Page 9 of Beautiful Desire (Blossom Beach #3)

“Absolutely.” She nods, breathing out another giggle as she counts on her fingers. “You’re friendly, attentive, very easy on the eyes. What more could a girl ask for from her cashier?”

Now this is my type. This is the type of woman I’d go for, and I know, based on the way she’s looking at me, she’d be down.

Shit, she’s practically begging me to ask for her number, with the sparkle in her eye and the way she’s not-so-subtly pushing out her chest. I’ll bet sinking her would be a lot of fun.

In fact, it’s probably exactly what I need.

A little no-strings, sweaty fun to get my mind off my fucking stepsister and the fact that I’ve been exiled to this shitty fucking town.

The thought of Georgia has her lesson in manners coming to mind, and I huff out an amused breath as my mouth ticks up at the corner, deciding to give it a go right now.

“’Preciate it, ma’am,” I offer, cringing when my ears pick up on that faint southern drawl I’ve spent my whole life correcting.

It’s something my father drilled into me from an early age.

“The St. James men are businessmen, son,” he would announce in a stern voice.

“If you want the world to take you seriously, you can’t conduct business sounding like you just came from a Honky-tonk. ”

A chuckle bubbles out of her. “Oh, please, not the ma’am .” Waving her hand in front of her casually, she says, “Ma’am is for the old biddies. You can call me Tara.” She winks.

“Well, all right, Tara.” I finish bagging up her books, a grin curling my lips. “If that’s all for you, the total is forty-seven fifty-two.” After she swipes her card, I hand her the receipt to sign. “And how about you be a doll and write down your number for me next to your signature.”

She giggles and rolls her eyes playfully before doing just that. Sliding the paper across the counter, she says, “Call me and I can give you a proper tour of the town.”

“Does the tour end at your place?” I ask, arching a brow as I hand her the bag.

“If you play your cards right.” Purposely letting her fingers brush against mine, she smirks and tosses me a wink before walking off.

Yeah, she’s exactly the type of distraction I need.

About thirty minutes pass before Georgia returns.

She doesn’t spare me a single glance as she saunters into the back, with a sleeve of iced coffees in one hand, and a white paper bag, presumably with filled with pastries, in the other.

I don’t see her for the rest of the afternoon until about three, when she leaves for the day.

The rest of my shift drags on nauseatingly slowly, but without issue, like I figured it would.

It’s a little after five by the time I get home, and as I step into the house, my stomach grumbles as the aroma of something delicious reaches my nostrils.

Stopping in the kitchen, I switch on the oven light and see Georgia’s got what looks to be chicken pot pie baking in there.

Since moving in, I’ve noticed Georgia doesn’t cook every night, but on the nights she does, it’s always fucking delicious.

She also seems to take pity on me because she always makes enough for me to have some too, which I appreciate, since I’m fucking broke and don’t know how to cook anything.

My dad had a chef in the house while I was growing up, and when I moved out, I hired my own or ordered out, so I’ve never had to learn.

This living on a budget sucks, especially when groceries are as expensive as they are, and I can’t afford take-out.

If it weren’t for the food already in the house—that I now have to chip in for, apparently—and Georgia cooking, I’d probably starve.

Another thing my dad would say builds character.

My stepsister may be infuriating as all hell, but she certainly knows her way around a kitchen. I’ll give her that.

Speaking of… Where the hell is she?

After I check the living room and the backyard, where she usually hangs out, I decide to chill in my room while I wait for dinner to be ready.

As I’m walking down the hall, I notice the door to the room beside Georgia’s that’s always shut is propped open, and as I approach, the faint sound of music reaches my ears.

Glancing in through the couple of inches of space between the door and the jamb, I find her standing in front of a large folding table, pouring something into tin containers as she sings along to whatever girly pop song is playing.

I rap my knuckles against the wood before pushing the door open the rest of the way. Her focused gaze lifts to meet mine as I walk into the room. Coming to a stop in front of the table, I ask, “What are you doing?”

“Making candles,” she replies, offering nothing more as her attention returns to the small tins in front of her.

My face screws up. “What for?”

Georgia doesn’t bother looking at me again as she says, “For the store. Didn’t you notice them today?”

I think about it for a minute. “Well, now that you say something, yeah I did, but I didn’t know you made them.”

“Well, I do.” Her tone is drenched in utter boredom, as if talking to me pains her.

Watching her pour the yellow-ish liquid into the round containers, I huff out a breath. “That’s pretty cool. How long have you been doing that?”

Georgia pauses what she’s doing, her head lifting as she looks at me with furrowed brows. “Why are you asking me that? Do you need something?”

“I was just fucking asking,” I mutter. “That okay with you, Peach?”

Watching her face twist up with confusion, and maybe even a little annoyance, is comical. “Peach?”

“Yeah, you know, like Georgia peaches?” I snort.

“So clever.” She rolls her eyes and clicks her tongue. “Come up with that one all by yourself, like a big boy?”

“Fuck off.” I chuckle. “You know, you don’t always have to be such a snarky bitch.”

“As long as you’re taking up space in my house, I sure as hell do.

Your daddy told me to put you in your place, after all.

” The smirk she gives me is full of attitude, and that, paired with her bringing up my dad, sours my mood immediately.

Glancing over her shoulder at the clock on the wall, she adds fuel to the fire when she looks back at me and says, “Now, be a good boy for me and go set the table. Dinner will be ready soon.” Who does she fucking think she is?

When I don’t immediately jump to obey, amusement wrinkles her forehead as her brows shoot up.

“Well, what’re you waiting for? You’re dismissed. Shoo, little puppy.”

Clenching my jaw hard enough to make it pop, I turn and stride out of the room, but not before flipping her off and muttering, “The only reason I’m doing it is because I’m hungry and want to eat. Not because you ordered me to, like some fucking dictator.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” Georgia giggles. “And I’ll bet it also has nothing to do with you secretly enjoying being told you’re a good boy.”

“Fuck you,” I bite out, already at the end of the hallway.

She doesn’t fucking know what she’s talking about.

Grabbing my phone, I decide to hit up the hot blonde from the bookstore. A little stress relief later on tonight sounds like exactly what I need. How’s that for being a good boy?