On the south side of the lake, where the townspeople live, it’s different. The beach isn’t as well maintained; the sand is coarser and the beach not as carefully groomed. At least it wasn’t the last time I was here, but I can see they’ve already made significant improvements since they petitioned the town back in the fall.
Over the winter they couldn’t do much physical work to the beach, but they made a plan, and as soon as the ice thawed and the snow melted, a cleanup crew came in to fix the place up.
The formerly derelict and falling-apart docks have been replaced. The sand is groomed regularly, and the seaweed that washes up on shore has been cleared away. A little surf shop and an ice cream store in mini-cottage-style huts have been built at one end of the beach. I can see, with time and effort, more of those shacks going up, catering to the beachgoers.
I can imagine how amazing it would be if there were a miniature Boones shop down here and how much business they would get if they were here on the weekends and during the summer, serving those delicious apple fritters. The smell wafting across the beach, mixing with the fresh water, the scent of sunscreen, the sound of kids playing and families laughing.
I close my eyes and tip my chin up, letting the sun warm my skin, daydreaming about what it would be like if Pearl Lake could be my forever home. I could build a life here. I could fall in love with this town, exactly like my brother did.
CHAPTER 7
MAKE IT WHAT YOU WANT
Teagan
I head back to the loft around three thirty, wanting to freshen up before my brother and Dillion get home from work.
Okay. That’s a lie. My brother has seen me at my worst plenty of times. I don’t care if my hair and makeup look decent when he’s around. Or Dillion for that matter.
But Aaron is a different story.
He shouldn’t be. At all. I should not care one iota how I look, but old habits die hard. And I’m still trying to figure out what the heck happened at that lunchroom table.
I swear there was flirting and smolder, which is very, very different from his reluctant politeness at the bar and his grumpy disdain prior to that.
The first thing I do when I get home is grab an energy drink from the fridge and head to the bathroom to fix my makeup.
I probably spend a good half hour in the bathroom, applying makeup in such a way that it looks like I’m not wearing makeup at all. I even go so far as to remove the mascara I put on this morning and replace it with a coat of lighter brown, followed by a coat of clear. My hair is pale; my eyelashes are also light. Black mascara is obvious, but brown mascara isn’t, and a coat of clear makes them look longer while also still natural.
I get a message from Van that they’re leaving the office in about half an hour.
I loathe idle time. It gives me an opportunity to fret. So I do something that will keep my hands busy and my mind occupied until my brother comes home: bake muffins.
It doesn’t hurt to start small here, considering the oven is new and needs to be tested out to make sure it cooks evenly.
I pull out all the ingredients—which I purchased on my recent trip to the grocery store. There are certain things I need an abundant supply of at all times—almond milk, peanut butter powder, frozen bananas, and basic baking essentials. The baking essentials are stored in the small pantry beside the fridge.
I quickly measure out the ingredients, wipe the muffin tin down with oil so they won’t stick to the pan, and grab the strawberry jam. Muffins that taste like doughnuts filled with jam are the best, but Van likes them jam-free, so I leave a few without.
It only takes about ten minutes to whip them up and put them in the oven. While I wait for them to bake, I melt butter and prepare the cinnamon-sugar topping.
The muffins have just come out of the oven when I hear the crunch and pop of gravel under tires. I quickly pop them out of the tin, but I don’t have time to let them cool. I grab a pair of tongs and dip the first muffin in the butter, then allow it to drip for a few seconds before I roll it in the cinnamon-and-sugar mix.
I manage to get four done before there’s a knock at the door. The one that opens into the garage, rather than the one that opens to the landing outside.
I wipe my hands on my apron and rush to open the door, moving aside as Van backs into the loft carrying my reading chair. Aaron appears at the other end. It’s a bit loud, being hot pink with gray polka dots, but it will go well with the yellow walls and the navy-and-white wallpaper I picked out.