by Lillie Vale
He raises an eyebrow. “What about ‘lost causes’?”
“I’m up for the challenge. Besides, with the money coming in from the new homeowners, I’ll be able to invest into flipping the place.”
“You’re actually agreeing to do this with me,” he says, his voice low, stunned. As though in all the possible ways he imagined this would go, my agreeing wasn’t even top ten.
“One hundred percent in,” I dare to say.
Our eyes meet. Looking at him too long is like staring into the sun.
I tear my gaze away. But that’s when I notice he’s staring at my chest. Goosebumps skitter down my arms. There’s nothing that cute about what I’m wearing, since I knew I’d be out in the sun. An old loose black tee, knotted at the waist, and denim mom shorts.
“I was meaning to ask you,” he says. “Why are you holding him?”
Of course. Embarrassment washes over me. He wasn’t staring at my boobs. He was wondering why I was carrying Freddie.
“I take it you’ve never met a diva dog before,” I say with a laugh.
Milan sticks out his hand. “Hello, Freddie,” he says with a disarming amount of gravitas.
Freddie extends his paw to touch Milan’s fingers, every bit as solemn.
Mom would be appalled that I haven’t invited him in, especially on a day this hot. It’s bad manners, Rita, she chides. Let the poor boy in and offer him a drink. Let bygones be bygones.
But if I invite him in, it’s crossing the threshold into my life, too.
I take the plunge. “Would you like to come in?”
Milan seems surprised. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that. Let’s talk about the future.”
Chapter 15
The noon sun beats down mercilessly as the ferry approaches Rosalie Island. Stomach still churning from the choppy waves, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been hasty in agreeing to work with Milan—again.
After I gave him my word last week, I tried not to overthink what it would mean, what it would change between us. It would be so easy to talk myself out of it if I went down that road. It’s the same reason I still haven’t updated my mom regarding Milan, because I know she’ll be so ecstatic about our extended reunion and I don’t want to validate what she pulled.
Neil and I made up the morning after our fight. He’d swung by my house with flowers, one of those big bouquets of roses that Dad gives Mom every Valentine’s Day and wedding anniversary, without even needing to be reminded by me, Mom, or Aji. I don’t know how I feel about getting roses as an apology bouquet, but if his stumbling to my door sleepy-eyed and rumple-haired was any indication, Neil woke up at the crack of dawn to go to the florist. It was touching that, for once, he didn’t care about his appearance.
I’d also figured out a way to get us to match on MyShaadi. It took some convincing, but he came back on board, full of contrition that he hadn’t been able to keep his ma an arm’s length away from his MyShaadi account. I’d made a mistake, too, banking only on the best-case scenario rather than the most likely scenario. But I wasn’t ready to give up yet. All I had to do was change my wiseass answers. Last night I’d sent him the screenshots so he could update his, too. Now that our answers are the exact same, we have to match.
Una’s pulled me off the Little Shop schedule, I’ve made the last of my furniture deliveries and deposited the checks in my bank account, and I sweet-talked Mrs. Jarvis to drop in on my pups a few times a day when she gets bored with her true crime docudramas, the brain teaser workbooks Aji recently got her hooked on, and gardening.
“Yes,” she said with a peremptory sniff as she looked at Harrie. “I’ve seen how he appreciates flowers.”
I don’t take it to heart. She may act grumpy, but she always has head rubs and treats to dole out, spoiling the boys rotten.
I had plenty of time the last few days to back out of working with Milan, and now, swaying on the gangway as the ferry gently bobs beneath me, I sort of wish I had.
“You’re still looking a little green there, Rita,” says Milan, looking over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “I told you not to be on your phone if the ferry was making you sick.”
“If I’m green, it’s because of overexposure to you,” I grouse, forcing my feet to keep moving as we get off the steel gangway, which squeaks in protest beneath us.
He laughs like he doesn’t buy it for a second.
The gangway wobbles as people crowd on behind me. A metallic screech splits the air.
My stomach turns.
I press forward, hurrying to get on solid ground.
Milan gets there first. “Need a hand?” He offers me his, palm up.
Voluntarily touching him was categorically not going to happen.
“No, thank you.” I hop off, stomach settling almost at once.
Bluebill Cottage is close enough to walk, but Milan takes one look at the perspiration beaded on my forehead and the red flush on my cheeks and decides to call a taxi.
Which would be a good plan, except we get stuck at a stop sign for at least five minutes. I lean slightly to the left to peer through the front windshield. My shoulder brushes against Milan’s.
I feel his eyes on me, but I pretend it didn’t happen. “What’s going on?” I ask.
The driver, a middle-aged man with graying red whiskers, half turns to say, “Horse crossing. Hope you’re not in a rush. I don’t honk at ’em.” He glares at me in the rearview mirror as if to make sure we’re not going to complain about the fact the meter’s still running.
“It’s fine. I’m enjoying the scenery,” says Milan, a smile tugging at his lips.
I catch his eye.
I would, actually, like to get out of this hot taxi where the cheap leather is sticking wetly to the backs of my thighs and the broken air conditioner is blasting warm air right at my face. But sure, let’s be polite.
He shifts closer to me as he leans forward to look out the windshield. I can feel his heat through his short-sleeved white linen shirt. “You’ve got to see this,” he breathes as his bare knee bumps against mine.
There’s something oddly captivating about his tan knee, knobby and sprinkled with light brown hair beneath his aquamarine Bermuda shorts. Are men’s knees usually this attractive?
I rip my gaze away, hoping any blush is mistaken for heatstroke. I can’t hold back my gasp. Stocky, short-legged Banker horses, including soft, fuzzy foals sticking close to their mothers’ sides, are crossing the road in front of us. Their beautiful coats are a rich sable and almost all of them have white star markings on their foreheads.
They’re indifferent to our presence, except for one inquisitive yearling who starts to take a step in our direction before another horse gives a sharp, warning whinny. The yearling pauses, as if trying to determine if exploring is worth another scold, before hightailing it back to the herd.
“I forgot about them,” I whisper. “I remember when we were here before, I wanted to see one so badly but we never did.”
“You thought you saw one that last night on the porch before we went home,” says Milan. “And what did it turn out to be?” He’s trying not to laugh—and failing.
He’s really going to make me say it?
“A large dog,” I grumble.
Even our driver laughs. “Tourists love them, but these horses destroy a lot of other local wildlife. Most of ’em are adopted out from the Outer Banks because of overpopulation and inbreeding, which makes them our pests now.”
With that, the last horse makes its way to the other side, and the car lurches forward.
I fall against the headrest, tucking my arms close against my sides and craning my neck back until the herd disappears around the bend.
My mail app pings.
Milan glances over, but when I don’t acknowledge him—despite watching him out of the corner of my eye—he folds his arm
s and stares out his window.
I waver. He’s been trying to draw me into conversation ever since he picked me up this morning, but other than a few short sentences on the forty-minute ferry ride over from New Bern, I haven’t really been a stellar conversationalist. I tighten my fingers around my iPhone. I shouldn’t feel guilty about this, like I’m letting him down, when all I did was agree to a business relationship.
I open my mail, expecting it to be my online bank telling me the funds from a deposited check are now available.
Sender: MyShaadi.com
Subject: Rita, you have a new match waiting for you!
Preview: Don’t let your pyaar get away, your jaan is closer than you think! Log in to your account to chat with . . .
I roll my eyes at the cheese of their message. Don’t let love get away? Who writes this stuff?
This came way faster than I expected, but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
I can’t stop the goofy smile from taking over my entire face.
“What are you reading?” Milan asks.
I startle. He’s studying me thoughtfully, drumming his phone against his thigh.
“Nothing, just some good news.” I carefully angle myself away from him. There’s no way he can make out anything on my screen, especially with the sun streaming in, but better safe than sorry.
He waits for me to expound. When I don’t, he goes back to whatever he’s doing with his phone. Probably answering emails and delegating paperwork on our recent sale.
I mean, his sale. I’ve seriously got to stop thinking of us as a team.
Milan out of my mind, I log in, holding my breath.
Seeing Neil’s name and picture on my dashboard is going to be so vindicating.
The Internet is slow, so it takes ages for the page to populate, thanks to the enormous graphics the site splashes all over the place.
Come on, hurry up.
I stare at the screen until my eyes water.
“We’re almost there,” says Milan.
My shoulders are tight, rigid. I force myself to relax, but I can’t. The driver takes a turn too fast and my body moves with it, bumping against the door. We must have moved just out of reach of a dead zone, because suddenly, the screen floods with color as LTE data returns.
The hope I clutched in my hand plummets toward my stomach like a rock in freefall.
No.
No no no no no.
Milan’s face is on my screen.
His frozen smile, which was just so soft when we looked at the horses, taunts me. You thought you’d seen the last of me, huh? it seems to say, smug and victorious. You thought.
There’s no way this is right.
I squint at him while trying to make it seem like I’m not squinting at him. He’s still busy with his phone, not typing anything, and not doing anything else, either.
What if he got the same email I did?
What if he’s logged in to MyShaadi right now, staring at my photo?
I’m back on the ferry again, tossed side to side, queasy as fuck.
No, my rational mind pipes up. You know Milan. If he’d matched with you for the second time, there’s no way he would keep quiet about it. He’d crow. You know he would. He’d stick his phone under your nose like an aha! moment and give you that smoldering eye thing he does.
“I see it,” says Milan.
I jerk. His voice sounds perilously close.
A second later, the taxi comes to an abrupt halt.
My phone slips, falls out of my hands, and skids under the seat in front of me.
“Fuck.” I thrust my leg forward to try and hook it back, but I can’t reach. “Um, excuse me, sir, could you pull up a little? My phone’s gone under your seat.”
The driver grunts and hits a button to stop the meter. “All right.”
While Milan hands over some bills, I frantically toe at the carpet, coming up with nothing. Frustrated tears spring to my eyes. This can’t be happening.
“Rita.” Milan tucks his wallet away. Hands now free, he reaches for my right hand. My fingers, dug into the hot seat, release in shock when he takes my hand in his. I swear I can feel the phantom memory of his distracting thumb circles.
“Rita, stop,” he says gently. “You probably kicked it farther away from you. Sir, would you mind looking under your seat?”
Another grunt from the front. Then, “Got it.”
Please please please let the screen have gone black.
The man looks at me in the rearview mirror. I can see my red face staring back.
“Huh,” says the driver. “Give this to your pretty girlfriend.”
I’m too panicked to bristle. Neither of us dispute that I’m his girlfriend.
The phone is passed between the gap in the front seats.
The screen is lit up bright with MyShaadi’s colors.
Milan hands it back to me, eyes never leaving my face, not once. He doesn’t see the screen, or notice the keenly embarrassing fact that his face is on it.
I take the phone with my free hand. In a horrible twist of fate, the screen darkens the second it’s in my palm. I pull my other hand free, but my fingertips skim along the length of Milan’s, leaving trails of shooting stars rocketing up my arm.
If he’s startled, too, I don’t stick around to see it, launching myself out of the taxi before I can see the look on his face—and, more importantly, before he can catch mine.
Once outside, without the proximity to Milan, I can breathe without a rubber band around my chest. My eyes squeeze shut against the bright rays of the sun.
Something hard taps my shoulder. I almost fly out of my skin.
“You forgot your sunglasses on the seat,” says Milan.
“Thanks,” I mumble, slipping them on.
The taxi takes off as we start making our way toward the house.
There’s a wooden driftwood sign, rough at the edges like it was ripped straight from the side of a boat, sticking out of the sand. BLUEBILL COTTAGE is written in faded baby blue cursive, the first and last letters of each word made fancy with a swash.
We tramp our way up the slight incline to the front door. I can see why Milan fell so hard for its coastal charm. Cozy bi-level porches on all sides show off the scenery to the fullest, lined with potted fruit trees and tinkling wind chimes. I can’t see it from here, but I remember the veranda in back has a narrow boardwalk leading to the sea.
“Obviously needs some new paint,” I say, flicking a peeling strip of white railing.
“Saving it until the end since it’s just a superficial fix,” says Milan, unlocking the door. “The inside was where most of the money went. Do you remember that awful seventies wallpaper and the dirty wall sconces with the dead flies?” He grins when I make a face. “I gutted most everything, put in new appliances, wiring, and floorboards, and then I— Well, you’ll see.”
He holds the door open.
Once inside, it’s clear how much work has already gone into restoring Bluebill to its former glory. The hardwood floors are stained and sealed the same glossy walnut as the steps of the cantilevered staircase leading to the second floor. The foyer is open above us, two stories tall, with a Jacobean pendant light dangling from the ceiling.
Milan closes the door behind us. The air-conditioning isn’t on, so it’s a little stuffy. But we’re close enough to the water for a breeze to pass through from somewhere.
The open floor plan continues through the first floor. The living room has dramatically vaulted ceilings and sunny windows, plus a gorgeous gas fireplace surrounded by a white chimney breast that could use some color.
The oversize kitchen is ridiculously spacious, with a blue soapstone cooking island, high-end stainless steel appliances, and a ten-foot-long breakfast bar. There’s a formal all-glass dining room tucked toward
the back, overlooking the beach and leading out to a covered porch for informal dining.
Everything is high quality, but plain. Unfurnished. But the bones are there.
He bites his lip. “First impression?”
He’s let me explore in silence, but there’s a shiny, expectant look in his eyes, like he’s awaiting something important. This time, the shoe’s on the other foot.
“It’s gorgeous,” I tell him honestly.
Relief breaks across his face. “No regrets then?”
“No regrets. You’ve done a fantastic job.”
He has. Gone are the musty settees and threadbare rugs that I remember always smelled wet. Gone are the mismatched yard-sale furniture and chipped ceramic shepherdesses in the dining room hutch.
The upstairs is just as improved, I discover, as I wander from room to room. The bedroom windows are bare of the heavy drapes that used to hang there, and the floral wallpaper, a sickly pink, has been replaced with a coat of white paint so fresh that it still hangs in the air.
“Check out the view,” Milan urges, nodding to the balcony.
I precede him outside. Salt air fills my lungs and I breathe it in, deep as it can go. The water below is calm, a confetti of sunlight playing across the glassy surface. While they’re slightly too far away to borrow a cup of sugar from, there are houses overlooking the sea on either side of us. With cars restricted to residents, there are no sounds of traffic to compete with the tranquility here. Rosalie is still as untouched as I remember her.
Our arms brush as he comes to stand closer. “Before we got on the ferry, you got kind of quiet. Were you thinking about your parents’ old house in New Bern?”
“You noticed that?”
“I notice everything about you, Rita,” he says, low and gravelly.
I swallow. “I can’t believe you remember. I don’t think I mentioned it more than a couple of times.” When he opens his mouth, I sigh and say, “Please don’t say something corny like ‘I remember everything about you.’ You can’t reuse the same line back to back.”