Checking the rearview mirror as I backed out of the parking space, I almost wanted Leo to magically appear so I could apologize for being so weird and bitchy.

Also, so I could stare at him some more.

God, his body had been so chiseled. His lips looked as kissable as they were five years ago. More so. He still had those adorable upturns at the corners of his mouth, and he still looked at me as if I were something really sweet, yet forbidden to eat.

No. Dial it back.

Over the past few years, I'd often wondered what kind of man he'd become. If the butterflies in my stomach were any indication, the reality was much better than any fantasy I'd entertained. Yet, there was a badass quality to him I couldn't deny or explain.

A twinge of danger.

Maybe it had been those scars—were they burns?—on the outside of his right arm, covering his shoulder, bicep, and possibly stretching to his forearm—the only flaw on his perfect body. Though he'd clearly tried to keep them away from my eyes, I'd noticed the way they'd mingled with his tattoos, wondering which came first.

His blue eyes were still beautiful, but now there were little lines in the corners, like he was tired or stressed. He looked older, much older than me, even though we were only a year apart.

I suddenly felt horrible and rude about practically running away from him. What if he thought it was because of his scars? Of course that hadn't been the reason. It had been the talk of the starfish, which had brought back all those bittersweet memories of our two weeks together, which had made me feel like crying. I hadn't wanted to do that in front of him.

Damn. I'd have to apologize to him now. How and when was the question.

When I arrived home, I ran into my apartment through the back entrance of the hotel and quickly changed out of my beach clothes into a more polished, tropical print cotton dress. Then I walked down the hall with a serious look.

Nicole, my sister, was in the front office and shot me a glare, and I held up a hand in anticipation of a lecture or serious discussion.

"Hey. Sorry. I was at the sand sculpture contest."

"Okay, whatever," Nicole said. "I need to pick up Grace at school."

I smiled. Grace was Nicole's daughter and the main reason I'd stayed sane through the tragedies of the past year. The girl and her wild imagination and giggles could draw me out of the darkest of places. Also, the five-year-old was so attached, I felt guilty being in a down mood around her.

Nicole scowled at me. We'd always had a difficult relationship.

Seven years older than me, she was already married to Daniel and pregnant with Grace when I had my pregnancy scare. At the time, Nicole had sided with Mom. She'd scoffed at my feelings, saying I was only a kid and had no business getting knocked up so young—or hanging out with a boy who would do that to me.

"I'm twenty-four and pregnant," my sister had screamed. "My life is OVER. Is this what you want?"

At the time, I'd understood my mother's anger, but not my sister's. Now, I blinked at Nicole and turned to the desk to shuffle through the day's mail. She always seemed so angry.

Nicole scowled and grabbed her purse. "Oh, and you need to figure out something for breakfast. Grace has ballet, which means I can't bake. Maybe grab something at The Daily Bread?"

I groaned aloud. Even before our mother's death, it had been my job to keep the hotel running. I'd helped for years, since I was a teen, and had since graduated with honors and dual degrees in hospitality and business management from a small college in nearby Fort Myers.

Nicole technically co-owned the hotel, but she was married to a cop on the island who, in my opinion, was far too demanding of her time. Daniel wanted a traditional, stay-at-home housewife to clean and cook three meals a day, and I couldn't understand how my sister accepted that her husband did nothing around the house when he wasn't working. Nicole was also involved in numerous volunteer projects at Grace's school, and because of all this, she couldn't be bothered with the hotel's day-to-day affairs.

She wanted nothing to do with the hotel, but still felt the need to boss me around on the regular. Like right now.

"Did you hear me? Jess? Earth to Jess?"

"I heard you. The Daily Bread's closed. Someone...bought it."

"Oh, yeah? Who?"

I fished around in my bag, found my phone, then pretended to fiddle with it. "I don't know. Catalina told me some guy bought it."

A lie of omission? No, self-preservation. I already knew where Nicole stood on the subject of Leo.

"Okay, whatever. Go to the grocery store. We have a full house the day after tomorrow and need pastries at the very least. And something salty for the afternoon cocktail hour." Nicole walked toward the door, then stopped and turned. "Oh, the property appraiser is also coming soon. On the fourteenth."

I avoided my sister's gaze. Nicole always had a jam-packed schedule and tried to give me the same. "That's a Sunday. Valentine's Day. We're always busy. We can't wait 'til after? There's so much to do. Why would he come on a Sunday, of all days?"

"Don't whine. You know I hate it when your voice takes that tone."

I rolled my eyes. Nicole could channel Mom so well, it made me want to scream.

Nicole waved her hand. "The appraiser had that afternoon free, and he's a friend of Daniel's. Might as well get the ball rolling so we can list the hotel first thing in March. Maybe you'll be able to move by the summer if we sell quickly. The less we have to invest in this hotel, the better. It's a money pit. And don't you want to go off-island and work for a bigger hotel chain or something? We spent all that money on college for you."

"I've heard this all before and—"

Nicole didn't allow me to finish. "Gotta run. Gotta get dinner on." She swept out the door, allowing a column of bright sunshine to enter the inn's lobby, which was decorated with shells we'd collected over the years as kids.

I hissed out a breath. Life was happening too fast. Since Mom died last fall, it seemed like Nicole's way of coping was to steamroll ahead. First, she'd insisted on cleaning out the closets, and then she gave most of Mom's belongings to a charity. Now, she wanted to sell the hotel.

I wasn't sure I agreed. Nicole said I couldn't handle running the business by myself at twenty-two, but that's how old Mom had been when she took the business over from her parents, and if Mom could do it, so could I.

Nicole was eager to move on, to unload the business that had been in the family for generations.

All I wanted was to slow down. And for Nicole to chill the hell out.

The door opened, and Nicole poked her head back inside. "I forgot to tell you, that nutless wonder called. Jacob. I told him you wouldn't call back."

At least my sister had gotten one thing right. "I wouldn't call him back if he was the last man on this island. Or the planet." Nicole chuckled, shutting the door.

Jacob was the assistant to the mayor of the mainland city of Fort Myers, and when I'd caught him and an intern groping each other in his car outside his condo one night, I was devastated. And pissed.

I love you, Jessica, but I have needs, he'd texted a few days later.

It made sense, I guess, given my physical issue, but he should have been upfront with me rather than going behind my back. I hated him for that—and for hounding me after we'd tried to have sex that first time and it hurt so much we had to stop. We'd tried some more, but it had always ended the same.

I felt horrible and inadequate and broken. Then we stopped trying.

Sometimes, I wondered if my body tightened up because of my time with Leo and how it ended with him. My doctor had said past sexual experiences involving fear and shame could trigger the condition. I'd certainly felt both of those when I had to tell Mom I thought I was pregnant.

Or maybe Catalina was right. Maybe my body had known all along Jacob wasn't good for me. I'd found out later through mutual friends he had been screwing other women our entire year-long relationship.

It hadn't surprised me when he split with the intern soon afterward, or his subsequent texts and calls. I'd ignored them. And then Mom died, and Jacob was an afterthought.

"I'm sorry about your mom. I made a mistake. Let's talk, please," he'd bleated into my voicemail like a lovelorn sheep.

Whatever. I didn't care. It was just like Mom had told me over the years: men couldn't be trusted. That was the danger of the lure of sex.

With a sigh, I tried to push all my bad thoughts aside. I had to plan the week's breakfast menu for the hotel. I loved everything about running the hotel except for the meal planning and shopping. I always came up blank.

If only I could find Mom's recipes...

She had special recipe boxes, one for each month and every holiday. Stacks of menu plans and shopping lists for all occasions. I used to tease her about having menus for obscure holidays, like National Dog Day or International Children's Book Day.

"Every day's a celebration," Mom used to say, then laugh.

For some reason, I hadn't been able to find the Valentine's Day plan. I'd torn through every closet and nook and came up empty, which was frustrating. It seemed like every week, I'd look in a new place and find nothing.

I looked up, and my eyes landed on the walnut facade of a large, imposing art deco chest at the far end of the lobby. Mom had kept office supplies inside, and I hadn't looked there. Or had I? I couldn't remember. Grief had a way of tangling the thoughts in my brain.

I walked over and lifted the lid. I pawed around amongst pens and a ream of paper, extracting a medium-sized box. Closing the lid of the chest, I set the cardboard box on the hotel reception desk and opened the flaps. The little red-and-white recipe container was indeed inside.

Grinning, I placed it on the desk and paused. There was another box. I opened it, and nestled inside heavy padding was a beautiful statue of two flamingos. The figurine, about eight inches tall, was an expensive, handmade Lladro porcelain sculpture from the 1930s. The birds were a pale pink and elegant, not tacky and neon-colored like so many Florida baubles. This had been my grandmother's, and while I'd been fascinated with the statuette as a child, I'd never, ever been allowed to touch it.

Until now.

It would look beautiful on the shelf behind the front desk in the reception area, next to that art deco table lamp.

I carefully set the fragile statue on the shelf. If only I could run the hotel myself, I knew it would be the coolest place on the island and would draw art deco lovers and history buffs from around the world. I had so many ideas. I just had to build the courage to really stand up to my sister.

As I was about to close the box, I spied a stack of black-and-white composition notebooks. There were five in all.

I extracted one and ran my hand over the thick cardboard cover. Flipping through the pages, I saw my mother's neat, loopy cursive filling every line. I turned to the first page and gasped as I read a snippet.

DEC. 10: I can feel my baby girl kicking. Not much longer now! I've put on a lot of weight and keep eating cartons of ice cream. I just don't care, though. I feel amazing, if a little tired. I can't wait to see her tiny face and meet this new person. She's going to be brave and beautiful like Nicole. And maybe, just like me. I feel pretty damn brave, raising two girls by myself after Brendan walked out on us, that drunk S.O.B. Strike that—I don't just feel brave, I am brave.

My chest tightened as I checked all the notebooks. All were filled with Mom's words. Which meant these were journals. Did Nicole know about them? Probably not. A pang of guilt shot through me, as if I were invading Mom's privacy by reading her innermost thoughts.

That was silly. Mom probably would have wanted me to read the journals. Right?

The idea that my mother had written so much made me want to shirk work and spend the rest of the day on the sofa with a cup of coffee reading. Maybe some of the many questions about life would be answered within these pages.

In her attempt at giving me a good childhood, Mom had never talked about the obvious difficulty of being a single mother. I never learned much about my dad, who'd been an alcoholic and up and left after nine years of marriage while Mom was pregnant. Looking back, it seemed as if I'd been kept in the dark my whole life.

The thought of finding out what Mom really felt dredged up old feelings of anger. I'd never quite forgiven her for getting so upset and making me feel so guilty about having sex with Leo that winter break. It was a grudge that faded over the years and after Mom's death, but now that I'd seen Leo again, all the old hurts and arguments resurfaced.

And memories.

"But I love him!" I wailed, my sixteen-year-old voice hitting shrill and piercing notes. "We had sex! Lots of it! So there! My period's late, and if I'm pregnant, I'm keeping the baby."

Mom rolled her eyes. "You don't even know what you're saying. You're too young for that. You don't know what love is. You have more important things to focus on, like college. You'd better hope to God you're not pregnant, young lady—"

The front door of the hotel opened, sending a strip of bells attached to the doorknob into a jingling riot. A grinning couple with multiple bags and suitcases swept inside, so I closed the journal, scooped up the others from the box, and stuffed them in my tote.

"Welcome to The Beacon." I smiled warmly at the couple, recalling more of my mother's words.

Never keep a guest waiting.

I'd read Mom's journal later.

____