Page 25 of Between the Lines

The smack of squishy palms sounds down the hall before Daisy comes crawling up to my leg, pinching it with her little fingers as she pulls herself to her feet.

“You don’t think I’m the worst mom in the world, right?” I ask her, but she just smiles, drool on her chin. That’s when I spot a little white tooth poking through red gums.

It’s going to be a late night indeed.

9

Caden

For two solid hours this morning, it was just me and the waves. It’s my calm place, when I’m out on the water—everything else disappears. My father’s disappointment, the pressure of being a business owner . . . I don’t have to utter a word to anyone.

With salt water licking my skin, my hair curling at my neck from the stickiness in the air, I hike my board under my arm and make for my Jeep.

I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t a huge reason I left my job at Brooks & Sons. There was never time to do the things I love, like surf every morning. My father found joy in working me to the bone—Builds character, he’d said. But the character he built left me an empty shell of myself, marked by the toxicity of that place. The high pay wasn’t worth losing myself. And maybe I’m not the ideal owner for a coffee shop, but Good Grinds has allowed me time to find myself again.

It’s been a work in progress.

With my old trusty board strapped to the top of the Jeep, I lean against the hood, letting the sun dry me off before I drive home.

A mom with her two young kids pulls up next to me, and immediately I check my phone, thinking of Fia. There’ve been no alerts that someone’s entered the property. I would’ve thought she'd be moving in by now.

With my suit still damp, I throw down a beach towel on my seat and jump into the car. Music blares through my speakers as I whip out of the parking lot and head towards Wilmington.

The sun is bright above me, and though surfing usually puts me in a good mood, good enough to drum along with my playlist, as I drive, my neck and shoulders tighten.

Realization hitting me with each second passing.

I asked Fia not to tell anyone about the arrangement, then left her to move in by herself.

“Fuck.” I slap the steering wheel, feeling like a total asshole.

This is the issue when you have to deal with people—shit gets complicated.

I slow down as I pull onto a residential street twenty minutes later and hesitate a moment.

Her little gold sedan with more scratches and dents than I can count sits in the driveway, the trunk popped open. Then the front door flies open, and Fia skips down the porch steps with a large, lumpy trash bag slung over her shoulder. She proceeds to shove it into the already full, tiny trunk. Well, she attempts to.

Without a second thought, I pull in behind her.

Fia pauses mid-shove, squinting through my windshield as I cut the engine.

“Hey.” I hop out. “You need a hand?”

Fia exhales hard, brushing strands of red hair off her face. She’s barefoot, in an oversized T-shirt that swallows her shorts . . . if she’s even wearing any. Her eyes rake me up and down, and that’s when I remember all I have on is my board shorts. I look down—the sun is glittering off the leftover salt across my bare chest. Jesus.

“Actually, I have it handled.” She points to the trunk, which under no circumstances will close. “See?”

“Right.” I nod. “Because you’ll be able to drive with every door open, no problem.”

Her brows stay furrowed but she fans herself.

“Plus,” I say with a sigh, noticing her eyes flicking to my chest, “I should probably lead you to my property the first time. It’s easy to miss the turn in.”

That’s the truth. I don’t need her circling for hours trying to find the driveway, which I purposely made inconspicuous.

“Oh, uhm, alright.” She huffs and promptly begins shoving the bag again.

“I don’t think that’s going to fit.”