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He takes a breath, and for a second I think he’s going to lie. But instead, he says, “I was. But I don’t even know why.” He gives a no idea shrug.
My heart races with worry. This is why relationships are scary. When you start to care, you can start to hurt each other. If he sees the real me, the less than flirty, less than fun, less than bright and bubbly me, will he still like me? But it’s too late for that question. I’m already barreling down the real path. “I’m sorry. I sort of blurted it out without thinking.”
“Don’t be,” he says, exonerating me. “It was short-lived.”
I grab the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He drops a kiss to my nose. “We’re all good. I promise.”
I feel calmer. “Was that like a mini fight?”
His green eyes flicker with dirty thoughts. “No, but we can have make-up sex anyway if you want.”
“You know I do,” I say, and I’m glad we’re good, though I don’t understand why it bothered him.
But this time, I have to let it go for real. I’m his temporary wife, not his real wife. I don’t need to push him.
The next morning, as I’m sliding my fork through the delicious pancakes Gage made, Eliza clears her throat. “Attention! Today is the monthly beach cleanup with the Oceans Are Cool crew. Are you in or are you in?”
Over a cup of black coffee, Gage gives a decisive nod, then lifts a hand. “In.”
Amanda yawns as she shuffles past me, sniffing the pancakes. “What’s that?”
“Pancakes,” Eliza says matter-of-factly.
“No, I mean the beach thing.”
“It’s a volunteer thing I do. Because plastic sucks, and it’s everywhere, and it hurts the ocean and animals,” Eliza says.
Amanda perks up. “Ooh, I hate plastic too. I’m there.”
That leaves me and it’s a no-brainer. “Count me in.”
Thirty minutes later, we pile into my little car and head to the ocean, passing one of Sebastian’s shops along the way. I spot the half off sign that Gage told me about the other night. “That guy,” I mutter.
“He’s my mortal enemy,” Amanda seethes from the back seat.
I peer into the rearview mirror. “Is that so?”
“His chocolate isn’t even that good. I’ve tried it,” she says.
“It’s not as good as Elodie’s that’s for sure,” Gage seconds and I love their support, from their mouths and their stomachs.
“Nothing is, except for cookies,” Eliza says, and we shift to cookie talk and that’s far better than Sebastian chatter.
Early that afternoon, the Pacific is crashing gently against the shore and we’ve collected eighty-eight bottles, twenty-two cans, a couple dozen plastic forks, an empty can of chickpeas, an unopened can of chickpeas, a set of rusty fur-lined handcuffs, and a metric ton of takeout containers.
And a used condom.
I found that one next to a rock, gingerly plucking it with my gloves and trying not to gag as I tossed it in the trash bag. When we’re done, Eliza dusts one covered hand over the other then tugs off her racoon gloves. “Good job, team.”
She’s such a cute kind of bossy. Like father, like daughter, I suppose.
“We’re basically a turtle’s best friend now,” Amanda says, then her stomach growls loudly.
I crack up. So does Gage.
Amanda clutches her belly as a sea breeze whips through her blonde hair, making wisps flutter near her face. “I guess beach cleanups make me hungry.”
