I prop my chin in my palms while resting my elbows on the table and gaze out over the sea view from the second floor of the shack. Relaxed, and I’m tired today.

“Here we go, ladies.” Bryant slides the plates in front of us, wearing a kitchen apron and looking domesticated today. He’s been learning the ropes of working the kitchen with Greta and helping her cook because apparently he’s a master chef, and it’s been his hidden talent for years. She doesn’t seem too enamored with him muscling into her domain, but she hasn’t stopped him either. I wonder if this is him trying to infiltrate because he knows this is a long-term thing for him, and his future lies in helping with the shack.

“What is it?” Greta pipes up, gazing up at him across the table from me, and then picks up a fork to prod the pasta with suspicion. No one gives Bryant a hard time like she does, but it’s amusing.

“Seafood pasta wi

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