Looks like I made the right call by staying here at the house instead of one of the motels on the main strip.Sure, the only furniture is the mattress I ordered, and there’s no TV other than my laptop, but the previous owner left the appliances, and I brought the basics so I can use the kitchen and laundry room.
Best of all, it’squiet.When I’m done working in the late afternoons, I can sit out on the deck and read my Mandela book without some guy in a floppy fishing hat asking if I know where to buy bait, or even worse—where I’m from and whether this is my first time at Inner Shores.
I don’t mind chatting with people I genuinely care about, but I don’t need to bond with Terry from Idaho or Carol’s grandkids from Maryland who want to chew my ear off about made-up ghost stories.
Shit, I’m in a bad mood.Probably because I’m starving.I rip into a wrapped ham and cheese sandwich that I picked up at a rest stop, but it doesn’t even touch the sides of my stomach.
Pushing off the counter, I grab my keys.Time to see what Inner Shores has to offer for lunch.
I steermy truck down Main Street, hunting for an Indian restaurant or a Mexican eatery, but everything looks closed.What the hell?The only place serving lunch is that coffee shop I went to this morning.Hopefully, their food is better than their coffee.
I shove my hair back with my sunglasses and set off the hanging bells with my shoulder and then the doorbell as I push through the entrance.An elderly couple at one of the tables twists around and nods “hello.”
“Oh, good.You’re back,” chimes the barista from this morning.
She’s added a nametag to her apron.Chloe.
Suits her.Very…happy.
She’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, smiling at me.The small gap in her teeth snags my attention.Not sure why, since her smile is as fake as that old guy’s toupee.
No one who’s ever met me is that happy to see me walk through the door.Which is fine because I have more important shit to worry about than some stranger’s opinion.
“Back for another coffee?”she asks, propping her hands on her hips.
“Just some lunch, thanks.”I step up to the counter and eye the menu printed on a light-blue surfboard.At the top, someone’s written:HONEST, HAPPY FOOD.
Since when does food have feelings and emotions?
“Do you have any lying, depressed sandwiches?”I deadpan.
She blinks at me, then looks at the menu and chuckles.“Oh, you’re a funny one.”
Funny is probably the last word someone would use to describe me.
Scanning the surfboard, I frown at my choices.“Got anything spicy?”
“We might have some hot sauce somewhere out back; I could add it to anything you want.”
Ancient hot sauce that’s gone rancid in this heat?That’s a pass.
“I’ll just have a Reuben.”I dig out my wallet, but can’t resist adding, “Oh, wait—did I need to bring my own plate?”
Chloe gives me a wry smile and snatches the twenty-dollar bill from my fingers, her colorful bracelets jangling.“Money will do just fine.”She hands me my change, her elbow nudging the tip jar, a smirk tugging at her mouth.
I get it.She’s pretty.But in my world, people don’t get tipped for having good genes.They get tipped when they open up their coffee shop on time.
“I’ll get the sandwich to go,” I mutter, slipping the change into my wallet.
“Sure thing.”She whirls around, muttering something about sage as she dips into the kitchen.
While Chloe is getting my sandwich together, I poke around the place.
On the left wall, a side table holds a bowl of random shells with a little sign above it saying “Treasure Wanted.”Beside it, a painting of a striped lighthouse in a yellow frame hangs crooked on the wall, and a blown-glass mermaid perches on a tilted shelf.
Across the room, a rack of T-shirts is on display:
Girls just wanna have sun.
