L o e loyalty over every.., p.10
What It Takes (Windy Harbor Series Book 2), page 10
“My brother doesn’t get to tell me what to do.”
His grin expanded, all sparkly-white teeth, and he handed me a plastic red cup.
“Thank you.” I took the cup and sipped from it, wrinkling my nose when I tasted it.
He laughed. “Not a fan of beer?”
“I guess not.”
Erin grabbed a cup too and winked at me, pointing out where she was going. “You okay?” she asked.
I nodded.
Mitch moved closer. “You look so hot,” he said.
His arm brushed mine, which felt nice. He kept saying things to make me laugh, and it was working. The more sips of beer I took, the warmer and lighter I felt. Mitch looked cuter and said funnier things, and when he kissed me, it felt nicer than I remembered a kiss feeling.
It wasn’t like when Brady Lawrence kissed me at summer camp two years ago. That had been clumsy, a peck and then a hide-and-seek of tongues. Neither one of us knew what we were doing. I had since talked to Goldie and Erin and knew how to do it better, and Mitch definitely knew what he was doing.
His hand slid around my waist, tugging me closer. My heart hammered with excitement and the rush of being at this party with beer and older boys and my streak of rebellion at doing something I knew my parents and brother…and Camden…wouldn’t approve of.
When one of his hands moved down to my backside and the other moved over my breast, I squeaked and tried to push him back, but he only pressed harder.
Until suddenly, he was gone.
I blinked in shock as Mitch staggered back when someone punched him in the nose. Blood ran down his face immediately. And, standing in front of me, his fists clenched and his eyes burning with fury, was Camden.
For a second, all I could do was stare.
He looked like an avenging angel with his fist still propped up as he breathed hard, his eyes locked on Mitch as if daring him to move.
My first thought was relief, sharp and undeniable. Why, I wasn’t sure. That Camden had seen me. That he’d stopped Mitch from going any further. But then the relief twisted to fury.
How dare he?
“Are you kidding me?” I snapped.
I stepped between Camden and Mitch before Camden could swing again.
Camden’s head whipped toward me. His jaw clenched. “He was all over you. You didn’t want that.”
The worst part was, he was right. I hadn’t wanted things to go that far. But that didn’t mean he got to swoop in like some kind of self-righteous bodyguard.
Behind me, Mitch cursed.
“So what?” I shot back, heat making my cheeks hot. “You think you get to just punch whoever you want? You don’t even care about me, remember?”
“I do care,” he growled, low enough that only I could hear it.
I clenched my fists to keep from shaking.
“Ten-foot pole, remember?” I muttered as I shoved past him.
My stomach tightened with every step. I wanted to scream at him and…something else entirely. I could feel his stare burning into my back all the way across the sand.
I stormed away from the fire, my feet sinking into the cool sand as I went. Erin got in step next to me.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. This is the reason I go to bed at eight thirty.”
We both laughed.
“Juju,” Camden called, his voice rough.
I turned before he could catch up, my hair flying into my face. “Don’t bother, Camden.”
He slowed, but he didn’t stop. His expression was angry and worried, and for some reason, that only made me madder.
“Come on, Juju. You didn’t want that.”
Erin squeezed my arm and stepped back. I shook my head at Camden, forcing the lump in my throat down.
“You don’t get to decide what I want,” I whispered.
He stared at me, and for one breathless moment, neither of us moved. The distant firelight flickered against his face, and it felt like we were on a tightrope, barely hanging on.
“You…” My voice cracked, but I pushed through it. “I’m not a child, Camden. I can make my own mistakes, with or without your interference.”
“I don’t think you’re a child, Juju.”
His eyes locked on mine.
He stepped closer, his jaw tight, and added, “That’s the whole fucking problem. You’re not a child anymore. You’re not my friend anymore. I don’t even know you. And you’re…making me lose my mind.”
The world tilted. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Hearing him say that…I didn’t even know how to feel about it. I had so many questions.
We just stood there, staring at each other. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile, and my heart threatened to pound out of my chest.
His jaw flexed, his mouth opening to speak.
“Juju? Camden? What’s going on? I just saw Mitch, and someone said you hit him?” Jackson barreled toward us.
Camden’s mouth shut, fists clenched at his sides.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “He deserved it.”
Jackson glared at me then. “What are you even doing here?”
I rolled my eyes. “Both of you need to get out of my way. I don’t have the patience for either one of you tonight.”
I turned and motioned to Erin that I was ready to go, and we left.
When Camden came to the house the next time, we ignored each other. I preferred to pretend he didn’t exist, even though that was impossible, because he was all I could ever think about.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHANCE ENCOUNTERS
CAMDEN
Present
It’s been a long week of interviews. Sammi was no better than Britney. The next person I interview is Olivette. She comes in with a low-cut blouse, and the only reason I notice that is because she drops a mint down her shirt and then giggles and makes a production out of digging it out. When I ask for a little more detail about her resume, she says “How about we get to know each other first?” as she slides her cell number across the table.
I don’t bother tasting her profiteroles.
And then Virginia walks in, an elderly woman with a kind smile.
“How are you today?” she asks after she’s introduced herself.
“I’m great. How about you?”
“I’m excellent. I’m alive and have my wits about me. Life is good.” Her smile is wide. “I brought some tiramisu with me, but I suspect you might want to see me at work.”
She slides the plate of tiramisu toward me, and I have to admit, it looks impressive. When I taste it, I’m blown away. The flavors, the consistency…it’s perfect.
“This is the best tiramisu I’ve ever had.”
She beams, pleased. “Thank you. My husband thinks so too. I love to make cakes and macarons, tortes, pies, you name it.”
She reminds me of my grandmothers, and I like her instantly. I’d been tempted to call in Grandma Nancy until I could find the right person, but I wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle not being the one in charge. And I was almost desperate enough to call on Grandma Donna, but she’s been busy with the Friendship Bench. She’s booked every day from one to six. Any time we have a thirty-degree day, she’s out there on the bench with a blanket and the outdoor heaters going full blast. On the cold tundra days, she takes the session into the glass pavilion. I had no idea people in a small town would need to talk so much, but Grandma Donna is a hot commodity. She knits while she listens, so I’m seeing her scarves and hats and gloves all over town. It’s just as well that she couldn’t work in the kitchen—she would’ve tried to pull out her Lutheran Jell-O salad, and that’s a hard pass.
Virginia gets right to work preparing an apple rose tart that is as beautiful as it is delicious, and a lemon cake with lavender glaze that I didn’t even know I’d been missing. She knows how to do amazing things with chocolate and comes to life in the kitchen without being in the way. I’ve found the right person.
“How soon can you start?” I ask.
She wipes her hand on her apron and shakes my hand. “Right now, if you’d like. Arthur will be glad that I’m out of the house for a while. We’re driving each other crazy.” She laughs.
“Yes, please.” I show her around the rest of the restaurant, and when we return to the kitchen, she gets to work.
It’s a weight off my mind.
The following day, I have to go to a restaurant supply store in the Twin Cities. I haven’t missed living near the city like I thought I would, but driving into St. Paul, I get nostalgic. My dad still owns the house on Summit Avenue, but he’s spent less and less time there since buying the land next to the lake house and working on the resort. I meet Tully for lunch and then head to the restaurant supply place near his condo.
The supply warehouse has more people in one room than I’ve seen in a long time. I think the last time was at a Colorado Mustangs game. Carts are everywhere, boxes are stacked like leaning Jenga towers, and people are rushing through like they’re on one of those supermarket sweep reality shows. I want to march back out to my car and get back to the solitude of Windy Harbor, but we need another industrial mixer at the restaurant. Britney managed to strip the gears on ours right before I fired her.
I’m halfway down the stainless steel section when someone whips around the corner at full speed with a dolly.
I collide into the stacked crates of produce, sending the boxes careening across the floor, and I bend over, rubbing my hip where the corner of the dolly nailed me. I grit my teeth, holding back every curse word I’ve ever heard because dammit, that hurt.
Somewhere in there, I hear a gasp.
“Oh my goodness,” a woman says. “I’m so sorry!”
It registers who it is before she pulls a large strip of kale from my head.
“Camden?”
“Yep, it’s me.”
Juju reaches out and plucks a leaf from my shirt, but my stomach dips like she’s touching my nipple or something. “What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Same reason as you, I suspect. We own restaurants. This is where we get our toys.” I nod at her dolly. “Kale shopping spree? Not exactly my idea of a good time.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile, and I feel a sense of accomplishment like I did in fifth grade when I won a blue ribbon in a relay race.
“You don’t get your produce here?” she asks.
“No, you know we’re growing a lot in the greenhouse, right? Tomatoes, herbs, and lettuces…we’ve even had some luck with vegetables.”
“That’s great.”
“You should come by and get what you need there. Can’t get any more local than that. It’s practically your backyard.”
There’s that almost-smile again. Damn. Whatever is happening today needs to stick.
“It does feel that close sometimes, doesn’t it? Small-town living is an adjustment.”
I nod. “Like living in a fishbowl.”
Now she does smile, and it warms my chest.
“I didn’t know you were into gardening,” she says. “But I guess there’s a ton I don’t know about you, right?”
“No, I’m still not all that great. Dad’s teaching me some things. He’s enjoyed taking care of the plants. It’s given him something to do, and he actually likes it.”
She starts to speak and then hesitates. “Maybe I will come shop in your greenhouse. I like supporting small growers.”
“Now that you know it’s not me growing it, huh.”
That gets her. She laughs, a genuine laugh, and it hits me hard, because I don’t hear it often when I’m around, not like this. When she stops, she grins down at the kale in her hands.
“Maybe,” she says softly.
“Mm-hmm.” It’s fun to tease her without things blowing up. “My basil could put this place out of business.”
“Your dad’s basil,” she corrects.
I snort, and there’s a beat where we just look at each other. Maybe she’s as relieved as I am that we’re not at each other’s throats.
“I wanted to see the ice sculptures in Stillwater before I head back to Windy Harbor.” My voice is tentative, but I straighten my shoulders and keep going. “Would you want to—”
“I’ve been thinking about going to see those too,” she says in surprise.
“Remember when—” we both say at the same time.
We then laugh awkwardly.
“Yes,” both of us say again, and then we really laugh.
“You go first,” I say.
“Remember when we were making our own ice sculptures, and we were so sad when they melted?” She looks away and smiles.
“Yeah, we had that crazy warm day in January…that is so the opposite of today, by the way.”
She rubs her arms. Today’s a cold one.
“We spent so many hours on those,” I say. “It’s the only time I’ve ever been sad for a warm day during the winter like I was then.”
She laughs. “Same.”
“So, what do you think? Would you wanna go out there?” I try again.
“Sure, I could do that,” she says, her expression shy.
“Okay, we can finish up here and then head out.”
She nods. I can’t tell if she’s still unsure.
I can’t believe she said yes.
“Wait. This won’t last in our cars. It’s too cold out there,” she says.
“Right. Didn’t think of that. Where the fuck is my head?” I laugh awkwardly. “I’ll see if they can set it aside for us.”
“Good idea.”
I go check, and they’re happy to hold it.
The whole drive to Stillwater, I think about Juju and tell myself not to mess things up. Keep the peace. See if we can get through a day without fighting.
When I pull up to the parking lot overlooking the St. Croix River, I wait to take in all the ice sculptures until Juju pulls up next to me. I get out of the car and slide my hands together.
“It’s brutal out here,” I say.
She nods briskly, wrapping her coat around her tighter.
“I mean, it’s good for the ice sculptures, but not so great for us…” I say, trailing off. “How ’bout we grab a warm drink before we start looking?”
“Good idea.”
We find a place that serves hot chocolate and coffee, and we both get hot chocolate.
“Our eyelashes might be clumping with tiny icicles right now, but our mouths and bellies are warm,” Juju says as we walk toward the frozen river.
I can’t remember how many years the International Snow Sculpture Championships have been happening, not too many, but I’ve only been one other time. It’s shocked me both times how skilled these artists are.
When she finally pays attention to the sculptures out on the river, she gasps. It’s mind-blowing to see what people from all different countries have created out of ice, and in these painfully cold conditions no less.
We slowly walk by each one. There’s a Native American woman holding a child. Lovers sitting on a swing. Another depicts an old couple walking away hand in hand. The level of detail is incredible. Finland has won first place, and the sculpture’s deserving, though we equally love Spain’s, a profile of a woman with long, flowing hair leaning on a crescent moon.
Things are going so well that after we’ve walked around the sculptures several times, I turn to her. “I’m hungry. How about you?”
“Yes. There’s a restaurant I’ve been wanting to try. It’s been open for a while, but I’ve been too busy in Windy Harbor to get over here very often.”
“It’s been a few years since I’ve been to Stillwater. I missed all my favorite places when I lived in Colorado…although there were plenty of beautiful places to see there.”
“Do you miss it?” she asks.
“I do. I love the mountains, and I’m missing those, but it’s too good to be around family to think about the things I miss. I’m glad to be home.”
“I know everyone missed you. Or maybe just Jackson,” she adds, smiling.
“Not you, of course.”
Her cheeks flush, and she shakes her head.
“Why would I?” She laughs to kind of make up for the sharp tone, which did sting, not gonna lie.
I also know I deserve it.
“Right. Exactly,” I say, going for playful.
What felt like a short walk to the restaurant feels like an eternity in the –10 degree weather. Juju’s teeth are chattering before a minute has passed.
I hold my arms out and say, “Here, let me help.”
She surprises me by taking me up on it, stepping into my hold gratefully. We huddle together the rest of the way.
“Thank you,” she says when we step inside the warmth.
I’m reluctant to let her go—no one wants to be cold, after all—but I don’t want to make it weird. The restaurant has a full bar and tables with low light, giving it a cool, vibey ambiance.
“They have a lot of new restaurants now, compared to when I was growing up here,” I say, still looking around.
“I’m glad this town is thriving. Gives me hope for Windy Harbor. Things have already moved in the right direction. People are excited about the changes coming. It was sad for a while when things started shutting down a few years ago—it was a risky time for me to start a new business there, but it’s all worked out.”
Looking across the table at her, I’m struck by how beautiful she is. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold, her eyes luminous in the candlelight. The day is cloudy and a bit dark, but the light coming through the window shines around her like a halo.
It knocks me speechless for a moment.
“What is it?” she asks.
Her hand moves to her cheek.
“Do I have something on my face?”
“This is just nice,” I say finally.
She bites her lower lip.
“I’ve felt bad for how things seem to go wrong between us at some point in every conversation. I don’t mean for it to be that way,” I confess.
“Really?” Her head tilts as she studies me. “I’ve gotten the impression at times that you enjoy fighting with me.”
“Well, for the longest time, you ignored me. So any reaction is better than none.”
