Sandcastle Beach (Matchmaker Bay #3) - Jenny Holiday Page 0,58

and desist. “Have you…seen a lot of Sadie recently?” As far as she knew, Sadie and Benjamin had not been a thing since way back in the day. Since they had ruined her life. Temporarily.

Okay, that was a bit much, even for a championship grudge-holder such as herself. Really, she should thank them. They were responsible for her current work ethic. For the mental policies-and-procedures manual that had made it so she’d never had to cancel a play again. And never would.

“I haven’t seen much of Sadie lately,” Law said, “but I tried to think about who might make a good queen, and she came to mind.”

Sadie did not have good tiara hair. With her short and curly hair, she was going to look like Little Orphan Annie playing dress-up. Also, her acting skills had never been that good—Maya wasn’t sure what she’d been thinking with casting her that one time. But the point was, Sadie wasn’t going to be able to inhabit the role of the mermaid queen the way that was required to really sell it.

Also, Maya had just gotten custody of the trident last parade. The old folks might try to give it back to the king. Benjamin made a face suddenly. He seemed to be looking at something behind her. She turned.

Holden pulled out the stool next to her. “Hey.”

She was sitting next to Holden Hampshire at her local bar. Surreal. She shot him a smile. “I’m excited for tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?” Benjamin asked.

“First day of rehearsals for Much Ado,” she said.

“About that,” Holden said. “Is there any way we could start a little later? I mean, eight a.m.…” He scrunched his nose.

“Oh! Ha! Well, our actors playing Hero and Claudio are in high school, right, because I’m using their storyline to make a point about online bullying? And Claudio is doing summer school this week, which is in the afternoons, so we need to be wrapped up by one, hence the early start.” It was actually stressing her out. Her Hero was a star in the making, but the boy she’d cast as Claudio she was less sure about.

Maybe the whole high school angle had been a mistake. But she really had thought the social media theme was a good one.

Also, Holden had blown her budget, and high schoolers came cheap.

“High school.” Holden’s tone was blank, but somehow she detected a note of snobbery. Which was good! Very Benedick!

“Yes, well, we all started somewhere, right?” she said, taking a sip of the wrong Riesling.

“Maya was directing when she was in high school,” said Benjamin, who she’d completely forgotten about. Almost forgotten about. To be fair, it was hard to really forget about Benjamin on account of his looming presence and his constant grumbling. Also maybe his moss-green eyes that saw everything.

“Were you an actor when you were in high school?” Benjamin asked Holden.

“No,” Holden said. “I was a musician in high school. And then I quit a year early when my professional career took off.”

“Did you do anything I’d know?” Benjamin inquired mildly.

“I was in Two Squared.”

Benjamin scrunched his forehead. “Hmm. Don’t know them. You, I guess. Don’t know you.” That was a lie. She herself had told Benjamin about Holden’s past. Benjamin lifted his hand from the water bowl, shook it out, and extended it across Maya’s space to Holden. “Ben Lawson. I own this place.”

I own this place. He said it like he was talking about more than the bar. The territorialism in his tone made it sound like he was talking about the whole town.

“Holden Hampshire,” came the reply after a beat, though Holden ignored the damp hand. He waited another beat, pushed back his chair, and said, “I gotta jet. See you tomorrow, Maya?”

“At eight,” Benjamin said.

Ignoring Benjamin, Holden winked at her. “I’ll do my best.”

She smiled and waved, and when he was safely out of earshot, she turned to Benjamin, preparing to interrogate him about what that little pissing contest had been about, but he spoke first. “What a dick.”

“Oh, come on.”

“He has to rehearse for five hours a day in a beach town in the summer, and he can’t be bothered to get out of bed in the mornings?”

“He’s an artist. He’s sensitive. He’s probably an insomniac.”

“You’re an artist, and you work all the time.”

“So do you.”

She had no idea why they were arguing. Or even what they were arguing about. Who worked more? Who worked less? She wasn’t even sure whether working more or working less represented the moral