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“What’s your favorite color, so I can make sure to pack accordingly? Are you more of a casual guy or should I dress up?”
“Sadie?” German says. “Respectfully, shut up and get out of town.”
TWO
Sadie
Honestly,it’s probably good I’m making the trip to Oakley now. This is what I tell myself on my flight and then on the Uber ride to the island. Over and over, I think this like a mantra or a prayer, as if repeating it will keep me from the mild panic leftover from German’s call. Or the bone-deep sadness that almost swallows me whenever I think about Gran.
It sort of works.
Eloise and Merritt will be stoked that I’m here, even if my reasonisn’tthe opening of the bed and breakfast. I’m still debating what I want to tell them about my change of heart, but that’s a problem for Later Sadie. And if I don’t mention it, they’ll assume I’m here just to support them.
Despite my onslaught of emotions regarding Gran’s beach house, I can’t wait to see the finished product. I’ve only been back once since Merritt and Hunter’s wedding, but Eloise has spent months blowing up my phone with pictures of all the work.
Meanwhile, I have been happilynot involved.
Not that either sister has needed my help.
Marriage has been good for Eloise. She seems more grounded, focused. Plus, she just finished her master’s degree, even if opening the bed and breakfast is keeping her from any actual academic literary stuff. As for Merritt, she has a new business to run and a new stepdaughter. They both have a lot on their plate, but they’re doing it. Juggling everything. And they’re doing it without me.
It’s a little weird, honestly. Having been the constant buffer as the middle child, I’m not used to Eloise and Merritt being so close. But finishing the bed and breakfast, that’s something they’ve done together.
Not that I’m jealous, exactly. It’s just one more change.
As I expected—or maybe as I feared—standing on the front porch of Gran’s fully renovated and honestlystunningbeach house hits me right in the feels, with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.
I drop my bags and simply stand there, breathing as I will my emotions to settle back down where they belong. But they don’t want to recede. Instead, they’re clambering up my throat, making my vision blur as I sway on my feet.
“Dramatic much?” I mutter to myself, but the normal smart-mouthed edge to my voice is muted. The emotional weight of this is more than I expected, even though I knew it would be a lot. More than I want to admit, definitely more than I want anyone to see. Especially my sisters.
Even though I like to pretend I don’t have roots anywhere, my roots on this island are deep. Seeing this house—Gran’shouse—like this, all shiny and polished and perfect, just the way she would have wanted?—
“The place looks great, doesn’t it?”
I spin around at the deep voice rumbling behind me. And then promptly trip over my luggage, tumbling forward into theperfectly pressed, pale purple button-down stretched across the stupidly firm chest of Benedict King.
Because of course I do.
The very last person in the world I would ever want to see me emotional—or clumsy—is the man I’m currently pressed against like a fitted shirt. The only upside is that for the few seconds my face is hidden from view, I have time to school my features and steady my breathing. My wildly beating heart, though, I can’t even begin to steady that.
Ben’s arms—bulging with muscles I’d like to ignore—wrap around me, tightening against my back. I swear, I can feel his surprise that I'm not shoving him away. If I didn’t need to compose myself, I definitely would. When I’m steady on my feet again and sure any trace of my sorrow is tucked away, I wiggle out of his embrace.
Or attempt to.
Ben loosens his grip but doesn’t let me go, instead sliding his hands to my elbows, creating a respectable distance between us while still keeping me close. Close enough to smell his masculine scent, which has a faint note of sugary sweetness. Like he’s managed to manufacture a signature cologne that makes him smell like a sexy cupcake.
What am I thinking? He’s a billionaire. He probablydidmake a signature scent.
I make the mistake of meeting his gaze. His blue eyes, fringed with thick lashes only a little darker than his dirty blond hair, search mine. A smile plays around his unfairly full lips, but Benedict King willnotsmile at me. He’ll smirk. And then he’ll say something flirty and ridiculous. I’ve encountered the man enough times to know his modus operandi. Usually, I’m composed enough to give it right back to him.
Clearly, today is not that day.
“You cut your hair,” he says, and I abhor the little thrill I get knowing he noticed.
“How observant, Mr. King.”
Before, I’ve always made jokes about his name, calling him Benedict Arnold or Eggs Benedict or Benedict Cumberbatch. Calling him Mr. King seems a little bland by comparison, but I’m running out of Benedicts.
