My body completely betrays me as I wait for him to kiss me, and it’s like I’ve forgotten why I should not put my trust in this new stranger who suddenly ambushed my new life.

Suddenly I hear the sound of water behind me, and I turn my gaze to see him running his hands in the water, one arm on each side of me so that he’s practically hugging me. His stare doesn’t waver for a second.

All too soon, he pulls away and flicks his wet hands toward me. The cold water against my face feels like ice, doing nothing to cool the red hot anger.

“I’ll figure you out eventually,” he calls, and then he’s gone.

She thinks she can play with me. Cute. I saw her little act while cleaning up the kitchen, shaking that plump little ass in my face while she put the glasses on the top shelf. It worked, but not enough to make me let my guard down.

Two can play this game.

When Ruby calls us for dinner, I come down to the ornately decorated dining room with its large window overlooking the long strip of beach. The sky is turning dark, painting a red and orange haze into the room. Hazel is sitting at the table already. She has a glass of white wine in her hands, and classical music is playing from the speakers in the dining room. She always did love music while we ate dinner, and it’s a habit I still keep to this day. It’s not usually classical at my place, but it’s still music.

Her face lights up when I walk in. It makes me smile, but also sends another shock of guilt to my system. I shouldn’t have stayed away so long.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she croaks, her voice seeming far more gravelly than I remember from earlier today.

“I’m glad to be home,” I answer, sitting next to her. “I just wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Don’t get all sappy on me now. I’m dying, so what. I’m eighty-fucking-seven years old, Murph. How long do you expect me to go on?”

I want to tell her that you never accept losing the people who love you the most, especially when that person is the only one who loves you, but I don’t. Not with Savannah still in the kitchen, within earshot.

“I got something in the mail,” she says, reaching to a small stack of papers on the buffet behind her. “It came from the city.”

In her hand is an official looking envelope that has been stamped by someone official. I know already it’s about the shop, and my jaw clenches when I see it.

Hazel bought my shop five years ago, once I got back from a year in Iraq. Even though it’s my name on the door, the deed is still in her name officially. When she unfolds the letter, I see what seems to be a date in bold and the word audit above it. Fucking assholes.