Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

“You don’t seem overly upset about it,” she noted. “Were you really considering marrying her?”

Her question caused me a moment of pause. Because honestly, I wasn’t that upset about it anymore. And it suddenly struck me that my distress had been more about my own pride than about the loss of Phoebe in my life. I’d wanted revenge because I’d felt humiliated and spurned. Second best. Again. And if I was really being honest with myself because, why not—an old dog could learn new tricks—there was this ray of relief that I hadn’t really looked at since that day. But that was a lot to convey, and something I’d have to pick apart and think about later, and so I answered Bree simply with, “I don’t know.” I gave her a glance. “You didn’t like her.”

“No, no. I liked her fine.”

Fine. She’d liked her fine. A ringing endorsement from the woman I’d once heard describe Norm’s maple cayenne bacon as, “that which has the power to cast out evil from all the world for all eternity.” My lips tipped in amusement.

“Of course, I can’t say I like her much now, considering what she did to you.”

“So you like her less than fine now.”

“Much less.”

I watched the crowd again as Haven laughed, a few escaped curls bouncing and catching the light, making her hair gleam mahogany.

“What about the girl you’re here with?” Bree asked. “Haven. She seems very sweet. The boys are in love.”

I looked away from Haven, back to Bree. “We’re just friends. I’m taking a hiatus from women right now.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Bree murmured. “Rebound relationships never work out.”

“Plus, she’s a vegetarian plant lady,” I hissed, low and ominously under my breath, glancing around covertly to make sure no one else had heard.

“I’m sorry, did I hear you right? She’s a communist spy?”

“Basically.”

Bree laughed.

“She’s only twenty-three.”

“That’s how old I was when I moved to Pelion,” she mused dreamily. And fell in love with Archer, and he with her, went unspoken.

“Her brother’s the one who cheated with Phoebe.”

Bree’s head whipped my way. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Wow. That’s . . . complicated?”

“Revenge always is.” I shot her a cunning smile, more for effect than because I’d given much thought to my plans of vengeance.

“Revenge?” She lifted a brow. “Travis Hale, that sounds very melodramatic.” I huffed out an amused chuckle. That’s the same word Haven had used. I supposed it did sort of conjure up visions of a sword-wielding Count of Monte Cristo descending in a hot-air balloon.

Still . . . The vision wasn’t completely unwelcome. “He humiliated me. Don’t you think I have the right to get even?”

Bree sighed. “Maybe with Phoebe.” But her tone conveyed she wasn’t even convinced of that. “But Haven’s brother didn’t make any promises to you, therefore he didn’t break any promises to you. And in any case, all that revenge stuff? That sounds like the old Travis.”

The old Travis. The disdain in her voice told me all I needed to know about how she viewed the old Travis. Apparently, it wasn’t as a mysterious count who descended in hot-air balloons. Her tone said it was someone decidedly less dashing than that.

Did I feel like an updated model from the man she’d met eight years before, this old Travis? In some ways, yes . . . in others, I had no idea. I continued to stare at Haven, smiling in reaction to her sudden laugh. God, she’s beautiful. The unbidden thought hurt vaguely for reasons I couldn’t explain.

“Anyway, with Haven, there’s the brother thing. But also, we have very little in common,” I explained, as though Bree had pressed me further when she had not. “We’re simply friends. Temporary friends.”

“And yet . . .”

I looked over at Bree to see she was watching me again, a small, secretive smile on her face. “And yet what?”

She looked toward the place where I knew Haven was still chatting with our crew. “I’ve seen you around other women enough to know that you’re usually the one being watched by them.”

“Of course.” I shot her a smirk.

Bree shook her head. “No, you’ve never seemed to notice. It’s like it’s just a given to you.”

“Again, of course.”

“But this girl . . . you can’t keep your eyes off her.”

I made a scoffing sound in the back of my throat. “Please. She just happens to be standing right in front of the beer tent.” I pulled myself up. “And I’m thirsty. Want one?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “No. Thank you.” She stood too. “The pie judging contest starts in a few minutes and I have to get over there. I made Anne’s recipe.” Her eyes got misty when she mentioned Anne’s name, but they always did, still, even though Anne had died several years ago when the twins were only toddlers. Bree made Anne’s recipe every year for the festival’s blueberry pie contest. And Bree won with Anne’s recipe every single year. I had an inkling that it was “fixed” as a way to honor the longtime and deeply beloved Pelion resident, but I probably wasn’t going to bust anyone for blueberry-tinged corruption anytime soon.