“You’re a genius,” I whisper.
She giggles and directs me to put the ice chest in the small kitchen.
“Please tell me you drugged them.”
“I’m pretty sure I’d go to jail for that.” She grabs a bottle of cleaner from the cabinet above the sink and begins wiping the Popsicle residue from the inside of the chest. “Kids are a constant learning curve. I discovered really quickly that”—she lowers her voice to a mere whisper—“ ‘nap’ is a dirty word. So I started to brainstorm other ways to get them quiet for a few minutes a day. And then I found that once they were quiet, most of them would just fall asleep.”
She tosses the used paper towel into the trash and slides the ice chest onto the top of the fridge.
“I am in awe of you,” I say, bowing slightly. “Teach me all of your secrets, wise master.”
Julie shoots me a coy look. “Learn them yourself, you must,” she says in the most perfect Yoda voice I’ve ever heard.
A smile bigger than the state of Texas spreads across my face.
Two hours later I’ve completely relinquished the role of tour guide. Julie has dragged me to every single tourist hot spot that I swore I would never step foot in as long as I live. At the Seashell Shack we eat overpriced burgers that are surprisingly good. We take the guided tour of the lighthouse, a building I’ve admittedly only seen from the outside. We even visit the tiny Winlock Harbor Basket Museum just like she wanted, which I haven’t been to since our second-grade class took a field trip there. (When you grow up on an island the size of the Locks, your field trip options are extremely limited.) I remember the museum being incredibly boring and tedious, but with Julie it’s actually fun. She somehow manages to make a joke out of everything.
By the time we start heading back to the club so that I can take the boys home, I’ve laughed so much that my stomach muscles are sore. But I don’t want to say good-bye to her yet. Everything about her—her personality, her smile, the way she sometimes hums to herself even when I’m walking right next to her—is infectious.
“So,” I begin anxiously, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I just have to take the twins home. Do you want to go for a walk on the beach or something later?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how nervous they make me. Even more so than I was earlier today.
“Actually, no,” she says with a frown.
My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. “Oh. That’s okay. Do you have plans or something?”
Of course she would have plans. I don’t know how I could possibly be the only person on this island to recognize how awesome she is. I imagine she has a whole slew of dates lined up, one for every night of the week. How could she not?
“No, no plans. I just really had a horrible time with you today, so . . .”
My gaze darts to her face, and I immediately wilt in relief when I see the teasing smirk there. I let out a chuckle and try not to let show that I actually, for a split second, believed she was telling the truth. “Right. Of course. Me too. Terrible time. You are just the worst company.”
“Oh my gosh!” she exclaims. “You too? I’m so happy to hear you say that. I thought it was just me.”
I continue to play along even though I’m completely unable to keep a straight face. “No. It definitely wasn’t just you. I hated every single second of it.”
“I know. Totally,” she agrees wholeheartedly. “I spent the entire afternoon just thinking about things I’d rather be doing. Like getting teeth pulled. Pouring lemon juice into paper cuts.”
“Rubbing sandpaper on my sunburn.”
Now she breaks character and starts giggling. “You’re just so . . . I don’t know . . . boorish and impolite.”
“And you smell,” I put in.
She sniffs her armpits. “Yeah, sorry about that. I have a gland malfunction disease.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
She’s laughing really hard now. “Very unfortunate.”
We reach the front entrance of the beach club, and I pause next to the door. “So then, I guess I’ll see you . . . what? Never?”
She pretends to contemplate the question. “Well, I mean, I don’t really have any lemon juice in the house. Or sandpaper.”
“And the only dentist on the island is probably closed for the Fourth of July tomorrow.”
“Probably,” she agrees, screwing her mouth to the side and tilting her head from side to side. “So, if I promise to wear deodorant and you promise to stop acting like a brute, maybe we could keep hanging out?”
Despite my efforts I can’t stop the ear-to-ear grin that covers my face. “I think I can manage that. So I’ll meet you by the cottages in an hour?”
She looks at me like that’s the most ludicrous idea I’ve had all day. “Don’t be silly,” she says, pulling open the door and holding it for me. “I’ll walk you boys home.”
CHAPTER 27
IAN
This was a huge mistake.
I’ve spent the past hour on the beach behind the Cartwrights’ house, wrestling with uncooperative wooden poles and wrinkled cotton sheets and pesky tea candles, erecting what the Romance Guru blog calls “The Ultimate Beach Love Hut.”
That stupid salesgirl made me completely paranoid that I wasn’t doing enough to “woo” Whitney, so I spent the whole afternoon getting sucked into a Google spiral of dating advice. Now Whitney is scheduled to arrive any minute, and this tent is about to collapse into the tea candles and set fire to the whole damn thing.
Why didn’t I just opt for a romantic dinner at one of the island’s nicest restaurants?
Oh right, because I can’t afford any of the island’s nicest restaurants.
What made me think I could possibly impress Whitney Cartwright? The girl who grew up with everything. She’s probably dated a hundred guys who can afford much better than a lousy makeshift love hut on the beach.
No, I try to reassure myself. This will work.
I try once again to insert the supporting pole into the sand, wedging it down far enough that I’m sure the people in China are wondering why there’s a freaking pole sticking out of the ground. It seems to take, but just in case I keep one hand firmly wrapped around it, holding it in place, while I bend at an embarrassingly awkward angle to grab the bedsheet.
The blog post entitled “Summer Lovin’ Ideas” that I found on the Romance Guru website didn’t say anything about what kind of sheet, so I just grabbed a clean cotton one from the linen closet at the Cartwright house. But now I’m thinking that this one might be too heavy. The support pole looks like it’s about to buckle under the weight of it.
I find two large rocks nearby, pull the sheet taught, and secure the ends down with the weight of the rocks. That seems to keep the whole contraption stable.
For now.
I spread the blanket down underneath the tent, rearrange the throw pillows I stole from the guest bedroom, position the tea candles so they form a circle around the perimeter, and go to work arranging the food. Nothing fancy. The article said wine, fruit, and cheese would suffice, but once again it didn’t specify what kind. I spent twenty minutes at Coconut’s Market deliberating over the cheese selection. What kind of cheese do rich people eat? Brie? Gouda? Some other French kind I can’t pronounce? What if Whitney is lactose intolerant? How come after all these years I can’t summon a single memory of her consuming dairy?
I eventually opted for a Welsh cheddar. It seemed like a safe compromise. A cheese I recognize from a country I probably can’t locate on a map.
Despite my efforts, Old Man Finn at Coconut’s refused to sell me any wine, so I bought sparkling grape juice instead, figuring it counts for the wine and the fruit. But now that I look at my pathetic spread, I fear it’s severely lacking.
This is supposed to woo her?
A bottle of fizzy juice and some cut-up chunks of cheddar cheese?
Ugh. This is totally hopeless.
I should have asked Mamma
V at the beach club for help. She knows everything about food, and she’s always eager to help us out, especially when it comes to girls. One summer she actually helped Grayson bake cookies for a hot new tourist he was trying to impress. It went over so well, they dated for two whole weeks. Basically a record for Grayson. But asking for help would require actually telling someone about this date, and I still haven’t even wrapped my own head around the idea.
Maybe I just need some crackers or something. I wonder what the Cartwrights have lying around in their pantry.
I check the clock on my phone. Two minutes until eight. I can make it if I run.
I sprint up the beach and across the plank walkway to the Cartwrights’ backyard. I opt for the back door so I won’t have to accidentally bump into Whitney on the way in. I don’t want her to see that I’m still scrambling around at the last minute. I want her to think this was all part of my plan.
Suave, smooth, sweep-her-off-her-feet-with-crackers Ian.
I rifle around the pantry but can only scrounge up a half-empty sleeve of Ritz. I guess it’s better than nothing. I grab them and hurry back out the door.
Whitney and I must have just missed each other, because when I arrive back at the “love hut,” she’s already there. Her back is turned to me, but I can tell she looks incredible. She’s wearing a black off-the-shoulder dress that hangs, loose and flowy, around her slender frame. Her dark skin practically sparkles in the moonlight. And her as-black-as-night hair is tied back in a bun at the nape of her neck.
She’s staring at my construction, and I pause to watch, hoping to glean a reaction, but it’s impossible because I can’t see her face.
Is it just me, or does it seem like she’s been staring at it for an awfully long time?
It’s the cheese. It’s not fancy enough. I knew I should have gone with the Brie.
I take a single step toward her, hoping she’ll hear the footfall, but it’s muffled by the sand and the sound of the waves in the distance. I should say something slick and charming and Casanova-like, but all I can come up with is, “Hi.”
She startles and turns around, wiping hastily at her eyes.
Was she crying?
Panicked, I look at the tent. It’s not that bad, is it?
“Sorry,” I rush to say. “It looked better in the pictures online. I think I used the wrong sheet or something. But it didn’t say what kind of sheet, and—”
She stalks toward me, her steps heavy and purposeful. I’m pretty sure she’s going to walk right off the beach. I’m pretty sure I royally fucked up this whole wooing thing. That’s the last time I listen to random salesladies when it comes to dating advice.
But Whitney doesn’t walk off the beach. She walks right to me.
She smashes into me.
She collides with me.
She kisses me.
Hard.
Her lips are searching for something. Her mouth moves eagerly against mine. I drop the crackers and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her to me. Her body feels amazing pressed against mine.
We stumble backward, falling onto the pillows inside the makeshift tent. She never pulls away. She kisses me like she’s trying to save my life. Or hers. Or both.
I’m going to have to write the Romance Guru a very passionate fan letter tomorrow morning.
We lie on our sides, our bodies facing each other. Our lips still moving, exploring, dancing.
I place a hand on her hip and pull her closer. She rolls on top of me, and I can feel every inch of her. Every gorgeous curve.
But her foot must accidentally knock into the support beam in the process, because a second later the entire contraption comes collapsing down on top of us.
Thankfully the wind must have already blown out all the tea candles, because we don’t instantly catch fire. We just lie there, staring at each other, unsure what to do next. I say the first thing that pops into my mind.
“Do you want some cheese?”
CHAPTER 28
GRAYSON
The Fourth of July is a big deal on Winlock Harbor. Visitors come by the boatload from all over the East Coast to watch the parade, visit the shops downtown, eat ice cream at Scoops, swim in the ocean, and take over our beaches like an invasion.
Traditionally Ian, Mike, and I don’t do anything special. We hang out at my house, drink by the pool, swim, chat, eat, and watch the fireworks at the end of the night. Anything to avoid dealing with the mob. And I’m actually looking forward to these little acts of normalcy.
I’m looking forward to the three of us hanging out like old times.
No girlfriends. No dates. No drama.
I haven’t spoken to Harper since I left her on my father’s boat yesterday. She’s texted me twice, but I haven’t responded. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know what to do. If I see her, I’ll kiss her. If I kiss her, I’ll feel wretched.
And yet all I want to do is see her.
Being with her feels safe. It feels right. Even though I know it’s not.
The whole thing is just messed up.
The guys and I have the house to ourselves today. My father is on the mainland for work, and Whitney left about an hour ago, looking as giddy as a schoolgirl. No doubt she’s found some hunky tourist to keep her company for a few days.
I turn on the barbecue and go inside to get the steaks from the fridge. On the way back out I grab the chips and salsa, and set them on the table next to the cooler.
I’m just putting the first filet on the grill and taking a sip of beer when the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it!” Ian calls, emerging from his room and sprinting toward the door. It’s the first I’ve seen of him all day. Sometimes I get the sense that he’s avoiding me, although I don’t have the faintest idea why.
A few seconds later Ian steps onto the patio with Mike. We exchange fist bumps, and then for a minute we all kind of just stand there, staring at each other, wondering what comes next.
No, I think. I will not let this become another one of those awkward conversations where none of us can find anything to say to each other. I will not endure that torture again.
Yes, we’re all going through some shit, but we’re best friends. There has to be something we can talk about.
“So, Ian,” I say, trying to sound casual, which, of course, makes it sound just the opposite. “Mike told me you had a date yesterday. How’d that go?
Girls. Girls are always a good topic.
“Oh,” Ian says, sounding flustered. “That. Yeah, it wasn’t really a date. It was no big deal. Just a casual thing.” I try to give him a knowing look, but he refuses to meet my eye. He plunges his hand into the cooler and grabs two beers, then hands one to Mike and unscrews the other to take a long gulp. “What about you?” He lobs the question back at me. “Mike says you have a new lady friend you’ve been sneaking off to meet.”
My gaze darts quickly to Mike, then back to the grill.
Okay, maybe girls was a bad topic.
I shake my head, clearing my throat. “Yeah. Well, you know me.”
“We sure do,” Mike says with a chuckle. I know he means it in jest. Making fun of my continual rotating door of hookups has always been a harmless joke between us. But today, I don’t know, there’s something about the way he says it that strikes a nerve.
Or maybe I just need to chill the fuck out.
I press down on one of the filets and listen to the satisfying sizzle.
The guys must sense my unease, because Mike changes the subject. “I saw a football on the kitchen table. Wanna toss a few while those steaks cook?”
I press down harder on the steak, until my arm starts to throb. “Maybe later,” I grumble, and out of the corner of my eye, I just manage to catch the look Mike and Ian exchange.
“So,” Ian says, bouncing on his toes a little. At least someone seems to be in a good mood. “How long do you think those steaks will take, anyway?”
I shoot him a look. Does he have somewhe
re else to be?
“The normal time,” I tell him. “Unless you want yours rare.”
He shrugs. “I could do rare.”
“You are rare,” Mike jokes.
“Yeah, rare form,” Ian counters, striking a ridiculous pose.
Mike guffaws, pointing to Ian’s beer. “How many of those have you had?”
“This is my first one!” Ian swears. “I’m just high on life.” He breaks into an awkward dance move that is way too advanced for him and spills his beer in the process. “C’mon, Grayson,” he coaxes in a falsetto sexy voice. “Give it to me rare.”
Mike breaks out laughing.
“We’re not eating rare steak,” I snap, and immediately wish I could take it back. Ian stops dancing, and Mike’s laughter screeches to a halt. They’re both staring at me like I’ve completely lost it.
And who knows? Maybe I have. Maybe I really am going insane.
I rack my brain for something to say. A safe topic. “Hey, did anyone watch Crusade of Kings yet?”
Ian and Mike both take long sips of beer, shaking their heads in unison.
“Me neither,” I say, sounding way too chipper. “Maybe we can watch it later.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Mike says, but I can tell he doesn’t mean it.
Fifteen minutes later the steaks are done. I shovel them onto plates and hand them out to Mike and Ian, who head over to the patio table in silence. I go inside to grab some steak sauce from the fridge. By the time I get to the table, Ian has already consumed half his steak.
“Hungry?” I ask with a chuckle.
He looks down at his nearly empty plate and belches. “Yeah. I guess so.” He cuts another huge piece, shoves it into his mouth, and chews obnoxiously.
“So, who do you think will die in this episode?” I ask, pouring sauce onto my plate.
“I really hope it’s LaMestra,” Mike says with his mouth full. “She’s such a manipulative bitch.”
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