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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 manageable 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.

Leaving Molly with the Children’s Fair literally in her hands.

“Damn it.”

Nigel blinked at her from his perch on the back of the couch, then stretched out his neck to sniff
disdainfully at the load in her arms. A second later, he pulled back quickly, ears lying flat against his head.

“My thoughts exactly.”

She didn’t have time for this. She had a business to run, and she was shorthanded right now anyway. Equally important, she didn’t
want
to do this. She, too, was from a small town, and
this
was exactly how people got sucked into the volunteer pit, never to surface again. She was all for community spirit, but there was no way she wouldn’t screw it up somehow. And since it was a big fund-raiser for . . .

Damn—she didn’t even know where the money raised actually went. It had to raise a lot, though. Christ, she was going to mess this up
and
be the reason some deserving charity couldn’t make its budget this year.

This was insane.

She was still standing there trying to figure out a graceful way to decline the honor when she saw Mrs. Kennedy go back out carrying a suitcase. She hurried to the porch, ready to claim illness, insanity, incompetence,
any
reason not to be in charge of this, but Mrs. Kennedy was very spry for her age and was already driving off with a honk and a cheery wave.

Damn it. She was well and truly stuck now.

•   •   •

Tate Harris stood under the shower and let the hot water beat the tiredness from his shoulders. After a long spell of nothing but checkups and routine procedures for weeks, it seemed every pet within a twenty-mile radius had decided today was the day for illnesses and accidents. He’d been on his feet all day, without even a lunch break, gone through multiple changes of clothes, and Mr. Thomas’s Pomeranian, Florie, had taken a bite out of his hand.

It was days like today that made him wish he still drank.

With that option off the table, though, he stayed under the spray until the water ran cold and forced him out. He scrubbed a towel over his hair to dry it, then grabbed a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

Now that the animal smells were washed away and out of his nose, he caught the faint scent of lemon furniture polish and bleach floating through the house, meaning Iona had come today—a day earlier than usual. Suddenly hopeful, he went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. There, in neatly wrapped and labeled packages, were his dinners for the next several nights.

He’d been not exactly dreading, but not looking forward to either, a cold dinner of ham sandwiches, so the sight of Iona’s pot roast made his mouth water. Feeling better already, he stuck it into the microwave to heat.

A fresh pitcher of tea sat on the counter, holding down a note from Iona, explaining that she’d come today because she had a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, and if he’d text her a list of any personal items he might need from the store, she’d take care of that on her next trip.

But the fact she’d signed that note with just an initial and a small heart—well, that was a little disconcerting.

When he’d hired Iona last year, he’d been drowning, overwhelmed by a busy practice and trying to have some kind of life while still having clean clothes, decent food, and a house that didn’t look like the health department needed to intervene. Iona had laughed at her interview and said he actually needed a wife. He hadn’t disagreed with her. And she’d been an absolute godsend, taking over and running this part of his life with ease. Unfortunately, the feeling that Iona might be wanting to take on the title as well as the job had grown stronger over the last few months.

It’d first become noticeable when his best friend,
Helena Wheeler, had moved back to town last fall. The amount of time he’d spent with her ignited Iona’s jealousy. He’d faced weeks of bland food and scratchy, wrinkled clothes. Once Helena had started dating Ryan Tanner, however, his life had gone back to normal.

That was enough to make any sane man think carefully before asking a woman out, however casually. Especially if he liked his creature comforts.

Then Iona had starting making him cookies. Specifically, her super-secret recipe peanut butter chocolate chip ones that he loved, saying he was too skinny and needed fattening up. He rubbed a hand over his belly absently. Those cookies would do it for sure.

Last week, he’d found a lacy pair of Iona’s panties “accidentally” mixed in with his laundry, and now she was leaving notes signed with a heart.

It made him hesitant to eat the cookies, fearful of what Iona might read into it.

She managed to dance perfectly along the line of what was appropriate, never really crossing it and making it impossible for him to call her on it.

But he was going to have to do something. Soon. And he was selfish enough to not want to do it simply because Iona took such good care of him. If he rejected her, she might quit, and he didn’t want to go through the trouble of finding someone else.

And if he
did
ask Iona out, he was only rushing that moment of truth along. He doubted Iona would accept payment for cooking and cleaning if she considered herself his girlfriend, and he couldn’t not pay her for the work. He’d either have to marry her almost immediately or find someone else to take over at home—and he doubted Iona would like that much, either.

The whole situation was a disaster waiting to happen.

The thing was, there wasn’t anything
wrong
with
Iona Flemming. Cute, sweet, kind—she’d make some man very happy one day. But that man wasn’t going to be him.

Taking himself out of the local dating scene entirely might seem an extreme step to avoid upsetting Iona and sending his life back into chaos, but it was a sacrifice he was perfectly willing to make right now. And dating outside the city limits wasn’t
that
much of a hardship anyway. He had enough exes in Magnolia Beach as it was, and no matter what people said, it wasn’t easy to “still be friends” with someone after you broke up.

He’d have to face the music with Iona at some point, but for now the price of domestic tranquility and delicious food was ignoring innuendo and playing dense as a tree when she flirted.

Working long, unpredictable hours didn’t hurt, either. Maybe he’d hold off looking for a partner at the clinic for a little while longer . . .

He burned his fingers on the plate as he took it out of the microwave, nearly sloshing the rich gravy off the edge. The smell made his stomach growl as he carried it to the table. Now ravenous, he grabbed a fork, only for his phone to ring before his first bite.

Almost any other ringtone would have been ignorable, but not Sam’s. Since her divorce had brought her home—and back to Mom’s house—over a year ago, she’d been a little fragile. And he could talk to his sister and eat at the same time, rude or not. He answered with a “What’s up?” and shoved a forkful of pot roast into his mouth.