Page 87 of Playing It Forward

Sammy isn’t a tourist attraction.

The Sammy the Seal app says differently.

I wish the app was never invented. But Mayor Lana always gets her way.

Lana will literally do anything to attract tourists. First there was the Live Like a Smuggler weekend. Guests didn’t realize living like a smuggler meant spending six hours hauling crates and cleaning boats. Reviews were not good.

And then there was the Moonshine Pancake Breakfast. Tourists started drinking at 8 a.m. No one considered how strong the moonshine on Smuggler’s Hideaway is. By noon there was a conga line through town and someone tried to marry a mailbox.

There’s a knock on the door.

Sorry. I need to go. Someone’s here.

I wait for him to respond, but when there’s another knock on the door, I give up. I hate making people wait. I throw my phone on the table as I walk to the door.

“You’re here,” I say as I open the door.

Nolan elbows his way inside. My eyes widen at the amount of grocery bags in his arms.

“What’s going on?”

He makes his way to the kitchen and sets the bags down. “I was at the grocery store getting supplies when I messaged you.”

I peer into a bag. “There’s enough fresh fruit in here for an entire football team.”

“You need your fruit.”

I peer into the next bag. “There’s enough fresh vegetables in here to feed the football team’s opponent.”

“The doctor said you should eat fresh fruit and veg.”

He starts pulling fruit out of the bag.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think? I’m putting away the groceries.”

“Nolan,” I growl. “I can’t eat this much food. I don’t want any food to go to waste.”

He shrugs. “I’ll eat whatever is left over.”

Does he think he’ll be spending more time in my house? I can’t deny I want him here. I’d be lying if I did. But it’s not a good idea. Emotional attachments lead to pain, heartache, and, in my mother’s case, death.

I lift a brow. “You will?”

He ignores my question as he digs in a bag. “I believe this is what you were craving.”

He hands me a jar of pickles and I cradle it to my chest. “Yes!”

He chuckles. “You’re easy to please.”

I wrestle the jar open and stuff a pickle in my mouth. “Not usually.”

He pauses before setting down the bunch of bananas in his hands and stalking toward me.

“What?” I ask between chomps on my pickle.

He glides his nose along my neck and I automatically tilt to give him more room. He reaches my ear and bites down on the lobe. I moan at the feel of his teeth on mine. I love it when he touches me.