“You’re just mad because you didn’t think to put your logo on one.”
“I’d have to have a cute vintage parasol and it wouldn’t be cost effective. Although…”
“Oh, here we go.”
“I can’t help it if I have a marketing brain that won’t turn off. But seriously, I can look for old umbrellas and put my logo on it—you know, those iron-on vinyl kind? Or,” she snapped her fingers, “I can make a vinyl for the handle, that way it’s the first thing they see when they grab the umbrella. Thought the parasol part would be free advertising. I’ll have to think about it.”
I just let her babble on because that was Kinleigh. She was born a boss babe. She’d been creating small businesses since I’d met her. She was forever bugging my brother to make her signs—which he did, because it was easier to let her steamroll us than to fight storm Kinleigh.
My phone buzzed with an alert. I glanced at the screen and quickly stuffed it back in my pocket. I wasn’t proud of the fact that I followed Rory on every one of his social platforms, but I couldn’t help myself. It wasn’t like he was mentioned often, but I had his Instagram on notification status.
Rory Ferguson. Producer, musician, word doctor.
Even his bio was light on info.
Nothing personal.
No, I wasn’t going to look. Later, when I
was alone, I’d pore over whatever picture he’d decided to post. And okay, so maybe I’d make sure he wasn’t on my coast. Just in case.
“Hello, earth to Ivy.”
“What?”
“You’re staring off into nothing. I mean, not like we can see much in this deluge, but I was talking here.”
“Right. Sorry. Just thinking about the truck.”
Lies. But better a little white lie than to tell my best friend I was mooning over a hookup. I could keep my stupidity to myself, thanks.
She reached over and squeezed my hand. “So exciting.”
I pushed thoughts of Rory away. This was my dream. He was just a fantasy. “Let’s get that pizza. If we’re going to be working all night, at least I can feed you.”
“I can so get behind that.”
Moving forward. It was all I could do now. Going back wasn’t good for anyone.
Sixteen
“I said half a dozen.” Macy stood in the doorway, her arms crossed as she held the door open for me.
“I know.” I lugged in a second freezer tote. “It’s only eight.”
“Is that your version of six?”
I set the tote on the table to the side of the front door then pushed a curl out of my eyes. I had my hair in a single French braid instead of my doubles, but my hair just wouldn’t stay tamed. I straightened my black button down shirt over my khakis. “Yes.”
“You do realize it’s a little early to gorge on ice cream?”
“This is the time you wanted. You’ll eat it all. I even brought one that you could scoop into coffee.”
“Did you?”
Yes. I’d finally perfected the vanilla. Even if I wanted to die each time I tasted it, I’d achieved the flavor I wanted. For others. I wouldn’t be eating it again now that I knew it was as good as I could possibly make it.
Macy frowned. “You okay? You look a little peaked.”