One Little Thing Page 8

  “That’s great, Sophie. I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks.” Apologize now. You don’t need to wait for an opening. “And how’ve you been?”

  He started to say something, then paused. Finally he answered, “Fine,” leaving her to wonder what he had been planning to say before he changed his mind.

  They stood there staring at each other another long moment, and then he was stepping back and lifting his hand in a small wave. “I’ll see you later.”

  Oh. “Okay. Bye.”

  Well, damn. He was halfway down the stairs when she went to catch up with him. “Wait a second.”

  Thankfully, he did, watching her cautiously as she stopped at the top of the stairs.

  “You could have just told me, you know,” she said. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for what happened. You were just a kid.”

  He nodded. “Then I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  “As for the other night . . . Well, I was upset and embarrassed, and I’d just made a fool of myself. Which,” she admitted, “wasn’t exactly your fault.”

  “But it partly was. I realize that much. And I am sorry, Sophie. I don’t know what else to say.”

  “I accept your apology. And I’m hoping you’ll accept mine.”

  Quinn looked surprised, and even Scoop was looking back and forth between them, like she was trying to follow and figure out the conversation. Then he nodded again. “That’ll make things easier.”

  Except he wasn’t making this easy for her. And now he was making motions like he was about to take off again. They’d done the apology part. How to get to the moving-on part? Cursing, she stepped down two steps, equalizing their heights. Quinn stood still. “I guess I’m not making myself clear,” she muttered, grabbing a fistful of his shirt to hold him in place and plastering her lips against his.

  Quinn’s initial lack of response sent her heart plummeting to her stomach in disappointment, but then his arms closed around her and he took control of the kiss, letting her feel his hunger and making her knees go weak.

  It was a long, thorough kiss, one that left her breathless, her forehead resting against his as she pulled oxygen into her lungs. Quinn’s eyes opened, meeting hers, and he smiled, and her heart melted.

  I’ve got it bad.

  She also had an inn full of guests, two of whom were watching her out the window, interest written all over their faces. “I seem intent upon making a spectacle of myself no matter what.”

  Quinn shrugged. “They’re tourists. And isn’t your B&B supposed to be a romantic, luxurious lovers’ retreat? You need to set an example.” He kissed her again.

  Scoop, seemingly thrilled by this change in the atmosphere, bounced around them, wrapping her leash around them both at the knees.

  “It’s been hell keeping her from heading up here all week,” he said, trying to unwrap them. “I think she missed you.”

  “So you didn’t quit coming altogether. You just didn’t come down here.”

  His mouth twitched. “You noticed, huh?”

  “I still meditate in the mornings. I may have noticed your absence,” she hedged.

  “So you missed me.”

  “Maybe.”

  He dropped his head to hers. “I missed you. A lot.”

  That statement felt loaded and heavy, melting her a little more. She hadn’t really planned on something like this, not this soon, but it wasn’t a bad thing either. They had time to see where it could actually go, and she was looking forward to finding out. “I missed you, too,” she said, heading in for another kiss.

  A polite throat clearing behind her scuttled that plan, and Sophie half-turned to see the Andersons, the newlywed couple staying in room four, standing uncomfortably in the doorway, steaming cups of coffee in hand. “Sorry to interrupt,” the man said. “We thought we’d take our coffee out here. It’s such a beautiful day.”

  Quinn was biting back a grin, and she gave him a stern look before stepping out of the last loop of the leash. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Bye.” Quinn nodded at the Andersons and left.

  “Sorry about that,” she said. “But, please, come on out.” As she spoke, she saw Quinn pull a tennis ball out of his pocket and throw it for Scoop, who took off after it like a shot. “Magnolia Beach has some of the most amazing scenery in the area, and I’ve always loved the view from right here.”

  Read on for a sneak peek at the next book in Kimberly Lang’s charming Magnolia Beach series

  EVERYTHING AT LAST

  Available from Signet Eclipse in January 2016

  Chapter 1

  It’s nearly impossible to keep a secret in a small town.

  But nearly impossible means it is still possible. It was just damn hard to do it.

  Molly Richards felt like she knew most of the secrets in this particular small town. She wasn’t a therapist, preacher, bartender, or even a hairdresser, but running a coffee shop—the only coffee shop in Magnolia Beach, Alabama—had to come close. People didn’t have to tell her secrets. She overheard them at Latte Dah—whether she wanted to or not.

  But she wasn’t a gossip. She never repeated what she heard, never even dropped hints, because everyone had something they’d rather other people not know.

  But she also never forgot those overheard tidbits, either, and it gave her a more complete picture of this town and its people than most folks who’d lived there a lot longer than the two and a half years she had.

  In a way, it made her love Magnolia Beach all the more. Not only did she know what was going on, she also knew the why, the who, and often the whoa-you-won’t-believe-this. It was a quirky little place, and the key to appreciating it fully was understanding it.

  The buzz today was all about the engagement of Sophie Cooper and Quinn Haslett, but that was news, not gossip—literal news as Quinn had announced it himself on the front page of The Clarion.

  That’s one benefit of owning the paper, Molly thought with a giggle.

  There were sighs over the romance, speculations over the timing—they’d been together less than a year, after all—and a bit of jealousy from the younger, single set that Quinn had been taken off the market, but it made Molly smile all the same.

  It was spring and love was in the air. And she was a sucker for a love story. She’d once thought that her own failed marriage would—or at least should—sour her on all relationships, turning her into one of those crotchety types grumbling at romance. She’d even gotten a cat in preparation for that day, but it never happened.

  Even after everything, she still believed that everyone deserved a happily-ever-after. And she got to see lots of relationships start, grow—and occasionally end, too—over cups of coffee in the overstuffed chairs of Latte Dah.

  Jane, who’d been with her from almost the day she’d opened her doors, blew her blue-streaked bangs out of her eyes as she passed carrying a tray full of dirty coffee cups.

  “There are three applications under the register. Hire someone, or I’m going to quit.”

  “I will,” Molly promised. In addition to Jane, Molly had two part-timers, but they were high school kids, so the hours they could work were limited. And while it was very nice to be busy enough to need another employee, she was enjoying the security of the extra cash after two years of just making ends meet. Right now, she was in a good position—she’d invested in the shop and padded her savings a little bit—but that cushion could deflate quickly. She couldn’t risk losing Jane, though, and they’d only get busier once the summer season started. She tugged the envelope with the applications out and opened it as she followed Jane into the kitchen. “Any of these you particularly like?”

  Jane didn’t look up from loading the dishwasher, but Molly saw the triumphant smirk. “Samantha Harris or Connie Williams. Patrice is a little flighty.”

  Molly knew of both Samantha an
d Connie, even if she didn’t know them personally—Magnolia Beach was pretty small, after all—and she didn’t have a strong feeling either way. “I’ll call them both back for interviews, and if they’re good, I’ll see who can start next week.”

  “This week,” Jane insisted. “I’d like to have a life, too.”

  Molly sighed. “Fine. Can you call them and see if they’ll come in this afternoon? Maybe one at four and the other at five?”

  “Thank you. Now I won’t have to poison your coffee today.”

  She grinned. “Then thank you.” A glance around told her the morning rush was officially over. “I’m going to run out for a while. I’ll be back before the Bible study group arrives.”

  “Bring back change,” Jane called from behind her. “We’re low on fives and ones.”

  Molly nodded as she hung up her apron and then held the door for a mother pushing a stroller with a sleeping baby. Outside on the sidewalk, she took a big breath of non-coffee-scented air and turned her face up to the sun. Late spring was quite possibly one of the best times of year here weather-wise: warm days, and nights that were just cool enough to require a light jacket. But the frizzing of her already unruly curls meant summer—and its humidity—were right around the corner.

  It might be an odd little town, but there sure wasn’t a much prettier place than Magnolia Beach on a bright spring afternoon. The town was practically a movie set labeled “small-town Americana”—tidy buildings set along clean, narrow streets and flags waving lazily in the breeze. Even the newer buildings intentionally had that older aesthetic, giving the impression the town wasn’t necessarily stuck in the past, but instead rather gently resisting change wherever it could.

  That feeling was part of what drew tourists to the area. That, and the water, of course. Magnolia Beach was locked in on three sides by water: Mobile Bay to the east, Heron Bay to the south, and Heron Bayou to the west.

  The Yankee snowbirds had already left town for their northern cities and climes, but in a few more weeks the town’s population would nearly double in size as all that water drew folks down to the coast. The Mobile Bay shore—called “The Beach” by the locals—had white, sandy beaches, perfect for sandcastle building and walks along the water, while the Heron Bay shore—called “The Shore” to avoid confusion—offered fishing off the jetty and a boardwalk along the rockier, man-made beach. Add in a marina full of boats to charter, airboat tours into the bayou, and long, hot sunny days, and Magnolia Beach was a summer paradise.

  While the tourists looking for wild parties would head over to the east side of the bay to Gulf Shores and the Florida panhandle, families and those folks wanting a more low-key vacation would come to Magnolia Beach. And when they weren’t on the water, tourists had a full selection of restaurants, quaint shops, and family-friendly activities right at their doorstep.

  Trapped as it was between the water and unable to sprawl, the town was rather compact, making pretty much everything within walking distance. The tourists loved that perk, and Molly liked it herself, leaving her car at home except on the most miserable of days. And since she tended to nibble at the pastries—strictly for quality control purposes, of course—she needed all the exercise she could get. That would be another perk of a new employee: she could find the time to start running again before the winter weight became permanent.

  More importantly, though, she liked the walk. In the early mornings on her way to open Latte Dah, the whole place felt quiet and still, and that was better for clearing her mind and relaxing her soul than any kind of meditation. In the afternoons, the streets were busy and active, but not stressed and crowded, and there was always someone to stop and speak to, making her feel like a real part of the town. Making it feel like home.

  Only better. She had no desire to really go home.

  Fuller, Alabama, was only six hours away, but as far as she was concerned it might as well be on the other side of the planet. She was proud of what she’d built here, and the person she’d been just a few years ago seemed like a stranger. Eventually she’d have to go back—her day of reckoning would come—but until then, it was easy enough to forget Fuller even existed. This was where she wanted to be.

  The bank, post office, and grocery store were quick, easy errands and she made it back to her place, a tiny guesthouse beside Mrs. Kennedy’s house, in plenty of time for her own lunch and maybe a short nap. Even after over two years of getting up to open the shop, that five a.m. alarm was still hard to handle sometimes.

  She dropped to the couch and kicked off her shoes, and Nigel jumped into her lap with a purr. Threading her fingers through his soft gray fur, Molly closed her eyes with a sigh.

  And—of course—there was an immediate knock at her door, followed by Mrs. Kennedy calling, “Molly?”

  Nigel hissed in the general direction of the door, voicing her feelings quite nicely. While the place was clean, cozy, and affordable, her landlady had boundary issues and a rather interesting interpretation of the tenant-landlord relationship.

  Grumbling, she moved Nigel off her lap and rolled off the couch. Knowing Mrs. Kennedy could see her through the glass window in the door, she pasted a smile on her face as she opened it. “Hello, Mrs. K.”

  Eula Kennedy was welcoming warm weather with a bright fuchsia sundress and a color-matched faux hibiscus in her carefully coiffed white hair. Molly could only hope that forty years from now she’d have the nerve and ability to carry off something like that.

  “Hello, dear. I’m so glad I heard you come in. I was about to head to Latte Dah to find you.”

  “I just came home for lunch.” As I do most days. Her schedule wasn’t a secret or anything.

  “Well, I won’t keep you but a minute.”

  Molly had no choice, really, but to open the door wider for her to enter. Mrs. Kennedy was carrying a bulging grocery sack from the Shop-N-Save, but it didn’t look like groceries. As she set the bag on the coffee table with a sense of satisfaction and purpose, Molly had a bad feeling she wouldn’t like the explanation of that bag.

  “I got a call from Jocelyn last night.”

  Jocelyn was Mrs. Kennedy’s niece, currently pregnant and living over near Destin. Molly nodded absently while she eyeballed the bag. Oddly, it looked like it was full of notebooks. “I hope she’s doing well.”

  “The doctors have put her on bed rest. Worries about an incompetent cervix.”

  That got her attention. Molly had no idea what that diagnosis might mean, but Mrs. Kennedy looked worried, so it probably wasn’t good. “I’m sorry to hear that. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do,” she said automatically.

  “I’m so glad you said that,” Mrs. Kennedy said in a tone that had Molly wishing she’d stopped talking after “sorry.” “There’s no way Jocelyn can rest the way she needs to with two other little ones running around, so I’m going to go stay with her and help until after the baby is born.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on things at the house, no problem.” She often looked after the place while Mrs. Kennedy traveled. It was one of the reasons her rent was so cheap.

  “I know you will, and I appreciate it, but the house is really the least of my issues. I’ve got my Sunday school class and volunteer shifts at the library covered, but there’s no one to take over the Children’s Fair on Memorial Day weekend.”

  No. She couldn’t possibly be thinking that I should . . .

  Memorial Day marked the official start of the summer tourist season, and Magnolia Beach always went all out for the weekend with concerts and an arts and crafts fair downtown, a fireworks show over Heron Bay, services at the War Memorial, a parade, and, of course, the Children’s Fair, which was originally Mrs. Kennedy’s idea and her pride and joy. More importantly to this conversation, though, it was a huge undertaking, with a dozen different parts. Not to mention all the children. She liked kids—honestly, she did—but in small man
ageable groups, not large screaming masses. “Oh, Mrs. K, I couldn’t. Really. I wouldn’t know where to begin, and I’d hate to mess it up.”

  Mrs. Kennedy waved that away. “It’s impossible to mess it up. Most of the heavy lifting is already done, and the folks involved are old pros at it by now, so it will mostly just roll along on its own. I just need someone to keep an eye on it.”

  “But—”

  “Have you already agreed to volunteer somewhere else?”

  Molly wished she could lie. “No, but—”

  “Then this is perfect. A great way for you to get your feet wet.”

  Get her feet wet? This would be like jumping into the deep end of the pool. With dumbbells strapped to her legs. And the pool would be full of small screaming children.

  “I don’t—” Molly started her protest, but Mrs. K just patted her on the arm—firmly, but kindly nonetheless.

  “Everything you’ll need to know should be in those notebooks, and if it’s not, just ask Margaret Wilson or Tate Harris for help. They’ll know. Now . . .” Mrs. Kennedy started unloading the notebooks as she talked, placing them in Molly’s hands so that she was forced to either accept them or end up with bruises on her feet from dropping them.

  Molly was being steamrolled and she knew it, but damned if she knew how to stop it. Mrs. Kennedy kept talking as if it was a done deal, with or without Molly’s agreement, and Molly couldn’t bring herself to interrupt a sixty-something-year-old woman. And since Mrs. Kennedy never seemed to stop to take a breath, she had no place to interject an objection.

  The flood of words and instructions rolled on, interspersed with assurances of Mrs. Kennedy’s confidence in Molly’s ability to pull this off. Molly was still blinking in confusion and formulating her plan of resistance when Mrs. Kennedy gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and was out the door.