Chapter 20

Beau doesn’t make me wait long. His lips meet mine, soft, warm, and ready. I melt into him, letting out a sigh as my defenses slip away with the tide. His hand cradles the back of my head as his mouth explores mine like he’s been waiting for this, imagining it for days, and knows exactly what to do.

I let him take the reins because, beyond that quick flash of image at the Belacourt, I haven’t allowed myself to visualize kissing Beau. This is new and forbidden territory for me. His lips are across enemy lines, and the way he uses them makes me wonder if I’ve been fighting on the wrong side this whole time.

His taking control, his kissing me so intently after so many days of watching him do nothing but smile and tease…even if I could reach the ground, my legs would be useless. Instead, I hold on to him all the more tightly, letting go of every thought but how to keep up with him.

A pocket of colder water sweeps past us. I shiver, and Beau pulls away, then wraps me in his arms and brings me against him, resting his chin on my head.

“So,” I say, my cheek against his wet shirt. “ This is the way to conduct a proper citizen’s arrest.”

A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. “More or less. But mostly a whole lot less.”

I smile, my eyes settling on the dark water slowly moving past us. The current is much less strong in the canal, but it’s there, and even Beau’s presence can’t keep away the intrusive thoughts filling in the blanks the impenetrably dark surface offers.

“Can we go back?” I pull back to look at him instead of the water.

“I haven’t even taken your statement yet,” he says with a sexy curve to his lips.

“Oh, but you have,” I reply.

He brushes water from my cheek, smiling. “And what about my statement?”

“You’re the cop. You don’t get a statement.”

“I’m also the accused criminal. And the victim.”

“Alleged victim.”

He reaches a finger to the lock of wet hair hanging at my cheek, guiding it past my crown and back behind my ear. It sends chills down my spine. “Being all three of those things, you can probably imagine how much I have to say.” His eyes grow dark and intent again, and I fiddle with the wet collar of his shirt.

“My imagination isn’t great.” Blatant lie. I haven’t stopped imagining kissing him since our lips parted.

“I can help with that,” he says, coming in for more.

I don’t make any attempt to stop him. If this is his statement, I’ll listen indefinitely. But the more he kisses me, the more I have to say in response. I take charge, and he lets me, but the grip of his hands on my waist sends the message loud and clear that he wants me right where I am.

With his lips on mine, I don’t think about sea creatures anymore. Every neuron in my brain is firing Beau.

A shout from somewhere back by Grams’s house has us pulling apart again. Another one follows, and I’m almost certain it’s the party crew vacationing next door.

“Your friends are calling,” I say.

Beau laughs. “Come on. Let’s go.” He grabs my hand under the water, and it sends my heart racing in a completely different way than our kisses did.

We have to let go just seconds later to swim back to the dock. We use the ladder to climb up, and I brace myself for the chill I’m used to feeling when I get out of the water. It never comes. It’s that warm here, and I kind of love it. Or maybe my body temperature is still coming down from those kisses.

I can’t believe I let Beau kiss me. Or that I kissed him.

I watch him squeeze the excess water out of the bottom of his shirt, which is completely plastered to his body, leaving very little to the imagination. Just like that kiss.

I also can’t believe half an hour ago, I was trying to place him under arrest. My gaze goes to the birdfeeder—that ugly thing that’s represented the animosity between our families for a couple decades now.

I swallow, my stomach suddenly uneasy as my thoughts turn to Grams. I don’t even want to know what she would think if she found out what just happened in that canal. She might legitimately have a heart attack.

She can’t find out. She won’t. There’s no point at all breaking her heart over nothing, right?

Because, if I’m being honest with myself, that’s what this is. Nothing. I’m leaving in two days. Beau knows that. I know that. We both knew that going into this tonight. We just got carried away in some vortex for star-crossed lovers.

Even if I wasn’t leaving, this—I stare at Beau as he grabs a towel from the seat of his boat—can’t happen. Beau Palmer and Gemma Sawyer can’t happen. It’s 21 st -century Romeo and Juliet, but my Romeo wouldn’t drink poison to join me in death. He’d shrug it all off and be smiling and laughing within ten minutes.

He hands the towel to me with just such a smile—the kind that’s wreaked absolute havoc in my life since I got here.

“Thanks,” I say as he grabs a second towel and starts drying off his hair .

The guests next door migrate inside, and the volume of noise goes down enough for me to hear my phone ringing where I left it in the bushes.

I wrap the towel around my shoulders and hurry over. It’s a video call from Mia. My eyes widen a bit as I think what would happen if I answered it. Even if she couldn’t see Beau in the background, she’d see it all over my dripping face: I KISSED BEAU PALMER. TWICE. AND I WANT TO DO IT A MILLION MORE TIMES.

I silence it but hold it up. “I should answer.”

He looks at me for a second before nodding. “’Course.”

“I’ll see you…later,” I say, already backing up toward the sliding doors.

His eyes are on me, a hint of confusion in them. “See you later…Gemma Girl.”

With a last look at him, I pull the door open and slip inside. Once I’ve turned the corner into the living room, I slump down on a chair and stare at the wall for an undetermined amount of time, Beau’s wet towel wrapped around me.

I wake up the next morning to a text from Eugene letting me know we’ve got a showing with an interested investor for twelve o’clock if the time is convenient for me. I hurry to respond affirmatively, then let my head fall back on my pillow and breathe out a huge sigh of relief.

I’ve been starting to worry that leaving tomorrow will mean leaving everything in Eugene’s hands. I have nothing against the man. He’s just not quite the motivated agent I’d prefer to run the show.

My mind veers away from Eugene, drawn like a magnet to last night’s happenings with Beau. Is it normal to be able to feel the exact spot where his hands were, even twelve hours later?

I swing the covers off my legs and climb out of bed, then walk over to the window to look over the backyard and the canal. I need visual proof that I didn’t dream it all up.

I look for my sandals on the dock, where I kicked them off before jumping in the water, but they’re not there. My gaze flies around the yard until it lands on them, neatly placed side-by-side on the deck by the door.

Did I just Notorious B.I.G. a citizen’s arrest, a chase, and a kiss with Beau Palmer? Was it all a dream?

I feel like I’m losing my mind. My eyes dart to where I put the birdfeeder for Beau to steal back. It’s not there, but there’s a little hole in the grass—the first evidence I didn’t imagine it all. The actual feeder isn’t far away either. It’s in the Palmers’ yard, a couple of sparrows going to town on whatever’s left in the feeder well.

A glance at the floor at the end of the bed reveals the red towel Beau gave me to dry off last night.

I’m not crazy.

Beau did say those knee-weakening things to me. He did kiss me with the kiss—no, kisses—to make every other one I’ve experienced look like child’s play.

But it doesn’t matter. I’m still leaving tomorrow, and he’ll be completely fine when I do.

“Get it together, Gemma Girl.”

I grimace. Apparently, I’ve accepted his nickname for me enough to use it on myself.

I turn my music on full blast and work to tidy up the home in preparation for the noon showing. I desperately need this buyer to come through, because last night made it abundantly clear that Sunset Harbor is doing a number on my mental state. I need to get back to my real life. To my job. To LA.

Cat’s cleaning makes it easy enough for me to get things to a satisfactory point in that department. The rest of it is just putting things away that have migrated around the house over the past couple of days. There are still two boxes in the attic that need going through. I’m not sure why I haven’t just bitten the bullet and done them. I guess, deep, deep down inside, there must be a bit of reluctance. Once those boxes are sorted, it’s all done. Which is what I want. Right?

It’s just after noon when Eugene opens the door and lets the buyer and his agent in. I come out of the kitchen into the hallway, and Eugene stops mid-sentence at the sight of me.

“Gemma,” he says in surprise—not totally welcome surprise, at that. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I wanted to meet Mr. Wallace.” I realize it’s not standard procedure for the seller to be home during a showing, but I don’t want Eugene to mess this up. Besides, I’m not the seller, technically. Grams is.

I shake hands with Mr. Wallace, a man in his mid-fifties wearing a button-up shirt and pressed khaki slacks. He’s got quiet money written all over him.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says. “I actually own the property next door.”

“Oh.” I blink.

He smiles at my reaction. “I’ve been hoping for a crack at one of the other places on this street, but sales in Sunset Harbor are few and far between. I could hardly believe my luck when I got the listing email for your place. John got right on it to schedule a showing. He’s my agent and business partner—helps me flip homes and turn them into well-oiled rentals.”

I shake hands with John, the buyer’s agent, who looks like he can’t be much older than I am.

Mr. Wallace looks around, his eyes running over the doors, walls, and floors. “Perfect,” he mutters.

I smile, gratified to know the house is showing well .

“If we knock down this wall,” Mr. Wallace remarks to John, “it would be ideal for what we discussed, don’t you think?”

“Oh, definitely.”

I take in a slow breath through my nose. It’s totally normal for a buyer to talk about what changes they’d make to a house. This isn’t “Grams’s house” to him. It’s a business opportunity, so it’s to be expected that he thinks of it that way. This is why they don’t have sellers at showings. It’s a battle between nostalgia and visions of the future. And guess who loses?

Not the future.

By the time we’ve reached the living room, Mr. Wallace has mentally knocked down what seems like every wall in the place, put up a few more, and completely gutted the kitchen.

“I wanted to mention,” I say when there’s a lull in the conversation, “that we’re also open to including the furnishings you see as part of the contract.”

Mr. Wallace smiles slightly at his agent. “That’s a very kind offer, Miss Sawyer. Thank you for letting us know.”

I nod, but there’s no way they’re interested in keeping any of it. I saw enough of the house next door to get an idea of what they want this place to look like.

We make our way onto the deck. I’m so proud of the way it looks after the work that’s been put into it. Before I can mention that this is my favorite part of the property, John starts talking.

“We’d build a new dock, of course,” he says as Mr. Wallace nods like that’s a given.

I glance at Eugene, clenching my teeth. He grimaces in response, then clears his throat.

“In fact,” he says, “the current dock is owned jointly with the neighboring home. I only point that out so you’re aware you’d need to communicate any changes to them for approval.”

“Well,” I say, wishing he would let me do the talking before he scares them off, “we’re not sure it’s owned jointly. My grandma—the owner of this house—is certain it falls on our side of the property line. She’s lived here for over fifty years, and she’s got a great memory.”

“Ah.” Mr. Wallace’s eyes run along the fence and to the dock, and he frowns. “Where does the property line run?”

I laugh nervously. “Great question! I can work on finding that out for sure and send you the answer, but the fence gives a good idea of it.”

“That would be great,” he replies. “Our hope is to really lean into the benefits the canal brings these two properties. We plan to equip them with a couple of boats and jet skis and such, which obviously requires sufficient dock space.”

“Absolutely,” I say. “I’ll get on that and let you know as soon as I’ve got a firm answer.”

“Excellent.”

My phone vibrates, and I glance at it while Eugene and the others discuss property taxes. It’s a work email. Not from my boss, though. It’s from one of my smaller clients.

Just wanted to reach out and let you know what a pleasure it’s been working with you.

I reread it. I mean, it’s sweet. But it’s random. And slightly foreboding? Maybe they’re feeling extra grateful for me after having to work with Donna while she’s covered for me during my vacation? It sounds almost like a goodbye, though. I’ll kill Donna if she ruined things.

“Gemma?”

I bring my head up quickly and find Eugene and Mr. Wallace looking at me, obviously waiting for a response.

I turn off my phone screen. “Sorry. Work email. What was the question?”

We go over utility costs, then head upstairs to see the bedrooms and the attic. There are a few things Mr. Wallace and his agent aren’t wild about, but they seem to have a solution for everything. Usually it entails ripping apart pieces of my childhood .

It’s totally fine.

I breathe a sigh of relief once they’ve left, though. It’ll be nice once the sale is over and I don’t have to think about it anymore.

I glance at the time. It’s one o’clock, which means it’s time to check in for my flight tomorrow. I also need to pack up and visit Grams. It’s weird how quickly two weeks have passed by. Unfortunately, the part that felt the longest was the days I didn’t see Beau. I’ll never admit that to my family, though.

I can’t help glancing through the window to see whether Beau’s golf cart is in the driveway. It’s not, which means, I assume, that he’s out working. He didn’t text me about coming along. Maybe he thinks we have enough material already. Or maybe he realizes how busy today will be as I get ready to leave.

I head to Seaside Oasis and spend as much time as I can with Grams, trying to shove away the thoughts of Beau that weasel their way into my head again and again.

I ask Grams where I might find documents about the property boundary, which sets her off on a fifteen-minute tirade that provides no answer on the subject. I don’t bother reiterating my question because, at this point, I know the contents of Grams’s house just as well as she does.

When I head home to look for documents and pack, it’s almost six thirty. My search through the boxes of old folders and papers turns up nothing. That’s the problem with living in a house you bought over half a century ago: there’s no guarantee such documents even exist. I have no idea what sort of measures were in place back then when it came to property lines. Eugene probably knows.

Packing takes me a good hour, and the whole time, my gaze keeps darting to Beau’s towel, hanging in the bathroom and sticking out like a sore thumb with its bright red color.

I take a peek through the window and note his golf cart in the driveway for the first time today. For a part-time cop, he sure works a lot. I need to have a conversation with him before I leave—not just about…what happened, but about the footage I’ve gathered for him. And this towel needs returning.

I’m not just putting it off because I don’t know what to say. I’m not even sure how I feel . And then, there’s the fact that I don’t know what he’s thinking. What exactly was last night? And what should I take from the fact that I haven’t heard from him at all today?

Whatever. Once again, it doesn’t matter. I’m leaving. Which is all I really need to say, and it’s not news, either. It’s possible last night was a continuation rather than a deviation from the Palmer/Sawyer rivalry. Maybe Beau kissing me was a twisted way of beating me, and if I try to talk to him about it, he’ll just humiliate me by acting like I’m crazy for thinking anything of it.

It doesn’t seem like something he would do, but I work in PR, so I know better than most that things aren’t always as they seem.

I look at myself in the mirror, fix up my hair a bit, then fold up the towel to take with me to Beau’s.