Not a big deal.I love my bike, and the sun is shining.
Will I be a little late?Sure.But hey, it could be worse.I could have to call Lola for a ride.
She wouldnotbe impressed.
Don’t get me wrong—she would absolutely come get me, but then she’d make me go out with her for revenge.
Alcohol and I get along only in moderation.Lola doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
Thank goodness for bikes.
I pedal to the end of my street and take a left onto the main drag.A few years ago, the town invested in a bike lane, which changed my world.Before that, I was always nervous riding alongside cars, especially in the summer.But now I can enjoy the cicadas singing and the long grasses swaying in relative peace.
Just about all the houses on our little island paradise are built on stilts.Some folks might think that’s weird, but for us, it’s a necessity—storms can blow in fast, and the water doesn’t always stay where it’s supposed to be.Even my coffee shop sits four steps off the ground.
You have the odd business that doesn’t adhere to this, like the grocery store, the dollar store, and a handful of restaurants and bars, but for the most part, Inner Shores is up in the air.
I like to think it’s part of our charm.
That and the colors.
Here on the island, we love pastels, and Mugs coffee shop is no exception.
By the time the canary yellow siding comes into view, I’m a sweaty mess.
Not to worry.I have a spare T-shirt, extra deodorant, and dry shampoo in the back.I’ll be a new woman in no time.And bonus: there’s only one vehicle in the lot.
A giant silver truck with Pennsylvania plates.
It’s a bit early in the season for tourists, but we do get occasional travelers who want to avoid the crowds.
Old Tom flashes me a tobacco-stained smile from where he leans against the white picket fence between my coffee shop and the seafood market next door.“Morning, Sunshine,” he calls out with his hand over his brow, his voice all gravel and cigars.
I return the wave, swerving around the truck’s bumper.
The seashell wind chime that Willow made me for me last Christmas tinkles and sways in the salty breeze.A super-tall, dark-haired man waits outside the front door.He doesn’t look familiar, so I assume he’s the tourist who owns the truck.
My bike brakes let out a shrillsqueakwhen I squeeze them.
Note to self: swing by the hardware store for a can of WD-40 on your way home.
When the man hears the godawful squealing, he whips around to face me.
I can’t see his eyes from behind his sunglasses, but his impressive arms fold across an equally impressive chest.
Don’t get the wrong idea here.I’m not objectifying him.Men are people too, not thirst traps.
However, a chronically single girl like myself tends to notice things like hand veins and toned forearms and a sharp jaw that’s just scruffy enough to leave a happy little trail of beard burn on your skin.
Have the ferry gods finally delivered what I asked for?
I hop off my bike and give the kickstand a nudge.I’m about to offer a friendly greeting when the man’s brow tightens into a disapproving frown.
Looks like someone isn’t a morning person.He and Lola would get along well.
The majority of tourists fall in love with this place and end up coming back year after year.But there are a few who, for one reason or another, end up hating our quaint town and beautiful beaches.The ones who wouldn’t smile to save their own lives.The ones who get pissed off because the ferry is always late or because the beach is too sandy.(Yes, I’ve heard that exact complaint.)
I have a sinking feeling this guy is one ofthosetourists, which is a shame because he’s pretty.
