Page 10 of Take This Heart (Windy Harbor #1)

CHAPTER NINE

KICK IN THE SHINS

GOLDIE

I drive over to the lake house, annoyed that Milo will be all up in my space this weekend. And he’s already frequenting Kitty-Corner Cafe? Ugh. To be fair, we don’t have many choices here, but I was hoping he’d stay out of all my favorite places.

True confession: I was already annoyed before I even saw him.

I got a little relief when I drove into Windy Harbor, the tension gradually peeling off of me.

But that was short-lived when I saw Milo’s cocky face in my coffee shop.

The frustration and self-doubt came rushing back, but that’s not all on him.

People have been raving about my installation. Even the tough critics. One reviewer called it achingly beautiful, and another said it captures the resilience of the human spirit with breathtaking subtlety.

Those two reviews alone should have me dancing on my tabletop. And there are dozens more that are just as amazing.

I should be elated.

But instead, I’m fixated on this one stupid review by someone named Ava Piper, who apparently thinks my work is trite, predictable, and self-indulgent.

When I read that last night, I paced my kitchen, muttering what I wished I could say to Ms. Ava Piper and her bitter little mind.

I don’t even know this woman, but I have lots of thoughts about her now.

Is she a professional critic, or a bored woman who just likes to rain on anyone’s parade?

Is she right? Is my work trite, predictable, and self-indulgent?

I mean, isn’t all art somewhat self-indulgent?

And trite, for that matter, when the bigger scope of what’s going on in our world is taken into consideration.

Definitely trite when I think of what’s going on with my dad.

But even in the worst of times, art is what helps people survive.

It’s certainly helped me in my darkest times.

Ugh. See? She’s gotten in my head. I’m spiraling. Whoever she is, she’s sitting behind a computer screen wreaking havoc with my thoughts. I wish I’d never read her review. She can go suck an egg.

I groan when I see the black Range Rover in the driveway. Sleek. I swear, even his SUV reeks of smugness. Parked like it owns the damn place.

I slam my door harder than necessary as I haul my bag out of the trunk.

The front door swings open, and there he is.

Looking far too pleased with himself.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, leaning against the doorframe like he’s posing for a photoshoot for an outrageously expensive car or a watch that costs more than most people make in a year. "If it isn't Minnesota's sweetheart."

I grind my teeth. “This is going to be torture, isn’t it, Lombardi?”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t have to be.”

My heart flutters like he said something charming and I want to kick my own shin for being such a traitor. We don’t like this man, remember?

“There’s my girl,” Dad says from inside, carrying a plate of cookies like this is a casual family picnic and not the beginning of my personal hell. “Time to celebrate our good news! The land is ours!”

We make it about an hour into discussing preliminary plans before I want to throw something.

"You can't just slap a bunch of modern monstrosities on the lakeshore," I say, jabbing a finger at Milo’s sketchpad. "This is a small, charming town. Updating and building something new doesn’t mean steamrolling over the character of the place."

"No," he agrees easily. "It means not living like it’s 1954." He flips a page dramatically. "This is an opportunity to build something that actually attracts visitors. Younger people. Families."

I lean forward, fuming. "Younger people want authenticity. Not concrete and glass boxes with sad little rooftop gardens."

I actually adore rooftop gardens, so I don’t know why I said that.

Milo taps his pencil against the table. "You seem pretty confident about what younger people want, considering you sound like a ninety-year-old shouting at the neighborhood kids to get off your lawn."

"You are such an ass."

“Goldie!” my dad gasps.

"And you," Milo says, flashing a grin that could melt glaciers—not mine, of course— "are tragically naive."

"I’d rather be naive than a sellout."

That wipes the grin off his face.

We stare at each other across the kitchen table, the tension so thick it could be sliced into angry little ice cubes.

Dad clears his throat. "Maybe we take a break?"

"Great idea," I say, standing so fast my chair screeches. "I'm going to take a walk before I commit a felony."

Milo smirks and leans back in his chair. “Take a long walk, Whitman. Maybe it’ll knock that chip off your shoulder."

“Hey now, you guys,” my dad starts. “Go easy on each other!”

I flip Milo off over said shoulder as I storm outside.

The lake air is cooler than I dressed for, biting at my skin as I pace along the shoreline.

Thinking about Milo’s patronizing face. His maddening voice. The way he seems to get under my skin in record time.

And of course, because the universe clearly hates me, when I turn back toward the house and round the corner by the old boat launch, he's there.

Hands in pockets. Staring at the water like he's the tragic hero of a movie that I did not ask to be made, thank you very much.

If I wanted to see perfection in movie and hero form, I’d watch either of the Pride and Prejudice movies and get my fix.

"Don't worry," I say, crossing my arms. "I'm not here to disturb your brooding session."

"Good," he says without looking at me. "Because I’m not going to save you when you trip over your own outrage and fall into the lake.”

“Nice.” I clap slowly. “I wish I had my phone. I’d play “True Colors” by Cyndi Lauper right now.”

“Sounds about right. A song our parents played in the eighties to fit with the vibe you envision for this place.”

“Ugh!” I growl, stepping past him. And carefully, so he doesn’t have to pull me out of the water.

He reaches out and gently touches my arm, and there’s something in his eyes that stops me cold.

The mockery and arrogance are gone.

"Why do you hate me so much?" he asks, voice low.

The question throws me off balance. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

"You don’t even know me, Goldie. You’ve created this version of me in your head."

I swallow hard. "Maybe because every time you open your mouth, you confirm exactly who I thought you were."

“And who is that?” He steps closer, and despite myself, my heart rate kicks up.

I lift my shoulder, unable to put my thoughts into words when he’s so close.

"Or maybe," he says softly, "you’re just scared that if you gave me a real chance, you might actually like me."

I snort. "Highly unlikely."

His mouth twitches. “Your lips sure liked me.”

I roll my eyes and he lets go of my arm. He brushes past me, heading back toward the house, leaving me rooted in place, the wind tearing at my hair, and an ache blooming in my chest.

After dinner that night, I find Dad out on the back deck, sitting in one of the old Adirondack chairs and nursing a hot tea. The lake stretches out in front of us, dark and endless.

I grab a sweatshirt and slip outside, plopping down in the chair beside him.

"How you feelin’?" I ask, nudging his shoulder with mine.

He shrugs. "Good enough."

"You're a terrible liar."

Dad chuckles. "Maybe. Your mom always saw right through me too. I had a hard time telling her I didn’t like one of her plans, but she’d know it by the look on my face.” He shakes his head. “You’re so much like her.” He looks at me and smiles.

I swallow the lump in my throat and pick at the frayed edge of my sleeve. "You have that appointment next week…I want to go with you."

He shakes his head immediately. "No way, Goldie."

"Dad, please—“

"I appreciate it, buttercup. But I need you to keep living your life. Not hovering over mine. Besides, you’ve got a job to keep up with.”

"Wanting to make sure you're okay isn't hovering.”

"It is if it makes you stop doing what you love."

I blink back tears and take his hand. “I’m almost done with the project at work.

I’m going to give my two weeks’ notice on Monday.

I love interior design and now I can put all my focus into designing something we want.

I’m really looking forward to it actually.

I’ve spent a lot of time fulfilling my customers’ wishes and now I’d like to make your dreams come true! ”

“Goldie…I know I really talked up this property and the dreams I had for all of us, but I’ve had time to think about it, and it isn’t fair for any of you to put your lives on hold for this. Follow the course of what you want to do.”

I sigh. “God, you're stubborn," I mutter.

He grins. "Look who’s talking."

“I want to be here, Dad. I want to be here for all of it.”

“Less so before you knew I was sick.”

I pause because, of course, he’s right. “I’ve had time to think about things too, and I’m excited about everything. I think the potential here is huge and I promise, I want in. Like Noah said—the bonus is the time I’ll get to spend with you.”

There's a beat of silence, filled only by the sound of the water lapping against the shore.

"So," he says casually, "what is your deal with Milo?”

I nearly choke on my sip of beer. "There's no deal. He's...infuriating."

Dad laughs. “With you, he certainly seems to be. You’re not quite yourself with him either, though, I’ve noticed. Felt like swords were about to be drawn earlier.”

"He's arrogant and bossy and he wants to change the history of things that shouldn’t be changed!"

"Mm-hmm."

“He thinks he knows everything.”

“Ahh.”

"And he’s smug."

"Mm-hmm."

I glare at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Maybe." He shrugs again, looking far too pleased with himself. "Or maybe I think you two are more alike than you realize."

“Watch your mouth,” I say, horrified.

He just laughs harder, and somehow, despite everything swirling around us—the tension, the fear, the uncertainty—I find myself laughing too.