Every Little Thing (Hart's Boardwalk 2)

“The shop is closed.”

“Yeah.” She shrugged, refusing to meet my eyes. “So?”

“Considering that blast from the past yesterday and the fact that you wouldn’t talk to me at all about it, I was worried. I am worried.”

Grimacing, Dahlia got up off her stool and wandered over to me. “You don’t need to be worried. I closed the shop because . . . what if he’s still here?”

I braced myself to tell her what I’d discovered in my conversation with Michael yesterday. “I don’t think he is. The . . . uh . . . the woman that was with him?”

“Yeah?”

I blew out air between my lips, not sure at all how my friend was going to handle this news. “That was his wife. And I’m guessing by her angry reaction to his staggered reaction to you that they’re on their way home now and she’s yelling at him the entire way.”

“Wow.” Her eyes widened before they dropped to her feet so she could hide her expression from me. “Wow. Okay. Wow. Yeah.” She threw her hands up, laughing, but it was a hard, ugly sound that made me wince. “Of course he’s married. Michael wanted marriage and kids and all that jazz. All the stuff you want! What normal people want, right? Not people like me. Not weirdos like me.”

“Dahlia—”

“I just, uh, I didn’t want to have a conversation with him, you know?” She turned away, fiddling with tools on one of her workshop tables. “All of that was in the past. I’ve worked hard to start over here and I don’t want to dredge all that crap up. I wonder how he knew I was here.”

“He didn’t. He was just as surprised to see you as you were to see him. Plus, he asked me what you were doing here.”

She whirled around, clearly afraid. “What did you say?”

“I told him you were here on vacation and that you were leaving today.”

Her shoulders deflated and she slumped onto a nearby stool. “Thank you.”

“It was weird him being here, though, right?”

“Yes.” Her expression darkened. “And a little too coincidental.”

I thought of the letters she sent to Boston once a month. “Someone pointed him in this direction?”

“Someone definitely did.”

“Maybe you should talk to him then. You can’t hide forever.”

“Bailey, I love you, but this is one of those times where saying what’s on your mind is just going to piss me off.”

Duly warned, I held up my hands in surrender. “Shutting up. And leaving. But I’m right next door, and if I see the Closed sign on the shop tomorrow, I’m coming back.”

“I told you to shut up,” she grumbled, grabbing her purse. “Not to go away. Do you think Mona could make me one of her famous grilled cheese sandwiches? I haven’t eaten since last night.”

Relieved that my friend wasn’t pushing me away entirely, I slung my arm around her shoulder. “Grilled cheese sounds good. And she made scones this morning. I hid two from the guests. Want one?”

“Uh, like you even need to ask.”

Dahlia locked up behind us and we wandered toward the inn. Just as we were climbing the porch steps I got up the courage to say, “Since you don’t want to talk about your problem, maybe we could talk about mine.”

“Of course. What happened? You didn’t end things with Vaughn, did you?”

“No.” My belly fluttered at the memory of last night. “You would not believe the night I had. The things that man did to me and where.”

“So what’s the problem?” She pushed open the inn door.

I can’t bring myself to tell him I love him and I don’t know why. “Well.” I exhaled as we stepped inside, preparing myself to tell my friend about how big a coward I was, when the sight of my sister leaning against the reception counter stopped me in my tracks.

Mona stood behind the counter, her arms crossed, and her eyes narrowed behind her thick-framed glasses. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence.”