from my visions for the property to KT and Chloe.
“Hey, Ladybug.”
I look up and stop in the middle of the empty street. Levi is leaning against a battered old truck, arms and ankles crossed. He’s wearing worn jeans that hug muscular thighs and hang low on his waist, a T-shirt that clings to his wide chest and falls loose over a tight abdomen, same construction logo emblazoned across the front that I saw yesterday, and his arms are corded with muscle.
He’s the last person I want to see right now. Just another reminder of my failures.
7
Levi
Laiyla continues toward her car, which is parked in line with my truck. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you really are following me.”
god too, though I try not to think about what I can’t have.
I put the last curl into my hair and call it good, then join the girls on the dock, and we walk to my car for a birthday dinner in town. I’m feeling tired—from no sleep the night before, the stress over the loan, kissing Levi, and floating in inner tubes in the sun. First World problems, I know.
It’s a short drive to town, and KT and Chloe are reminiscing about Niue, but I’m only half listening.
“Happy birthday, Ladybug.”
Levi’s words replay over and over in my head. I’m still floored he remembers my birthday. My parents don’t even remember.
He has no reason to be sweet to me. In fact, he has every right to hate me. But even as I think it, I bat the idea away. I don’t believe he has the capacity to hate.
I returned to the boat earlier today with birthday donuts for KT and Chloe, a cover for a complex morning I wasn’t ready to talk about, and changed back into lake clothes in my car before I went back into the houseboat. Then we floated on the river in lazy perfection, margaritas in our hands. The sun felt as healing as the friendship of these women.
It really has been a better birthday than I could have ever hoped for. I mean, it would already have been better than every birthday over the last ten years if it stopped with Levi’s kiss. Everything else is icing.
I park at the curb in front of Aiden’s Pub, ready for a drink. Or five. This place has been here as long as I can remember. It’s owned by a friend of my grandfather’s, Craig O’Malley. The pub is named after his oldest son, Aiden, who was killed in a tragic car accident long before I ever came to town. But it explained Mr. O’Malley’s gruff nature.
I refocus, taking in the surroundings I missed while thinking about Levi. The shopping strip in town has been updated with nice shops and restaurants. City hall stands at the end of the row, a grand historical building, complete with a breathtaking dome of stained glass and a bell tower. The inside has marble floors and several levels. It used to hold city offices and was a big draw for local weddings. But the earthquake, some eight years ago, damaged it so severely, the city couldn’t afford the renovation costs, and it stood empty for many years. So I’m surprised and pleased to see the familiar lights glowing through the stained-glass windows in the huge dome again.
Man, that brings back memories. So many warm, sweet, fun memories.
“You’re awfully quiet,” KT says to me, searching my face as if that will help her read my mind.
“I think the sun wore me out.” I point toward city hall. “That building was all but destroyed in a quake that went through here. It stood abandoned by the city for years. Thought it would be condemned, but someone did a really nice job restoring it.”
She doesn’t accept my avoidance, but she doesn’t call me on it either.
“It’s beautiful,” Chloe says.
Inside the pub, it’s not exactly rowdy, but busy and lively. I glance around for familiar faces and find a few, but I have a hard time placing them. We wait at the hostess stand, and I scan the bar.
Mr. O’Malley comes out from the back room and stocks a cooler with bottles. A young hostess, probably barely sixteen, returns from seating another customer and smiles at us. “Three?”
I nod, but before we can move forward, Mr. O’Malley steps into our path and takes the menus from the teenager, who stares at him, wide-eyed. “They won’t be needing a seat, Veronica.”
Someone comes in behind us, and the teenager cautiously moves away to help the new customer.
O’Malley tosses the menus back to the hostess stand. To me, he says, “Go on. You’re not welcome here.”
“I’m sorry?” Anger and hurt flare. “Mr. O’Malley, I’ve been coming here since I was ten.”
“Not anymore.” Mr. O’Malley places one hand on the hostess stand and blocks the path into the restaurant with his body. “We have the right to refuse service to anyone. You’re anyone.”
Chloe steps forward. “Hi, Mr. O’Malley. I’m Chloe, and this is KT,” she says with a smile so bright, it reminds me of a sunflower. “I’ve been hearing about your pub since we got into town
, and I knew this was where we should have our special dinner.”
O’Malley lifts his chin toward Chloe. “You two can go in. Not her.”
Ire is wafting off KT, standing beside me. “If he’s going to be a prick,” she says, staring right at O’Malley, “let’s go somewhere else. We can spend the rest of the night dinging this place on Google and Yelp and Open Table.”
Oh, Jesus. This is going really bad, really fast. I turn and squeeze KT’s arm. When she meets my gaze, I shake my head.
“Hi, Veronica,” a deep male voice sounds behind us. “I have a takeout order.”
Chloe spins toward the voice. “Well, hello again.”
It’s the cop Chloe and KT met in the grocery store the day before, and now I’m getting an up-close and personal view. And he’s one seriously hot cop. Six-two or six-three, dark hair, hazel eyes, sunglasses pushed up and resting on the back of his head. “If it isn’t the fruit bandit.”
KT rolls her eyes, muttering, “Good God.”
“Hey, Craig.” The cop addresses the pub owner. “Are you having a problem seating these three beautiful women? No doubt they’d be good for business.” Hot Cop’s gaze scans the restaurant, then returns to us, but holds most definitely on Chloe. “I see a few booths open.”
Chloe is beaming and seems to pull an almost-grin out of a man who doesn’t look like he smiles very often.
A young woman comes up beside Mr. O’Malley. She’s quite pregnant, but I identify her immediately as Samantha, Craig’s daughter, who is my age and a girl I adored while living here. “I’ve got this, Daddy. Shawn needs some help with the kegs in the back.”
O’Malley’s angry gaze darts around the group—the cop, the three of us, back to the cop. He turns with a harrumph and disappears into the back again.
As soon as he’s gone, Chloe gives the cop an intimate smile, and her hand slides down his uniform sleeve. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem.” The huskiness in his voice and the way he holds Chloe’s gaze makes my brows lift. “Nice to see you again.” He glances at our faces and adds a polite “Enjoy, ladies.” To Chloe, he says, “Be a good girl, now.”
