Page 38 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

“Oh my God.” She freezes, staring down at the streak of Island Getaway green on her overalls like it’s a zombie from her Blood and Guts Festival. “What the hell?”

“You said something about a painting party.”

“And you thought ruining my clothes would make my forced labor here more fun?”

I scrunch my face into an exaggerated pensive pose. “I mean, I’m definitely having more fun.”

Her expression turns The Exorcist scary. “You are so dead.”

She moves quickly, eyes on my stomach, intent on exacting retribution, but the move is predictable. I jump back in the nick of time, saving my favorite hiking T-shirt—the slogan across the front says Take a Hike—but Maggie doesn’t give up. She lunges forward, a sharp move with her arm flung out and roller reaching. She rolls paint right over my crotch.

I gesture to my lower half. “I thought you said there was no flirting.”

“The last thing this is, Lennon Bower, is flirting.”

I point to my groin, like I’m a game show host showing off a prize. “You painted my dick.”

She makes a weird half-choked, half-snorting sound.

Taking advantage of her distracted amusement, I roll a paint streak down her leg. She fumes and hits my T-shirt, right over the slogan I love.

Woman has no sense of self-preservation.

I pretend I’m the Hulk, trying to tear off my shirt with an incensed growl. All I manage to do is to rip the neck. Maggie barks out a laugh, allowing me to swoop in and retaliate with a shot across her breasts.

Her mouth gapes open. “I seriously might have to murder you.”

“But that’s the tit part of our ‘tit for tat.’”

She mouths what I believe is Die motherfucker.

Things devolve quickly after that. She grabs the paintbrush, dunks it in her can, and chases me around until I have paint dripping down the back of my shirt. Cracking up, I give up on tools and use my hands, finger-paint style, turning her hair Island Getaway green. My beard gets drenched. Paint zigzags across our arms and legs. We’re growling and groaning and grinning like mad, getting tangled up in each other until we’re a heap on the floor, lying side by side and breathing hard. Then Maggie laughs. An uncontrollable belly laugh—bright, light, and carefree, rainbows shooting from her eyes. I clutch my stomach, losing it too.

When my laughter subsides, I starfish beside her. “Best ab workout I’ve had in ages.”

“I can’t believe we just did that.” She lifts up on her elbows and surveys the wreckage. Her attention pauses on the wall facing the forest. “Have you thought of doing an accent wall? Something fun where the kids can participate?”

“I have not.” But I can almost see the wheels spinning in her clever head.

“You could do a map of the area on the wall,” she says, talking quickly as though keeping up with her thoughts. “Use a projector and trace the image so it’s accurate. Then you can let the program kids trace hiking or biking routes they’ve done and sign their names. Make them feel like they’re part of this space.”

“Maggie Edelstein, that is a fantastic idea.” The type of fun activity that kids might boast about to their friends. Those friends might want to join Littlewing themselves, get in on the wall-writing action. “I totally get why they hired you to run town events. You’re a natural at this.”

“When I’m not scaring children with running zombies, maybe.” She slumps back to the floor. “I’m dreading facing my boss tomorrow. Shannon does not take mistakes in stride.”

“All you can do is apologize. Tell her how well the rest of the event went. Delilah and Naomi weren’t the only ones buying from vendors. I scrolled through social media last night. People had a great time, all because of your planning.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, but I’m not sure she’ll agree.” She knocks her toe into mine. “At least your career is soaring—buying this property, growing the business the way you are. How’d you end up starting it?”

“I can thank Coldplay and Callahan.”

“Because Callahan is secretly pals with Chris Martin, and they took you on a crazy hike in the Himalayas?”

“As cool as that sounds, it was because I played ‘Fix You’ on repeat while I wallowed in my room for days, refusing to talk.”

Her attention lingers on my profile. “At the start of witness protection?”

I nod. “It was after six or so months. Callahan invaded my miserable fortress, shoved a newspaper in my hand, and told me to get a job. He’d circled an ad for camp counselors needed.”