The Real Deal

I roam my eyes along her arms. “You have nice arms. They’re distracting.”

April’s lips twitch. She’s fighting off a grin.

I touch her again, my fingers brushing along her triceps, my thumb on her biceps. She shivers the slightest bit. “I bet they’re toned from work. From painting. You use your arms for everything. They’re naturally strong.”

A whoosh of breath comes from her lips. She blinks, breathes out hard again, then leans closer to me. “I have to tell you a secret.”

“Tell me.”

Her lips are near my ear. “Your arms are distracting, too.”

Then she turns and gestures to the doorway. “Let’s go.”

“Whatever you say, little puppy.”

She wheels on me and wags a finger. “Don’t call me ‘little puppy.’”

“It’s going to be really hard for me not to call you that now.” We walk down the steps to a waiting golf cart. I load our suitcases into the back.

“The Sunnyside is only a mile away,” April explains, gesturing to the unusual mode of transport. “And my mom really likes to drive her golf cart around town when it’s not too far.”

Her mom pats the front seat, indicating I should join her. I do as she wishes. “A golf cart is better for the earth. It uses less gas. We can discuss global warming tomorrow, Theo.”

April sighs from the backseat, but she sounds amused rather than annoyed. “At last, she’s found someone who’ll talk about the things no one else will discuss in polite company.”

Pamela shrugs happily. “It’s part of my twelve-step program. Find someone to debate issues with rather than practice law.”

She turns the key in the ignition, and I ask, “So what’s the Sunnyside?”

April leans forward. “It’s what all recovering attorneys do. Take a guess.”

I look at Pamela. “You’ve become a romance novelist?”

April’s mom laughs and shakes her head as she pulls away from the station. “Do a lot of attorneys become romance writers?”

“Since attorneys are often unhappy, and romance writers seem to be happy, it seemed like you might jump from one to the other.” I scrunch my brow for a few seconds, then snap my fingers. “I bet if you were once an attorney, you’re now writing legal thrillers. Crazy jurors, dangerous attorneys, corrupt judges.”

April’s mom glances at her in the rearview mirror. “He has quite an active imagination.”

April smirks. “You have no idea.”

We roll along a quaint side street full of picturesque homes and cute bungalows. We aren’t far from the water, and the scent of the sea wafts through the air. I look away briefly, toward the sound of the shore, and the lapping of the waves in the distance. The shore reminds me of some of our greatest hits—my brother and me. There’s something about water, and the ocean, and sand. It does something to people. Opens them up. Makes them feel. Makes them want.

I snap my gaze away, and something clicks.

Golf cart. The Sunnyside. Recovering attorney. “Mrs. Hamilton, do you run a bed-and-breakfast?”

April’s mom smiles as wide as the night sky, and she nods proudly. “I do indeed.”

As we turn the corner onto a tree-lined block, the smell of salt air grows stronger, tickling my nostrils. Leaves flutter in the evening breeze, and streetlamps cast orange cones of light on the pavement. Up ahead, a wooden sign planted in the front lawn tells me we’re approaching the B and B. It’s a sprawling inn, three stories high and just as wide, perched at the end of a curving driveway. Pamela turns into the drive, and I can see a porch that wraps around the inn, with flowerpots adorning the railings, and a wooden swing swishing faintly. Even at night, the place looks both stately and full of warmth.

“All the Hamiltons will stay here,” Pamela says proudly as she stops the cart and cuts the engine.

I carry our bags up the stone path, and a big, burly man waits on the porch.

“Dad!”

April races up the steps, and her father wraps her in the very definition of a bear hug. “Hey, sweetie pie. I had to stay up to see my little girl.” He closes his eyes as he hugs her, and the look on his face is pure contentment.

April’s dad isn’t a grizzly. He’s a teddy bear.

He sports a beard that he’s likely had since before beards were trendy. He’s kept most of his brown hair on top of his head, too, and his face is lined with wrinkles and freckles, visible under the porch lights.

When he lets go of her, his smile is endless. “So good to see you.”

“You, too.”

His expression turns stern as he meets my eyes and extends a hand.

“I’m April’s father. Josh Hamilton.”

“Theo Banks. Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“You, too,” he says gruffly, then gestures for us to go inside.

April heads in first, several feet ahead. As I step onto the polished hardwood past the entryway, I overhear her father whisper, “Did you give him the third degree?”

Pamela stammers for a moment with an “Um,” before she recovers. “Of course. I kept him on his toes.”

“Good. We need to give him a hard time,” he says, leaving me wondering why her parents want me to feel unwelcome.

April swivels around. “Hey, Mom, what room are we in?” She turns to me. “Every room is named for a breakfast food.”

Pamela’s tone is that of a schoolteacher. “You can stay in the Crepe Room, April.”

“Theo, you can stay in the Pancake Room,” her dad adds quickly.

April shoots them a look that loosely translates to Are you nuts? “Isn’t every room going to be packed for the reunion?”

“Not until tomorrow,” her mother says, and Operation Hard Time has begun.

I jump in, sensing a chance to let them know I’ll play by their rules, even though I doubt April will accept them. “I’d be more than happy to sleep on the couch,” I say with a smile, since I’ll need to disarm their new attack with goodwill.

April’s father nods, as if he likes that idea. “That’s fine.”

“Let me get you some blankets, then,” April’s mom says.

“And a pillow,” Josh adds, and I smirk inside—if he wants me to have a soft landing for my head, his hard-ass routine is just a routine.

“Maybe we can give him a glass of milk and some cookies, too,” April says, staring at her parents like they’ve each sprouted two heads.

“I can try to rustle some up,” her mom offers.

I place my hands together, as in prayer. “I love cookies before bed.”

“And I love cookies anytime,” April says, frustration seeping into her tone. “But seriously, why do you want him to sleep in the living room?”

“Well,” her father begins, but can’t seem to finish the thought.

“Because…,” her mom tries.

April stares at her mom. “We’re not some old-fashioned family. Tess and Cory lived together before they were married. So did Mitch and Candace.”

“But the couch is so comfortable,” her dad says, trying once more.

“There will be people coming and going the whole time,” April says. “That makes no sense to put him on the couch.”

“You’re right,” April’s dad says, tapping his lip. “I’ll grab the old camping equipment and he can set up a tent on the lawn.”

April slashes a hand through the air. “Mom! Dad! I’m not fifteen. Theo is sharing a room with me, and that’s that.”

*

“I forgot to warn you. Sometimes aliens inhabit my parents,” April says as we walk up the stairs.

“I’ve heard that can happen after alien invasions, so no worries.”

“No, seriously. I’m sorry about that couch episode,” she says, flashing a contrite smile.

“Don’t think twice about it. I suspect your mom realized she wasn’t supposed to play so nice with me and is hoping to send me packing so you can date Merlin the Poodle. Or whoever they wanted to set you up with.”

April laughs. “If dating a poodle brought me home, they’d set me up and find a way to kick you out.”

“I’ll be on the lookout for poodle suitors, then.”

We reach a white door with an illustration of a crepe on it. When we enter the room, I see one bed.

That answers all my questions about the sleeping arrangements.





Chapter Nine

Theo