"Leilani, you know how it is."
"No. I don't know how it is. I left Brent and have been on my own for?—"
"For four months. And look at you, you've already made a friend."
I open my mouth to protest, to tell her that no, my situation is nothing like hers. But the words don't come out.
"Mom, I don't know what to say. It seems a little sudden."
"You'll get to meet him sooner or later. You'll love him."
"Hopefully later," I grumble, the nagging feeling inside of me growing. I dislike the idea of Mom being with a new man, and downright hate the idea that she's making any parallels between her new relationship and what I have with Remy.
TEN
Leilani
Two weeks after my first meeting over pizza with Remy, I'm in my business with a new set of tables and chairs I'd ordered. They're plain wood.
I'm moving them around, trying to decide if I like them and should order more, or if I should send them back and get something more 1950s-retro. I've been reading a lot of books on branding, and I've come to think of Mermosa as having a retro aesthetic. Kind of like a campy sailor tattoo, or a 1950s space-age vibe, but with mermaids.
Remy keeps threatening to get one of those tats, by the way. He says he'll only get one if I do, and I won't lie, I'm tempted. We probably would have by now, had there been a tattoo shop in town.
I'm in a good mood, bopping around to my Yacht Rock playlist that's coming from the Wi-Fi speaker.
Remy's supposed to meet me here to help me discuss the furniture, but not for another hour. He's been such a sweetheart these past couple of weeks, patiently answering all of my questions about the island, introducing me to contractors, and helping me move things around. He even gave his opinion onwhat color I should paint the walls. (Aqua, a color that made me cringe).
I don't get the impression that he's some incredible business mastermind who's going to take the stock market by storm anytime soon, but that's okay. I chatter away about my business and he listens, offering his opinions, though he doesn't get defensive if I don't choose his preference. (I chose to paint the bar white).
We're in the friend zone together. And he's my only friend here in Cypress Grove so far, if you don't count the nice realtor who leased the bar to me and has brought over muffins on two occasions.
Somehow, Remy and I have been able to keep our attraction at bay. Just barely, though. There are times when we look at each other and I'm convinced we're going to kiss, when every inch of my body feels tingly.
When that happens, I make a joke. Or grab a cold drink. Or step several feet away. Because I'm reminded of my mother and how I don't want to be like her, falling for every man that comes along.
But I can't stop the feelings I have when Remy and I are together. Take two days ago, when we were going over the liquor license forms. We were here at Mermosa. Our shoulders brushed against one another's. He looked over, I looked over, and for a solid minute, we stared at each other. A minute's a long time to look into someone's eyes. It's like an eternity.
I felt him leaning in, as if seeking a kiss, and I jumped away like a cat touching an unexpected worm with its paw. I don't want to risk this friendship, especially not for a fleeting fling. And not with someone like Remy, who clearly never wants to settle down.
While he's classy enough not to talk about his past conquests, I hear how he talks about his brothers settling down. It's obviousthat he doesn't envision a life for himself like that. And honestly, I'm glad. A friend is okay. A man who wants me to cook, clean, and be a stand-in for his mother? Nope. Not for me.
So Remy and I are friends. With no benefits. Although, I've wondered if we could work something out in that department. Could we somehow make a pact that our friendship wouldn't change even if we were to give in to whatever this is?
Because I want him. There. I admit it.
But men get weird about stuff like that. Like when I'd first met Brent, I'd hoped to keep it casual. But he'd wanted so much, so fast, and I was swept up in the excitement of it all. So, with Remy, I'm keeping my mouth firmly shut.
As I'm dabbing at my forehead with a napkin and wondering if the air conditioner should be serviced, the door swings open, allowing the bright, afternoon sun to leak inside the dark bar. It's jarring, because I usually keep the lights low in the afternoon, partially to save energy, and also because it makes the space feel cooler.
I look up, expecting to see Remy.
Instead, it's a woman. She has long, blonde hair, almost platinum, except for a fuchsia streak in front. She steps inside, and I'm surprised when she's followed by three other women.
And a dog. A pudgy little pug.
"Welcome," I offer cautiously. "Unfortunately we're not open yet."
The blonde comes over to me, setting a messenger bag on the bar. "We haven't met, but I've heard all about you. I'm Natalia Hastings, Remy's sister."