Page 9 of Meant for Me (Magnolia Bay #3)

five

“A ll I want for Christmas is youuu .” Zoey sang into the white spatula—officially the most boring spatula she’d ever encountered—and shook her hips before she resumed stirring the lumpy dough.

The other day, she’d had to unearth the probably-never-been-used mixing bowl from the depths of Linc’s pantry, behind an enormous open bag of sunflower seeds and a bulk-club box of white rice.

No wonder the man looked like he did—the kitchen was full of nothing but natural peanut butter, avocados, and chicken.

She’d fix that.

“… underneath the treeee .” She sang along as she spooned clumps of dough onto the cookie sheet, pausing to wipe her cheek with her shoulder.

Flour coated her hands, the apron she’d swiped from Linc’s grilling closet—yes, an entire pantry dedicated to meat-cooking supplies—and the countertops.

Oops, and the floor. Oh well, she’d get to that.

Linc wouldn’t be home for several hours and?—

“It’s September.”

Zoey shrieked and spun, arm flailing. Cookie dough shot off the end of her spatula and slapped against the wall, where it began a slow descent toward the floor.

Plop .

Linc stared at her from the doorway, his hair piled on top of his head, a slight sunburn streaking his nose.

Her heart restarted with a thud. “You scared me.” She pointed at him with the spatula, and another piece of dough dropped to her feet.

“What are you doing?” Linc strode across the kitchen, scowl in place. He slapped the portable speaker, and Mariah abruptly shut up. “This place is a mess.”

“Your bowl is clean, though.” She gestured to the sink, where the black porridge dish nestled among the remains of burnt cookie crumbs, a rolling pin, and several measuring cups. She wouldn’t tell him how long it had taken to soak the porridge free.

He ran a hand down the side of his jaw and, once again, she couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or maybe sue her. “What are you wearing?”

Then his eyes widened a little, and she thought about teasing him for the phrase choice, but it seemed like he’d been through enough already. She looked down at the black apron. “You trying to say I’m not believable as The Grillfather ?”

“Hardly.” He sniffed the air. “Did you burn a batch?”

“Two, actually.”

He leaned one hip against the island, then noticed the flour and backed away. “Remind me how you had an award-winning beignet business, again?”

“Apparently I’m really good at deep-frying stuff.” Zoey winced and tossed the spatula on the counter. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the rest of this figured out.”

Linc pried open the oven door. Smoke drifted out.

“Oops. Must not have heard the timer over Mariah.” She hurried to the oven, donned a mitt, and wrenched out the tray. “Okay, so make that three burned batches. We still have one left.” She gestured with the mitt toward the remaining lumps of dough ready for their turn. Or more like their fate.

He narrowed his eyes. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

“Good point. I’ll set two timers.” She crossed her arms over the apron. Dough squished beneath her shoe. “The real question is, why are you so home so early?” Home. That sounded weird.

And nice.

“Oh, sure. You put an apron on and the nagging starts.” He moved across the kitchen toward her, paused to brush flour off the leg of his jeans.

She held her ground, fighting a smile. “Evading my question, I see.”

He was moving closer, now. Stopped directly in front of her. “Did you do your pushups?”

“I did five, and decided that was a ridiculous house rule.” She lifted her chin.

He leaned in, and the smell of saltwater and sunscreen washed over her. She swallowed. Was he going to?—

He reached around her, snagged an apple from the fruit bowl, and took a big chomp. Juice sprayed. “You’re behind, then. You owe me thirty.”

Why had she thought he was doing anything other than reaching for a snack? And why was the little voice in the back of her head whispering she wanted him to?

The stress of her situation was getting to her. She backed away, wiped apple juice off her face. “No sane person can do thirty pushups in a day, Linc.”

“I do fifty.”

“Like I said.”

Gravel crunched outside. Linc frowned, stopped mid-chew. “Expecting someone?”

“I wasn’t even expecting you.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, then remembered the flour. Too late. She swatted at the white streaking her hair like premature gray. Ha. Another few days staying in close proximity with Linc and she’d be full-on silver.

Linc brushed past her, toward the front door. “Delivery truck might have taken a wrong turn.”

She followed him, brushing at the front of her apron and leaving a trail of white powder in their wake. “How big a hermit are you that you’re assuming a postal worker is lost instead of bringing you a package?”

“I rarely shop online. My protein powder lasts a month.”

“People could send you gifts.”

He grunted. “That doesn’t even happen at Christmas.”

It didn’t? She frowned.

Linc peered out the screened door at an older model sedan parked halfway down the long, tree-lined drive. A middle-aged woman climbed out and began a careful trek in low heels over the gravel toward the porch.

Linc glared. “I have a no soliciting sign at the end of the driveway.”

“Maybe she’s lost, like you said.” Zoey nudged Linc toward the kitchen. “I’ll make you a deal. You go put the next batch of cookies in and set the timer—that way it’ll be your fault if they burn—and I’ll handle this.”

“Fine.” He obliged and headed back for the unsuspecting cookie dough. “I guess you living here is good for something besides making a mess.”

“I’m going to assume you’re joking,” she called over her shoulder. But she smiled as she faced back to the driveway. See? They had their groove back. She was annoying, he was easily bothered, they bickered and bantered.

Best friends. They could make this work for a few weeks, if it took that long.

Everything was going to be okay.

The lady outside, dressed in a faded pantsuit with a floral-print blouse and carrying a manila folder, finally reached the door. Zoey opened it before she could knock, put on a welcoming smile. “Hi! Need some help?”

“I’m looking for Linc Fontenot.” The brunette flipped open the folder in her hand and glanced at the document inside, as if to verify, before looking back at Zoey. Her foundation was a tad too dark for her skin tone, but her eyes were kind, if not tired.

A lawyer, maybe? Zoey frowned, shifting her weight to block the door as if that might keep Linc from hearing.

“He’s not available right now. I could probably help.

” If this was about the kid that fell off the boat, well, she definitely wanted to know first. Find a way to break the news gently to Linc.

Or better yet, have a chance to pack her suitcase and get a head start.

The woman shook her head. “I’m afraid I have to speak with Mr. Fontenot directly.”

Yikes. Definitely a lawyer. Zoey drew a breath, smoothed the front of her apron, then realized how ridiculous she must look with flour everywhere. She tried to find her most professional voice. “Listen, Ms…”

“Bridges.” She hefted her purse on her shoulder.

“Ms. Bridges.” Zoey leaned in closer, lowered her voice as she propped open the screen door with her foot. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding with this”—she gestured toward the folder—“suit.”

Ms. Bridges frowned, looking down. “What about it?”

“It’s not right.”

“Not right?” She tugged at the hem of her jacket. “Really?”

Zoey shook her head. “Honestly, it’s all wrong. Trust me.”

Ms. Bridges tilted her head, lips pursed. “Do you really think that’s your place to say?”

“Of course it is.” Zoey reeled back. “I was there.”

Ms. Bridges tilted her head the other direction. “You were at Macy’s?”

This woman wasn’t a very good lawyer. “No, I was on the boat . I saw everything.”

“I certainly didn’t buy this suit on a boat.”

“I can guarantee you Linc has never even been to Macy’s.”

They spoke at the same time, then stared at each other. Zoey squinted. “What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?”

A car door slammed. Zoey looked down the driveway as a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, emerged from the back seat, arms crossed over a cropped T-shirt. Her thick dark hair hung in waves over her skinny shoulders. “I told you he wouldn’t be interested,” she called.

“And I told you to wait in the car.” Ms. Bridges released a sigh hard enough that her wispy bangs fluttered.

So maybe not a lawyer. Zoey frowned. “You’re not here about the boat incident?”

The girl, ignoring the woman’s instructions, began walking toward the porch. Zoey wondered if she should point out that fact to Ms. Bridges, who obviously couldn’t see behind her.

But Ms. Bridges continued before Zoey could decide. “I’m here on official business for Mr. Fontenot. And honestly, it’s been a long week. I could have done without the fashion advice.”

Zoey jerked her gaze back to the woman. “Fashion advice?”

“My suit.” She patted her jacket.

Zoey sucked in her breath. Oh, dear. She thought—“No! I was talking about a law suit.”

“She’s serving me papers?” Linc appeared in the doorway behind Zoey. She twisted around to look up at him just as his face darkened into a storm. He pointed to the road. “Listen, lady, I’ve got a no soliciting sign out there that you clearly barreled past.”

“I saw it. And I’m not soliciting.” Ms. Bridges pinched the bridge of her nose. The wind ruffled her hair, sending a warm breeze across the porch. “Mr. Fontenot, I’ve been trying to reach you for over a week. It’s urgent.”

“Phone’s not broken.” He rested one muscular arm on the door frame, a clear signal he wouldn’t be inviting anyone inside. Even if they had edible cookies, which they definitely didn’t.

Ms. Bridges looked as if she’d aged a decade in the past sixty seconds. “Well, you don’t answer it, nor do you have voicemail.”

Linc tilted his head. “If you think back to the No Trespassing, No Soliciting, and Beware of Dog signs you drove by, you might realize you aren’t that surprised.”

They continued arguing. Zoey’s attention drifted past Ms. Bridges, to the girl who had stopped at the foot of the porch stairs and tugged at the hair tie looped around her wrist. She scuffed one shoe in the dirt, leaning casually against the porch railing as if this trip was the ultimate in boring.

But her gaze kept drifting up to Linc, contradicting her alleged disinterest. She studied him like one might study a superhero. Or maybe a villain. Zoey snorted. With Linc, that was fair enough, depending on the day.

“…I’m not serving you papers,” Ms. Bridges was saying.

Zoey tuned back in.

“Glad to hear it. Now look, if you need money or directions, I’m sorry, but this isn’t the place.” Linc started to shut the door. Zoey jumped back just in time to avoid it slamming against her foot.

Ms. Bridges’s eyes widened through the screen. “Mr. Fontenot, please, if you’ll just stop one moment and listen?—”

“Told you.” The girl cocked one jean-clad hip, a smug smile creasing her face. Something about that look almost seemed…familiar. “You owe me ten bucks.”

Ms. Bridges spun around to face her. “I most certainly do not. Amelia, you were supposed to wait in the car until I sorted this out.”

Zoey took the opportunity to tug at Linc’s arm. He looked down at her, the visible frustration in his gaze measurably softening. She whispered. “Maybe hear them out.”

He rolled his eyes, but obligingly propped the screen back open, just in time for them to hear Amelia’s response.

“It’s hot in the car. And besides, it doesn’t sound like it’s getting sorted .” Amelia air-quoted the word. “All this red tape is so annoying.”

“I’ll say.” Linc scowled. “And for the record, you shouldn’t be rude to your elders like that.”

“Ha.” The teen singsonged at Ms. Bridges. “He just called you old.”

Ms. Bridges closed her eyes. Zoey was pretty sure if she’d been wearing red slippers, she’d have heel-clicked herself somewhere far away. “Mr. Fontenot, as I’ve been trying to explain to you, we have a situation on our hands.”

“It’s me.” Amelia clambered onto the porch, a challenging gleam in her eyes that did nothing to conceal the dark smudges underneath. She looked…tired. Like an adult and a child, all at once. “I’m the situation.”

“Who are you?” Linc frowned.

Zoey’s gaze darted between Amelia and Linc, at their matching glares. Dark hair and eyes…no. Impossible. Linc wasn’t—he’d never…

Amelia lifted her chin. “I’m your daughter.”