Chapter 3

Icruised over the short but picturesque bridge that expanded over Breach Inlet, connecting Sullivan's Island to Isle of Palms. It was a windy day, and the ocean below was choppy. The trees that lined Palm Boulevard swayed gently in the breeze.

A blue house with white trim appeared as I turned onto another palm-tree-lined street. The sight of my best friend's home instantly comforted me.

I had a standing dinner invitation with Danielle and her husband, Jeremy. They knew I tended to rely on takeout and frozen meals. It was their way of ensuring I nourished my body with something other than Lean Cuisine.

I always felt I was intruding on their personal time, but they both reassured me I was not. They insisted they had plenty of alone time together.

Danielle was a ghostwriter, and Jeremy was a sales rep. Lucky for them, they both worked remotely. They were grateful for the lack of a grueling commute and used their evenings to make intricate dishes from scratch.

I could only hope I wasn't secretly an unwanted third wheel, but they had never made me feel such a way. Danielle and I had been best friends since middle school, and we had never had an issue with honesty. If she didn't want me coming over for dinner, she would tell me so.

She also wouldn't take the time to type out a text message with the evening's menu, despite knowing whether I would be joining them.

I rang the doorbell and patiently waited on their front porch. I had a key to their house, but I never felt right using it. The last thing I wanted was to walk in on my best friends doing it in their kitchen, which I knew they had done before (and burned an entire dinner in the process).

"How did your showings go today?" Danielle asked as soon as she opened her front door. Her long, brown hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and she wore a dirtied apron over her clothes.

"Fine," I shrugged.

"That's all I get? Fine?" She rested her hands on her curvy hips. She knew I always had a story to tell.

"Hey, Kenna!" Jeremy shouted from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready in ten."

"Yay!" I yelled back. "I'm starving!"

The scent of fresh oregano and garlic filled the air, making my stomach growl.

"Can you help me set up on the patio?" Danielle asked, pulling off her apron.

I rummaged through the utensil drawer, pulling out the necessary silverware. Moving to the cabinet, I grabbed three dinner plates and a stack of napkins from the shelf. With my free hand, which wasn't filled with supplies, I opened the patio door and stepped into the evening.

My friends' backyard had a fantastic marsh view of the Intracoastal Waterway. As the sun began to set, swirls of pink filled the sky, resembling a watercolor painting.

"Want a fire?" Danielle asked.

"Danielle, it's seventy degrees," I laughed.

"So? It's breezy."

"Okay, sure," I said.

Danielle's fingers moved nimbly along the stone wall, searching for the switch to ignite the gas fireplace. A second later, the outdoor area was illuminated with an orange glow.

"Honey, do you need help in there?" Danielle yelled to Jeremy as she sank into the chair across from me. It seemed she had no intention of helping, even though I was sure she had already done her share of work in the kitchen.

"I got it," Jeremy answered. I could hear the smile on his face through his words. He probably guessed that his wife was already sitting, ready to chat with me. He knew her well.

"Be out in a few," he promised us.

"So, what's today's story?" Danielle sipped her wine and waited for her evening's entertainment. I mean, my clients werepretty entertaining.

If Danielle were a fiction writer, I wouldn't be willing to share as many personal details about my clients as I did. The genuinely terrible clients would most likely end up as characters in a novel. Thankfully, Danielle was primarily a business ghostwriter, writing for nonfiction purposes. At least, that's what she told me. It was possible that she had a pen name and wrote erotica all day long. If that were the case, I'd be pissed if she didn't share it with me.

"Well, apparently, purchasing a two-million-dollar penthouse is no big deal. It's as easy as buying a grapefruit from the grocery store," I said.

"But you got a two-million-dollar deal?"

I nodded, but it lacked my usual enthusiasm. "Noah started the paperwork this afternoon."

Impostor syndrome was a bitch who was determined to drag me down. It was hard to shake the feeling that most of my success came from guys who were trying to sleep with me. Though I would never sleep with one of my clients.

"Are you doing that thing where you underestimate your success in your head?" Danielle asked.

She knew me too well.

"Maybe," I said.

"You are kicking ass at selling houses because you are a fucking great agent," she told me. "There's no other reason."

"I am a fucking great agent!" I repeated.

Jeremy appeared from around the corner with a dish of their famous homemade lasagna in his hands. It wasn't actually famous, but it should have been.

"Kenna is fucking an agent?" Jeremy's right eyebrow rose in curiosity. "FBI? CIA?"

"No, Jeremy," Danielle responded before I got the chance. "We were discussing how fucking amazing Kenna is."

"Ah, the usual conversation," he said.

"We don't only talk about me!" I gasped.

Shit.

Did we only ever talk about me?

"He's joking," Danielle said. "Isn't that right, Jeremy?"

"It was just a joke," he said, his hands raised in surrender. "I promise."

We each served ourselves, and I was not shy with my helping. I took a forkful of my best friend's lasagna and brought it to my lips. One bite, and I forgot everything we were discussing. I was instantly transported to heaven.

"Seriously, guys, when are you going to quit your day jobs and open up a restaurant?" I asked.

"Our culinary skills are for our mouths only," Danielle said as she wiped a drop of sauce from her chin. "Turning it into a business venture would take away all the enjoyment I get out of it."

"What she said," Jeremy chimed in. "I love the idea—I always have—but I know how easily those feelings of passion can shift into resentment and dread."

"Well, y'all would be the best restaurant owners ever if you decided to take the leap," I told them. "That's all I'm saying."

Jeremy slapped a second helping of lasagna on my plate to shut me up.

It worked.

Once our plates were cleared, Danielle asked me, "When are you going to get back out there?"

"Never," I said. "Dating is overrated."

Danielle and Jeremy gave each other the look.

You know the look. The onecouples give each other when they're silently judging you, their single friend?

Yeah, that look.

"Kenna. You haven't been with anyone since Brett," Danielle reminded me.

As if I didn't already know.

"Danielle," I whined, pleading with my best friend to drop the subject.

"Get him out of your system," she practically begged me.

"He is out of my system," I said.

"Kenna, he dimmed the light that used to shine so bright inside you. Change the bulb out."

"It is time," Jeremy chimed in.

"I want Kenna in full force from here on out," Danielle continued. "You need to let loose. No, you need to get laid. I should be living vicariously through you!"

"Ahem, excuse me," Jeremy cleared his throat.

"Obviously, I'm getting plenty of hot action myself," Danielle clarified. "That's why I'm so concerned for Kenna!"

"Yeah, I know you are. Y'all like to do it on the stovetop," I rolled my eyes. "You don't have to brag about it."

"We do not do it on the stovetop!" Danielle looked appalled. "We only do it on the island, far away from flammable appliances. You know how I am. I think everything will explode."

"Very true. I'll make a mental note to steer clear of the island," I noted. My nose wrinkled at my plate. "Is this food even safe?"

"We always clean up after," Jeremy clarified. "Kitchen cleaners kill ninety-nine point nine percent of bacteria and viruses."

"Oh, wonderful! That makes me feel so much better," I said, and my friends snickered.

"Should I open another bottle of wine?" Danielle asked.

Jeremy nodded, handing his glass to his wife.

"I'll have to pass," I said. "I need to get home. Can I help clean before I leave?"

Jeremy was the first to shake his head. "We've discussed this a million times. You don't need to help clean. Ever."

"You're a guest," Danielle continued.

"Do I still count as a guest if I'm always here?" I laughed.

"Of course you do," Danielle said. "Jeremy and I like to clean together."

Jeremy wiggled his eyebrows at his wife.

"Ok, kids, enjoy yourselves," I told them as I pushed my chair in.

"Bye, Kenna," they said in unison.

I blew them a kiss before I disappeared out of sight.