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"Plotting Summer" Sample
Prologue
Ten Years Earlier
On the last signature, I dot the “i” with a small heart and smile. That’s the one! It’s so pretty with just the right amount of loops. Too bad that, for all my practice, I’ll never use it in real life. I should stick to working on my actual name—Capri Collins—but it isn’t as fun to write.
The whispers of a sea breeze play with the dark brown strands of my hair. I shut my notebook on my lap, tipping my chin upward to absorb the late afternoon sun on my face. With a long inhale, I close my eyes and note the slight shifting of the water beneath the docked boat. The subtle taste of salt on my tongue. The summer humidity clinging to my skin. The quiet buzz of distant insects. It’s moments like this—when I’m alone and all my senses are heightened—that my imagination finds free rein. And I never object to where it takes me. Or, more specifically, who it always brings along: Tristan Palmer. (Yes, as in the Palmer of my Mrs. Capri Palmer dream signature).
When an image of his glorious self fills my mind, a smile of utter contentment makes its way onto my lips. He is perfection personified. A modern gentleman. The best of everything. The guy of every girl’s dreams (at least at Beachside High). And conveniently, my next-door neighbor.
But, like all worthy heroes, Tristan has a paralyzing weakness. His isn’t any old, run-of-the-mill weakness either. It’s all consuming. Or more like she’s all consuming. Bridget Hall. The most perfect female specimen on the planet. His girlfriend and my arch nemesis.
Okay, arch nemesis is a touch dramatic. That requires her to know who I am, and she very much doesn’t. Sure, she might recognize me in a line up considering we go to the same high school and I catch a ride with Tristan every day, but if she couldn’t, I honestly wouldn’t be shocked. Offended? Slightly. But not shocked.
You see, Tristan and Bridget have been dating for almost three years—which in high school chronology is epically long. Not as long as my secret crush on him—that dates all the way to early elementary school when I used to visit my grandparents on the island before moving here—but who’s comparing? Besides me, that is? Not that I’d have a chance with Tristan even if they weren’t dating. The quarterback of the football team never sets his sights on the introverted book-nerd. Not in real life.
Which is where the need for imagination comes in. Thankfully, I have loads and loads of that. Notebooks full of story ideas, in fact, as well as partially formed plots for future books I intend to write someday. Fiction is a beautiful thing.
Almost as beautiful as the current phantom-Tristan of my mind’s eye.
“Capri.” It’s Tristan’s voice, but it sounds so real. So close. Not at all like it’s in my head.
My eyes fly open, and like I conjured him into being, Tristan stands between me and his family’s dock, staring at me with an amused, chest-squeezing grin. Apparently, all my senses weren’t as heightened as I thought. Slacker hearing!
“Tristan!” I shoot to my feet, the notebook on my lap plummeting to the floor, before I remember exactly where I am. With my abrupt motion, the small, metal fishing boat pitches to the side and bangs against the dock. True to Newton’s Third Law, the force immediately sends the boat rocking in the other direction. My arms fling outward in an attempt for balance, but when the boat shifts again and hits the dock a second time, all hope is lost. The last thing I see is Tristan’s wide-eyed expression before I topple backward over the metal bench I’ve been sitting on and land with a thunderous thud between it and the bench row behind. Wedged with my shoulders on the floor of the boat, my chin pressed against my chest, and my legs straight up in the air, I must resemble a dead bug.
I moan, half from the pain in my head and half from utter mortification. Actually, a fourth from pain and the rest from utter mortification. At least I didn’t tumble into the water.
Of course, Tristan won’t pretend he didn’t see my fall. I’m a damsel in very apparent distress, and he’s the upstanding gentleman. On cue, he appears at the side of the boat. Kneeling on the dock, he takes hold of my arm to help me up. “You okay?”
Nope. Not in the least. The memory of this moment will fester inside me for the rest of my pathetic existence if I don’t die from a brain bleed first. Frankly, that might be the more humane way to go.
Once I’m seated on the bench again, I rub the back of my head where a tender lump is forming. “I think so.” My thoughts seem to be developing in slow motion, which is concerning, but that could also be my proximity to Tristan. I never think clearly with him around. “I just lost my balance.” Obviously. Ugh.
He presses against the edge of the boat to subdue the rocking my fall caused. “Sorry if I startled you.”
I shake my aching head, attempting not to get hypnotized by the depths of his sea-green eyes. I’d like to retain what little brain functionality I still have. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
His gaze locks on the ground at my feet before he reaches over to pick up something off the floor, and my heart lifts into my throat when I glimpse the unadorned teal blue notebook in his hands. Thank the high heavens it’s closed! “You dropped this,” he says, brushing off some dirt from the cover.
“Oh, thanks.” I casually take hold of it and place it on my lap again like the contents aren’t of the top-secret variety. Tristan Palmer absolutely cannot know what graces these pages. And I’m not only referring to the practiced signatures—Capri Palmer—filling every blank nook and cranny. This notebook is brimming with romance plot points, character descriptions, inspirational scenes, and story ideas, ALL involving him. Not that he would know that specifically because I’m not careless enough to name Tristan outright, but I have zero desire for him to discover my obsession with romance. Or writing. Or most particularly, writing romance. I need to change the subject ASAP.
Before I have the chance, Tristan takes mercy on me. “Were you taking the boat out?”
I shake my head a second time, glad the motion doesn’t send pain shooting through my skull again. Maybe I won’t die of a brain bleed after all. “No. I was sitting here … thinking.” My cheeks heat in complete betrayal of what exactly I was thinking about, but I keep my eyes locked with his to compensate for it.
He gives a slow nod, then tosses a thumb in the direction of his family’s souped-up ski boat. “I’m headed out for a drive.”
Not sure why he’s telling me, I give a small smile. “Have fun.”
He glances at his boat, then back to me. “You should come. If you feel up to it.”
I stare at him. Tristan Palmer is inviting me to go on his boat? Just me and him? No one else? It isn’t the first time he’s invited me somewhere, but I’m pretty sure all the others were pity-invites—obligatory offers when other island kids would discuss their weekend plans in front of me. Maybe this is a pity-invite too—I did totally eat it in front of him—but for some reason, I don’t really care.
One side of his mouth quirks up, and suddenly I realize I’m still staring. “Unless you’re too busy thinking,” he says.
“No!” The response bursts out of me with such force that his brows lift with what I hope is amusement. I remind myself to chill and try a nonchalant, one-shouldered shrug. “I mean, I’ll come.”
“Do you need to let your mom know?”
“My mom and grandma are at my brother’s golf tournament in Orlando. They won’t be home for a few more hours.” Or later if Walker convinces them to stop for dinner. Which he will.
He stands up and offers me his hand. “Here. Let me help you out, then.”
My gaze lowers from those gorgeous eyes to his outstretched hand. It’s just like in my imaginings. Except it’s real. With only a brief hesitation where I worry I might pass out from pure delight, I put my hand in his. Instantly, my fingers are alive with warmth, and the feeling shoots up through my arm until my whole body is consumed. I’ll definitely be documenting every last detail of this moment in my notebook later so I can relive it for ... I don’t know ... forever.
When my feet are safely on the dock, he releases my hand and starts toward his boat like he didn’t rock my entire world with a brief touch. I’m obviously still reeling and need a second. Without permission, my gaze shifts from his begging-to-be touched golden locks to the soft white t-shirt contrasting his tan skin and clinging to his muscular back. I nearly let my focus drop lower when I partially return to my senses. What would he think if he caught me admiring his mighty fine hindquarters?
Pull yourself together, Capri!
I hurry and shove my notebook in the storage compartment of the fishing boat and start after him with my lanky strides. To make sure I’m not dreaming, I discreetly pinch my inner arm. Ouch! I’m definitely awake. But maybe I hit my head harder than I thought? I won’t be the least bit shocked to wake up any moment still in dead-beetle position. Though, if that’s the case, I’m going to roll with this concussion-induced fantasy as long as possible.
It isn’t that Tristan and I aren’t friends; we just run in different circles. But we often chat when we’re both conveniently outside in the yard at the same time, and he always seems to seek me out at community or neighborhood get-togethers because he’s nice like that. And when it comes to boatpooling (like carpooling minus the car and add in a boat) to and from school every day, of all seven island kids Tristan takes, I’m the one he trusts with manatee watch. Granted, he originally asked Beau (his younger brother who’s my age) to make sure the water near the boat is manatee free, but Beau insisted I’m more fit for the task. Once I assured Tristan I didn’t mind, he allowed it. That’s trust.
I’ve held the position for the last three years. One, because I absolutely love manatees, and though it isn’t super common, manatees have been spotted in the canals that connect several of the island houses’ docks to the bay. To ever cause harm to one of the gentle giants would be beyond devastating. But also, manatee duty kept me from having to interact with my peers as much. It’s not like I don’t enjoy being around people. I simply prefer watching to socializing. That’s especially true when I’m in group settings with people a few rungs above me on the social ladder—which is basically everybody.
So, all of that to say, I would consider me and Tristan to be friends. Yes, I might be a bit more invested in our friendship, but that’s because Tristan has so many friends whereas I have Jane ... and sort of him. But I’ll take what I can get when it comes to Tristan.
I climb into the boat after Tristan and take a seat in the very front. It’s my usual lookout spot and apparently the one I feel most comfortable in. He doesn’t mention how far away I’ve chosen to sit but starts the engine. We putter along the canal, my gaze glued to the water, searching for manatees. Then we make our way out to the bay and eventually around the island’s southern tip.
“I’ve always wanted to see the view from the top of that,” he says.
I glance over my shoulder to find him pointing at the lighthouse. Since it’s high tide, the sandy walkway out to it is currently covered, so it looks like an island. “I bet it’d be awesome.”
We watch it pass, the boat moving into open ocean.
“Ready?” he asks, his eyes lighting with excitement so palpable it’s like his spark of electricity jumps to me.
I brace myself and nod, my grin stupidly big.
Suddenly we’re soaring over the water. The slight lift of waves are small bumps beneath us. My hair is whipping in my face, and I’m laughing and squealing in unexpected delight. Tristan is also beaming, his eyes on me, but I’m too nervous to meet them for longer than an occasional moment here and there.
The boat slows, then stops.
There’s no one else around us and only a glimpse of Sunset Harbor in the distance. My imagination begins churning out an impressive number of potential scenarios as to where this boat ride could go if my life were a romance novel. But it’s not. And with my quickened heart rate, I know it’s time to rein in my unhelpful thoughts.
Tristan drops on the cushioned bench connected to where I’m sitting before stretching out his legs toward me and leaning back with his arms behind his head. “This is where I go to think,” he says, sending me a conspiratorial look.
I glance at the pink-and-orange-tinted clouds that hint at a spectacular, upcoming sunset. The water is calm, the slight waves gently rock the boat, and the distant calls of seabirds add to the peaceful ambiance. “I can see why.” Though what I can’t understand is his reason for inviting me to come along.
We sit a while in silence, Tristan closing his eyes, and me using every strategy I can think of not to watch him. First, I work on untangling a few knots in the ends of my now wind-blown hair before moving onto chipping the remaining pink polish off my fingernails. It’s a mindless task, so it’s not until I see pink flakes scattered across the white bench seat that I realize my error. I’m about to brush it off but decide it probably isn’t much better to have it sprinkled on the white floor, so instead, I sweep it into a small pile with my fingers, pinch it, and stuff it in my pockets to clean out later. It takes me four attempts to get most of it.
Tristan bumps his foot into my thigh, making me startle. “You looking forward to Beau taking you to school this fall?”
With Tristan headed to college, his younger brother (by a whopping thirteen months) will be my new ride to school. It’s a fact I’m not the least bit excited about. Mainly because Beau isn’t Tristan, but also because he’s not quite as level-headed as his older brother, so having him behind the wheel of a speedboat seems a reckless way to start each day. Though it’s preferable to leaving the house an extra thirty minutes early to ferry over to the mainland and catch the bus.
But a small part of me wants to tease Tristan and tell him I’m thrilled for Beau to drive. Both Palmer boys have a healthy competitive side, so I know that answer would bring out a more playful reaction from Tristan. But that’s unfortunately not my relationship with him, so my attempt will probably miss the mark. Or worse, Tristan might think I have a thing for his brother. “It’ll be ... different,” is the response I settle on, tucking up my legs beneath me.
“I think that’s the phase of life we’re moving into—everything being different.” There’s something about the way he says it, like he wants to say more.
I haven’t spent much time with Tristan alone, but I’ve watched him enough to become a proficient reader of his cues. And Tristan definitely could use a good heart-to-heart. Well, his heart to mine, anyway. One direction. There’s no reason to ruin this rare moment by having him discover what’s going on in my heart. Hint: sailing off into the sunset together seems a reasonable solution to most any problem he’s facing. Which is a very strong indicator I make a better sounding board than a conversationalist at present. “You can talk to me.” I shrug. “If you want.”
He doesn’t say anything, and I try not to be disappointed I won’t be allowed into his confidence, but then he lets out a long exhale. “Bridget and I broke up a few days ago.”
What?! My heart attempts to free itself from my sternum and fall at his feet to proclaim its allegiance, but I clasp a hand over my chest to prevent it. This isn’t about me. This is about Tristan. And he’s obviously hurting. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
He swings his legs off the bench and leans his elbows onto his knees, his head down and his gaze darting around the floor of the boat. A floor that thankfully isn’t littered with remnants of pink polish. “It makes sense with us going to different colleges...” His voice trails off.
“It doesn’t make it easy though,” I offer.
He gives a slow shake of his head. “Maybe it’ll be a good thing. It’s just...” He stops again, and his gaze lifts to mine. “We’ve dated for so long, it feels like I’ve lost sight of who I am without her.”
I take in the doubt in his expression. Suddenly, a strange desire to do more than listen bubbles up from the depths of my soul. No! I’m a sounding board. An unbending, knows-my-place, sounding board. I don’t give advice. Especially not to Tristan.
But it technically isn’t advice I want to share. Simply a slight confidence boost. A miniscule reassurance that Bridget isn’t the one that makes him who he is—the wonderful, thoughtful, fun-loving, extremely attractive guy I’ve been secretly crushing on since my formative years. I’d obviously need to scale down that last bit a million percent if I say something. Actually, it’s best to not say anything.
“I know who you are.” The words spill out of me, and I’m positive I’m more surprised by their escape than Tristan.
“You do?” He smiles, though it’s likely to do with how apparent it is that I want to take back my admission.
“No. I mean, yes, but ... never mind.” I shake my head, pressing my lips together to stop any more condemning blurtations.
He leans forward ever so slightly in his seat. “I think I need to hear what you were going to say.”
“It’s nothing.” I shove my hands between my thighs in an attempt to help me get control of myself. “You’re a good guy. That’s all.”
His smile widens. “Wow. Thanks for that.”
I know he’s teasing, but the generic good guy comment likely did less to reassure him than if I’d kept quiet. My chest starts buzzing, and I already know I’m going to attempt to fix it. “At the end of last football season—that super close game against Century,” I say, and he nods. “Instead of celebrating with your teammates, you immediately went to talk with the kicker who missed the extra point. You’re always seeking opportunities to help—putting up chairs for assemblies, holding open doors for people, handing change to someone in need. Sometimes, when my brother hasn’t gotten around to mowing my grandma’s grass or pulling her weeds, you do it without saying anything. That’s who you are.”
The way his eyes rove over my features at a slow, intentional pace makes it difficult to breathe. Or think.
And then all at once my head clears enough to realize my error. Not only was my little monologue more than a slight reassurance, but it was extremely revealing of how often I watch Tristan. Stalker much, Capri? Now I need to make this better too. “I like to watch people. Not just you. Lots of other people as well.” Nope. I’m pretty sure that didn’t help my cause.
Tristan’s expression is now unadulterated amusement. “You watch me?”
I open my mouth to clarify but close it again. There’s no explaining my way out of that admission. “On occasion.”
The glory of Tristan’s full smile lights his face. “Speaking of watching people ...” He draws in a slow breath, making his broad chest rise. “What were you thinking about in the fishing boat when I first walked up?”
His question’s so completely out of left field, I not only didn’t see it coming, I didn’t even realize what game I was playing. It’s like I’m standing on home plate with a tennis racket in my hand and wearing roller-skates. Then without warning, like my menopausal mother, I’m experiencing a personal summer so intense, I consider jumping ship to cool myself down. “Nothing.”
He laughs. “Come on, Capri Sun.” He says Capri like the Italian island I’m named after (Ca-pree) and not the short pants variation of the word that’s used in the name of the actual kids’ drink (cuh-pree). “What brought a smile like that to your face? You looked so ... perfectly happy.”
With the warmth creeping up my neck, I can sense my skin starting to blotch. It’s like my own form of Pinocchio’s nose—a there’s-something-I’m-not-saying, reddening décolletage. But even the use of his little nickname won’t work on me. I’ll be buried with my secret. “I can’t remember.”
He chuckles. “That’s convincing.”
In desperate need of reprieve from the heat, I gather my hair and lift it to allow for airflow, completely forgetting the golf-ball-sized lump on the crown of my head until my hand grazes over it. I wince.
Tristan’s teasing brow lowers. “What’s wrong?”
I cup a hand over the tender spot. “It’s where I hit my head on the fishing boat.”
Tristan is directly in front of me now. “Here. Can I?” Unable to form words, I nod, holding my breath as his hands settle over mine. My skin is pulsating with energy from his touch. His face is inches away and his mesmerizing eyes hold my gaze. “You probably need to move your hand,” he says, a slight smile pulling at his lips.
I’m fully aware he doesn’t mean for me to intertwine my fingers with his like I want to do. In my seventeen years of life, I’ve never felt so alive. So entirely in tune with my entire body. What a sad existence I’ve endured until this moment, and I never knew it. But all reason isn’t lost in my hopelessly romantic notions, because I lower my hand to my side.
His fingers are gentle when they locate the lump, and his face crinkles with concern. “You really hit your head. Are you dizzy or anything?”
“No. I feel fine.” Honestly, I’m slightly dizzy, but not because of my head. I don’t think so anyway. I’m pretty sure it’s a wicked combination of Tristan’s proximity and my shallow breathing causing the world to feel off-kilter. Or maybe it’s the movement of the boat.
His hands move to my neck, and I go completely still. He tilts my chin upward, his attention focused. “Your eyes are so dark. I can barely see your pupils.”
I give a small laugh. “Are you checking for a concussion?”
“Something like that. I need a little more light though.” Tristan stands and gingerly pulls me to my feet. “Here, can you face the sunset?”
The motion of the rocking boat is definitely more noticeable standing. I step around Tristan and then turn back to face him, feeling slightly unsteady. With a new swell of waves, I scramble to find my balance when Tristan takes hold of me and draws me to him. His hard body and sturdy stance act as a mighty fine anchor point.
“Careful. Don’t fall.”
“Thanks.” My voice is a breathy whisper.
Obviously not affected by our closeness like I am, Tristan keeps one arm secured around my waist and settles his other hand below my chin to tip it upward again. He positions his body to block the diminishing rays of light before leaning to the side to allow them to reach my face, his gaze shifting from one of my eyes to the other as he does so. “Your eyes are dilating fine.”
With his medical opinion voiced, I expect him to step away. He doesn’t. And his hand doesn’t move from beneath my chin.
I swallow down my nerves, convincing myself the way he’s still looking at me—with continued focus and ... admiration?—doesn’t mean what I want it to mean. “That’s good news.”
His gaze shifts again, but this time it sweeps across my face. “You’re beautiful, you know.” It’s not a question. Then, with a dip of his Adam’s apple, his gaze drops to my lips.
What in the world is happening right now? Tristan freaking Palmer just called me beautiful, and now he’s staring at my lips! The exact way the hero does in every romance movie ever before he kisses the woman he’s falling for.
Warning signals ping through my head. And not only ones about what my breath smells like, and whether I’ll be able to remember my best friend Jane’s nuanced lessons about kissing. Bridget and Tristan just broke up. He isn’t falling for me. I’m obviously a rebound. Kissing him will strictly place me in that category. For forever. Do I want that?
The answer takes me exactly two milliseconds to come to: heck freaking yes, I do! This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. If I don’t take it, I’ll never experience what it’s like kissing Tristan. I’m instantly and thoroughly convinced I’ll die a happier woman having checked the previously unattainable goal off my bucket list. In fact, I already know it’ll become one of my go-to stories when, as an old woman, I share the best parts of my life with my posterity. It will be its own chapter in my autobiography for heaven’s sake. From here on out, it’ll simply be known as The Kiss.
Completely settled on accepting my new role as a rebound, I close my eyes, thankfully recalling that Jane mentioned it’s weird to kiss with your eyes open. If I’m only going to get one shot at this, I can’t make it weird. I lean forward slightly, my lips soft and supple (or what I assume soft and supple implies). Eagerly, I wait for the feel of Tristan’s lips on mine and the subsequent explosion of fireworks that all the greatest romance stories assure me will follow, but after a few seconds of nothing, I open my eyes again.
Tristan’s expression is like a knife to my heart. He doesn’t look grossed out or anything, just totally unsure. As in, he has no idea how he got himself into this mess with his crazy, easy-lipped neighbor.
Humiliation like I’ve never known—and I’ve clearly been no stranger to humiliation—floods through my entire body. I wish I could drown in it. Instead, I take a step back, hugging my arms around my middle.
With my retreat, Tristan’s hands drop to his sides. “Capri, I ...” He runs a hand through his hair, apparently lost for words.
“No. It’s fine. You and Bridget just broke up, and ...” I moan inwardly. Why did I say that? The truth is so distressingly obvious now—there’s no way whatsoever that Tristan would’ve kissed me even if Bridget didn’t exist. How did I read things so wrong? He was probably just being his kind self and returning the favor of boosting my confidence with his beautiful comment. He must’ve glanced at my mouth for another reason. Oh my gosh! Do I have something stuck in my braces? I swipe my tongue across them, wondering if this moment can get any worse.
“Capri, I think you’re incredible—”
“Can we pretend this never happened?” I blurt, not letting him finish. I don’t want to be let down softly. I’m way too close to tears for that. And that’s the last thing he needs to witness because once I start crying, I also start talking—or more like blabbering—and it’s nearly impossible to stop. I can't risk one of my floodgate confessions. Not when I might accidentally mention my lifelong secret crush on him.
He holds my gaze for an uncomfortable moment before his shoulders drop, and he nods.
“How about that sunset?” My tone is overdone, but I don’t have the bandwidth to care. I point behind him to where the sky is alive with colors—oranges, pinks, yellows, blues, and purples—and the sun is about to disappear beneath the horizon. When he turns to look at it, I swipe a hand across my pooling eyes.
“It’s amazing.” He sends a smile over his shoulder like all the awkwardness has vanished and everything is completely normal between us again.
And for the sake of keeping it together, I’ll pretend it is too, though my attention remains on him after he looks back at the sunset. “It really is.” My heart physically aches knowing Tristan will always be out of reach for me.
We don’t linger much after the sun goes down, and despite his casual comments and friendly smiles on the boat ride back, I’m sure Tristan is eager to get me home. We’re puttering our way through the canal when I notice a figure on the Palmer's dock. “There’s someone waiting,” I say, looking back at Tristan from my place up front.
His eyes narrow, attempting to determine who it is. “Is it Beau?”
I set my gaze on the figure again, trying to make out more than a general shape in the growing darkness. The boat’s light doesn’t do much from this distance, but as we move closer, the shape begins to clarify. Long legs, cut-off shorts, a snuggly fitted crop top, and waist-long blond hair that’s been curled to perfection despite the humidity.
Bridget Hall.
We’re close enough now that she might hear if I say something, but judging by Tristan’s look of surprise, he’s recognized her too.
He steers the boat to the side, it’s trajectory moving toward the dock, and cuts the engine. “Hey, Bridget. What are you doing here?”
Her arms are crossed, her glare pausing on me before returning to Tristan. “I’ve been thinking about what you said—us trying the long-distance thing—and I came to talk to you about it. But if you’re busy ...” Those ellipses hold a lot of accusation.
Tristan ties up the boat and his gaze discreetly slides to me, an apology in his eyes. “Capri and I went out for a ride. That’s all.”
Her scoff is audible. “At sunset? Just the two of you?”
I consider chiming in and assuring her that, to my great disappointment and complete mortification, it was a very platonic experience, but words have not been my friends today. So instead, I sit quietly, trying not to draw any more of Bridget’s ire.
“You thought about what I said?” Tristan asks, and I can’t help but think a change of subject is the right move. Even if I have zero desire to see where this goes.
She purses her lips, her sandaled foot tapping on the dock like she’s not sure if she’ll let him off so easy. But when her appraising gaze flicks to me again, I know she will. She realizes I’m not a threat. “The last few days have been unbearable,” she finally says. Bridget climbs into the boat and steps in front of Tristan, her arms snaking around his waist. “I don't know exactly what it’ll look like, but I want to make this work. I want to make us work.”
And that’s my signal. I carefully step over the side of the boat with one foot so my exit doesn’t draw attention.
“You headed home?” Tristan’s voice stops me mid-escape. And I mean that very literally. With a foot on the dock and a foot still on the boat, I’m one solid thigh slap away from squatting-sumo-wrestler status.
I physically lift my boat leg over the side and onto the dock before facing him. “Yeah. I figured you’d want to talk. Alone.”
“We do,” Bridget says, snuggling into Tristan’s chest. “Thanks, Cali.”
I stiffen. I’d typically be impressed she managed to get that close to my name, but Tristan had just said it. Not that I’ll say anything. “Of course. Night.” I give some sort of wax-on wax-off kind of wave.
There’s a flash of indecision in Tristan’s expression, and I know he’s feeling bad about how this all went down because that’s who he is. “Night, Capri.” Tristan accentuates my name, but all I notice is the way his arms loosely settle around Bridget’s back. Those arms that were just wrapped around me. Yes, it was to keep me from falling, but for a brief moment, I had a glimpse of what it was like being held by Tristan.
And you know what? That’s more than I ever expected.
Would I change any of the last hour if I could go back for a do-over? Absolutely! A heart-resounding yes! Please! But if it meant I’d have to give up the memory of Tristan’s skin against mine, the gentle way his fingers searched for the lump on my head, and the way his voice sounded—deep and breathy—when he called me beautiful, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Sure, recalling The Incident (formally hoped to be referred to as The Kiss until everything went entirely wrong) will forever make me cringe, but I can’t imagine it will affect anything with Tristan. He appears every bit as eager as I am to pretend it didn’t happen. Besides, he’s leaving for college soon.
So I’ll take what I can from tonight—the inspiration gold that Tristan gave me.
In the real world, girls like me don’t get kissed by the most sought-after guy in school. And girls like Bridget Hall always win. But in the world of fiction, I create the story. With ideas already flowing through me of how differently this sunset boat-ride could have gone, I smile and head toward the little fishing boat to retrieve my notebook.
This story-writing book-nerd is about to get her man!
Right after I go inside to take some ibuprofen and find an ice pack for my head. And possibly have a good cry.
Chapter One
Present Day
I’m entirely convinced there’s no sweeter sound in this world than the rapid clacking of keys on a keyboard. Specifically, my keyboard. More specifically, my keyboard when I’m nearing the end of an epic love story I plotted months ago.
Yes, my fingers are begging for reprieve from the onslaught of catching each detail of the unfolding scene in my mind. And yes, my back is in near spasms from sitting for hours in this supposedly-ergonomic luxury chair I fully regret purchasing. But I can’t stop. I intend to take advantage of every glorious moment the words are flowing. Not just because I’m on a deadline. But mainly because I’m on a deadline. And it’s a tight one.
Brant’s eyes are warm and alluring, making the choice to step closer effortless. “I always knew it was you.” His voice comes out rough as gravel, but the sensation of it against my skin is …
I tap my index finger mindlessly on the H key, conjuring up the right word. Welcome? Pleasant? No, I need something with more intensity. Exhilarating? Maybe a bit too intense for what I’m going for.
My finger tapping grows more pronounced.
Oh! How about intoxicating? I consider the word a moment. I do like it, but I’d have to change the rough as gravel to a more applicable metaphor.
Mid deliberation, I sense my state of flow coming to an abrupt halt.
Intoxicating it is.
Until edits.
… intoxicating.
My legs grow heavy and my head spins. “Always?” There’s a waver in my voice with the rise of emotions—
My phone buzzes on the desk next to me. Without even a glance, I silence it. Where was I? Oh yeah. Rise of emotions.
… swelling inside me. He couldn’t know what his admission meant. He couldn’t know how deeply my very being longed to—
Buzz. Buzz.
I glare at the phone like it needs to understand how intensely I resent the interruption. But then I see the name on the screen: Tala. Of course it’s her. My sister is on a three-person list of permitted callers (along with my mom and my best friend, Jane) when my phone’s set to concentration mode, and her second attempt to reach me might mean it’s important. Like it was last fall when I didn’t answer either of her back-to-back calls only to find out hours later that Grandma had been admitted to the hospital with a heart scare. I haven’t ignored a repeat call from Tala since.
Reluctantly bidding my state of flow farewell, I accept Tala’s call. “Hey! Is everything okay?”
“Do you have a minute to video chat?”
Her tone is light, but I’m also aware she doesn’t answer my question. “Sure.” I exit concentration mode and the phone immediately beeps with the incoming video call.
When I accept it, Tala’s dark eyes and rosy cheeks fill the screen. It’s uncanny how much we look alike—down to the similar smatter of freckles across our nose and cheeks—except my chestnut brown hair still hangs to the middle of my back while Tala recently chopped hers off just below the chin. Drastic hairstyle changes must be a step in her postpartum recovery because she’s undergone one after having each of her three kids.
She lifts my newest nephew, Lucas, into view, setting him against her shoulder. “Are you still working?”
My gaze flits to the flashing cursor on my laptop before I stand with the phone in hand. All the muscles in the lower half of my body protest the movement. “I need to take a break anyway.”
“I totally interrupted you, didn’t I? I can call back later.”
“Really, you’re fine.” I mosey into the kitchen and open the fridge. When deadline mode hits, I rely on meal kits to lessen any food-prep required as well as visits to the store, so there’s unfortunately not many options for a quick snack. Instead, I snag a can of Diet Coke to distract me from my hunger for the time being.
“What scene are you working on?”
“The final kiss.”
Tala brightens at the news. “So, you’re basically done?”
I manage to not roll my eyes at the all-too-familiar sentiment and take a swig of carbonated heaven. I can literally feel my dopamine stores rising as the bubbly liquid slides down my throat. “Not all romances end at the final kiss.”
“But they should.”
Though the creative in me cringes, I’m grateful my sister is a summation of most of my readers squeezed into one blunt package. Between her and Jane, I know exactly what my audience wants and when I’ve deviated from it.
Lucas wiggles on Tala’s shoulder like a pudgy little caterpillar searching for his next meal, and she gently pats his back until he settles.
“He’s getting so big,” I say.
She peers down at his tiny hand clutching her shirt with a look of complete adoration. “I can’t believe he’ll be three months on Monday.”
“Three months already?” It’s not until the words are out that I realize my mistake. I hold my breath, waiting to see what she’ll do with my admission. I’ve not come to see them since my brief visit to the mainland hospital when Lucas was born. And I’m entirely aware of what a terrible person I am, being that I live less than two hours away.
“Yep.” She pauses briefly, and I’m certain she intends to mention my worst aunt ever status. “When do I get to read this new book of yours?”
My shoulders relax with her mercy. Tala is literally a saint. “As soon as I’m done writing it. Like always.”
“No guess when that’ll be? I fully intend to clear my calendar for the entire day to binge read it.”
I can’t hide my delight at her declaration, and I’m partially still relieved at having dodged a shame bullet. “I should have it finished in the next few days, but I also need to double check that my main male character’s arc is sufficient.”
“I’m sure he’s perfect.”
“That’s actually what I’m worried about. I want to make sure he isn’t too perfect.”
Tala’s brows lift. “Isn’t that the point? Women have to deal with men falling short of our ideals constantly—the last thing we want is to spend our spare time reading about another guy that disappoints us.”
“Hey, now.” Heath walks into view and carefully grabs Lucas from Tala. “That comment felt a bit pointed.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Tala tosses the burp cloth at him with a smile. “I was speaking in general terms.”
He chuckles. “I’m pretty sure I heard an us, we, and some ours in there.”
She looks back at me, her smile intensifying. “Capri, please assure my husband that my ideal man is one who eats my leftovers without asking and donates brand-new items to the island charity raffle with zero reservation.”
Heath leans into view of the camera, his toothy grin filling the screen. “It was one item, Capri. And I’d argue that most people don’t leave a rug they actually want rolled up and sitting in a garage for months after they move in.” He eases away and glances at Tala. “How was I supposed to know you didn’t intend to donate it?”
“By asking me.” Tala’s gaze follows him off camera. She gives a brisk nod and scrunches up her nose playfully before returning her attention to me. “I was trying to decide where I wanted it,” she says, loud enough for him to hear wherever he disappeared to. “All that wasted money, and he thinks we should laugh about it.”
Heath steps back into view, no longer holding Lucas, and takes a seat next to Tala at the table. He drapes an arm across the back of her chair and leans in close to her. She looks away with crossed arms and pursed lips. He doesn’t relent, and after a moment, she lifts her cheek to allow his apologetic kiss.
“Think how happy I made the bidder who scored a hundred-dollar rug for thirty bucks,” he says.
“I always admire your generosity.” She smiles. “But it was a three-hundred-dollar rug."
“Three hundred,” he mouths, looking back at me with widened eyes.
I can’t suppress a smile. For all the romance scenes I write, this is what real love actually looks like.
Tala cozies up to Heath, the rug apparently forgotten. “Anyway, I actually did call to talk to you about something.”
With our casual chat, I nearly forgot her double attempt to get a hold of me, and my stomach tightens at the reminder.
“What’s up?”
She fidgets with something clasped in her fingers and doesn’t look at the camera. Shoot. That’s not a good sign. “Heath and I were hoping you’d come grab the boxes of Grandma and Grandpa’s books. With all Lucas’s baby stuff, we’re overrun, and the extra closet space would be amazing.”
At the mere thought of returning to Sunset Harbor, my heart rate doubles. It isn’t that I don’t love it there. I do. I miss it every single day, but I can’t go back. Not now. “Can we store them at Mom and Stan’s until they get back from Europe in August?”
Tala shakes her head. “With Walker staying there, I’m not sure he’ll appreciate six large boxes taking up the place. Especially since he probably brought all of his golf equipment.”
That’s right, my older brother’s back on Sunset Harbor for the time being. If only he weren’t still healing from back surgery, I’d attempt to bribe him to bring me the boxes. But I assume carrying anything heavy is currently out of the question for him, so that’s not going to work. Besides, we don’t have a super great relationship, so I’d feel more comfortable asking Heath. My gaze shifts to Heath on the screen, and I debate if I can make the request of him. The way my gut twists is a pretty clear indicator I shouldn’t. With loading and unloading and the drive here and home again, it would take up a whole day. With limited free time, a new baby, and two other kids, Tala needs him right now. “Can you mail them? I’ll pay for it.”
“Besides that getting them to the post office will be a huge pain, they’ll cost an arm and a leg to ship.” She leans toward the screen. “It’ll be easiest if you come get them.”
Is it bad that in my panicked mind, an arm and a leg seem a reasonable trade-off? “I know. But I …”
I can’t say what I want with Heath listening. It isn’t that I don’t trust Heath, I do … for the most part. It’s just that for one reason or another, I’ve postponed telling him (along with the rest of my family, sans Tala) about my being an author. Yes, he knows bits and pieces of the truth, but only as much as is required to make Tala feel like she’s not outright lying to her husband—which is basically that I write books for fun. And it’s absolutely true. I do. I love writing. But Heath views me as a hobby writer. Someone who will eventually, in the far and distant future, submit one of my silly romance stories for publishing.
The truth is, I’m actually already published. I have been for almost nine years, having written my first book as a seventeen-year-old senior in high school and self-publishing it the summer after I graduated. But I’m not just any author. I’m the recent social media sensation, now New York Times Bestselling Author—Sunny Palmer.
SUNNY PALMER!!
As in a combination of Tristan’s previous nickname for me—Capri SUN—and his last name! I foolishly chose that pen name when I was a young, naive debut author seeking poetic justice for unrequited love. Go ahead, roll your eyes and scoff. I’ve cursed my stupid choice repeatedly since Sunny Palmer became a household name for romance readers.
In my defense, when I first published, I honestly didn’t think anyone would ever read my book (or any other books I'd write). I put the first one out there for me. To prove to myself I could, and, probably equally so, to satisfy my best friend Jane’s constant harassment to do something with my manuscript. It surprisingly did okay for an unknown debut author. Nothing amazing, but I gained a steady flow of readers. Then, with each subsequent book release, the traction continued until I was making enough money to scale back on the free-lance editing I did to pay the bills and write full-time. And I was perfectly content with that.
So, it was catastrophically unfortunate that at the end of last summer my very first book randomly went viral and overnight the trickle of a following I’d managed to build throughout the years, multiplied exponentially. That number has continued to grow to ridiculously unforeseen proportions.
And as anxiety inducing as that is, it’s not even all of it. That same book, Secret Crush, is my story. Or, more accurately, my fictional choose-my-own-better-ending-with-Tristan story. Down to the freaking boat ride at sunset!
The fact that no one on Sunset Harbor has made the connection yet is in part thanks to Maven Chase, my literary agent/manager/women of all business who specializes in helping authors with pen names remain anonymous, and in part a testament to how utterly out of my league Tristan Palmer was. And still is. Even with my main characters’ minor name adjustments—Tristan and Capri to Trenton and Cali (yes, the idea for my name change was courtesy of Bridget), it won't be long until someone connects the very apparent dots. Once that happens, my life is going to turn into a dumpster fire. I’ll never be able to live down the embarrassment. Ever. And to think of Tristan getting dragged into any of it because of my mistake makes me physically ill.
So there it is. My big, awful, mortifying secret. The reason that going home with the Sunny Palmer madness still going strong is completely out of the question and why I enacted the Sunset Harbor Avoidance Protocol (which I’ve strictly adhered to for the past six months). Especially now that Tristan is back on the island to run his family’s senior living center, Seaside Oasis. The very same center where Heath works as the in-house physical therapist and where Grandma now lives. See the complications?
So, all things considered, as bad as I feel about not being upfront with my family regarding my writing career, I can’t help but think it was solid intuition that prevented me from sharing. The fewer people that know, the better. Which means, for the foreseeable future, that privileged group consists of three people: Tala, Jane, and Maven Chase—two who’ve taken an oath of absolute secrecy and the other who’s signed a legally binding non-disclosure agreement.
“I don’t think I can get there right now,” I finally say. “I’ve got a lot going on.”
As if my thoughts are transparent to her, Tala’s return look is a perfect response—no one is going to find out, Capri.
She might be correct, but there’s a slight chance she’s not, and that’s enough for me to keep my distance until I can figure out a good way to proceed. Plus, with the risk of running into Tristan, it’s simply not worth it.
Heath shrugs. “If it’s easier, we can donate the books to the next charity auction.”
“No!” I hardly register his playful grin as my mind shifts through some of the books packed away in those boxes—absolute classics like hardcover copies of The Count of Monte Cristo and Les Misérables. There’s even a third edition Jane Eyre (which had been Grandpa’s favorite book when he was alive) along with every one of Nicholas Sparks and Jojo Moyes’ books. It was Grandpa who taught me to love reading the classics and Grandma who introduced me to the glory of romance novels. For the sake of their book collection, I can put on my big girl pants. “I’ll find a time to come get them. Soon. I promise.”
“How soon?” Tala’s gaze locks on me, and I’m well aware she’s using her uncanny human lie detecting skills to verify my honesty.
“This Thursday is when I’m finished with my current project.” Code for I’m sending my manuscript to the editor and I’ll have over a week off until I get the developmental edits back. I pause, hardly able to believe what I’m about to agree to. “I’ll head that way Friday morning.”
Tala stares at me, taking in every last detail of my expression through the camera. “If you don’t come, I may just let Heath donate the whole collection.”
I doubt she means it, but with my worst aunt ever status already working against me, I hate to tempt fate. “I’m coming.”
After a moment, I receive a nod of acceptance from Tala, and she smiles. “You can stay with us for the weekend. The kids will be thrilled to get some extra auntie time.”
I don’t break the news that I won’t be staying the night. Not yet. I’ll be in and out before anyone outside of my family and Jane knows I’m there. A quick day trip—even a half-day if I can manage it. My conscience pings slightly, but what other choice do I have? Literally none.
I assuage my guilt by promising myself I’ll make it up to all of them somehow. Maybe a day at Disney World is in order. Or I could sponsor a family cruise. Wow. I am desperate. But it really is for the best if my visit to Sunset Harbor is as brief as possible. Tala will understand once I tell her. She always does. “I can’t wait to see all of you!”