The Bachelor And The Beauty Queen. Carolyn Hector

“this is a small town.”

      “We came from a small town—” Stephen shrugged, gesturing his hand between the two of them “—on an island, secluded from the world.”

      “Villa San Juan is not secluded.” Nate tried not to laugh, pressing his lips together and avoiding eye contact.

      “Unless you had a boat or caught the ferry,” said Stephen, glad the tension between them had dissipated, “you were stuck if the bridge went out.”

      “Look, all I’m saying is Lexi’s been through a lot, and a lot of people around here won’t let her forget her troubles.”

      “Explain to me why we want someone troubled in Philly’s life.” Stephen’s mind grasped the nugget of information. He needed something to shake the feel of her silky skin out of his mind or the scent of her sweet body out of his head.

      “If you’re going to act like this, go back to Atlanta.”

      “I’m here.”

      “What about your house in Berkeley Lake?”

      “Just because I didn’t sell my place immediately doesn’t mean I’m not committed to the girls. I told you I’ve already found a place to set up shop here.” He inclined his head toward the shop wedged between Grits and Glam Gowns, and the café.

      Nate’s gaze followed, then his mouth dropped open with horror. “What did you do?”

      “I made an investment in our future, a future for the girls.” Stephen grinned proudly before manually unlocking the passenger’s side door to step outside into the late-morning heat. Already a cloud of humidity surrounded his frame. He loosened the knot of his yellow-and-gray paisley tie. Perhaps wearing a dark suit today was not the best choice. “You cannot honestly tell me you like working out of the house.”

      “Is this about Philly sticking the piece of bologna in the DVD player?”

      Stephen chuckled. “No, I am not upset with her for trying to hide a lunch you made. How does anyone mess up a bologna sandwich?”

      “We’re not talking about my cooking.”

      “Why are you acting so surprised? We need the office space.”

      Nate scrambled out of his side and stood in front of Stephen, blocking him from stepping onto the curb. “Remember when I said you need to fix whatever you did wrong? We’re not destitute. We don’t need to continue working for a long while. We’re here to raise our nieces.”

      Stephen decided to leave the arguing alone. He listened to the bells over the door until they stopped chiming. The traffic downtown seemed motionless. For a minute, he swore he heard the traffic signal changing colors. In a diner across the street, a few people sat in the window, peering disapprovingly at the newcomer. A few dozen sets of eyes peered out from the drugstore across the street.

      He hated small towns. The main reason he’d left Villa San Juan was to get away from everyone always being in everybody’s business. As part of the Torres family through his mother, they were all subject to gossip. A major perk to living in Berkeley Lake was that he barely saw his neighbors. In Villa San Juan, you couldn’t turn a corner without hitting a Torres.

      Stephen reached for the set of keys, delivered to him yesterday, in the front pocket of his dark gray slacks. Despite the stares, the town truly was picturesque and moved him to the memory of when he first got excited about scouting out locations. He’d been about eighteen at the time and visiting his grandparents in Puerto Rico when he met an ambitious producer by the name of Christopher Kelly. Christopher wanted to impress his TV studio executive mother with hidden vacation spots, and Stephen, knowing all the beautiful hideaways not on the maps, was the right man for the job. After the success of his travel show for Multi Ethnic Television, also known as MET, people sought out Stephen’s services. Using his shoulder, Stephen pushed against the wood frame of the door still bearing the name Divinity Bakery etched into the glass. Mounds of old newspapers nearly tripped him; dust floating through the beams of sunlight triggered a sneezing attack. The first thing he needed to do was start cleaning. The black-and-white tiled floor needed to go. Stephen preferred hardwood floors and office privacy. The only closed area so far was through the double doors leading to what he presumed was the kitchen, if he didn’t count the short hallway to the left of the closed-off kitchen. Though the electricity was out, making it hard to confirm, Stephen bet the two closed doors down the dark hallway were bathrooms marked with the universal symbols.