Page 13 of Plotting Summer

“Yep. I now only work half-days on Fridays, so I'm off the rest of the day.” Heath starts onto the rickety old dock that is a perfect match for the rickety old boat tied to it, his quickened pace evidence of the load he’s eager to be rid of.

Unlike Heath, I can’t walk any faster. My box is slipping from my grasp again, and I pause, trying to get a better hold of it. When I can’t find a grip that feels comfortable, I do an awkward chair-sit squat, resting the box on my knees so I can wrap my arms around it more fully. The sides of the box protest, but eventually they give enough that I manage to clasp my hands together in the front. I try to straighten, but the distribution is off and the box begins to slide downward again. You have to be kidding me! I’m more of an at-home yoga person than a gym-rat, but this half-full box has me rethinking my priorities.

“Need some help?”

The deep, familiar voice has my head whipping to the side. My hair flies into my face just as a twinge of pain shoots from my shoulder blade to the base of my neck. The upper left of my back tightens into a ball—a hard, unyielding, horribly crampy ball.

A small whimper escapes my lips, and purely out of instinct, I release my hold on the box with one hand in an attempt to relieve the awful pain. It takes me a fraction of a second to realize my mistake, but the weight of the load of books is already shifting forward. Before it crashes to the ground, Tristan is at my side, scooping the box up into one arm and taking me by the elbow with the other.

“Got it?” he asks. Despite the platonic assistance he’s rendering, my legs turn to Jell-O at his touch. And with the heat racing through from where his fingers are making contact with my skin, I'll soon be a melted pool of artificial color and sugar. Pull yourself together, Capri.

When I’m firmly standing on my own two feet again, I glance up and meet his gaze. I’m pretty sure I’d meant to express my gratitude, but the depths of those sea-green eyes instantly mesmerize me, exactly like they’ve always done. Especially when they go wide with excitement.

“Capri Sun?” With the use of his nickname for me, my ability for rational thought vanishes altogether. He’s called me that since middle school when one of our classmates couldn’t, for the life of him, remember my name. Tristan, in an attempt to help, said: “Think of a Capri Sun—the drink. But instead of cuh-pree it’s ca-pree.” The nickname stuck. And I love it. Or, more like, I love that Tristan Palmer has a nickname for me. Period. End of story. He could call me Juice Girl, and as long as he says it with that subtle teasing tone and wears that hint of a smile he’s currently sporting, I’ll happily answer to it.

Or I would have.

Not anymore.

Obviously.

I’m a full-fledged adult now and refuse to get weirdly sentimental about him having a nickname for me.

But why does he have to be so darn handsome? I’m talking about public hazard levels of handsome. Like, put this guy on a street corner with his sandy blond hair and stubbled jawline, and distracted drivers will be wreaking all sorts of havoc on the road.

“I didn’t realize you were going to be here,” he says.

My tongue is cemented to the bottom of my mouth, so instead of speaking, I nod my head as if it’s an appropriate response to anything he said.

“Tristan!” Heath walks toward us, his arms empty but a gigantic, knowing grin on his face. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I saw Capri out the window—I mean, I thought she was Tala—so I came to see if she needed a hand.” He gives a slight lift of the box now in his arms as if it’s evidence of his story.

Out the window? My gaze shifts to the Palmers’ old house where Tristan had apparently just come from. Why was he inside? Does he manage the property for his parents in addition to running the retirement center?

Obviously taking notice of how my brain is working on overdrive, Heath points at the Palmers’ house, his eyes trained on me. “Now that he’s back on the island, Tristan moved into his family’s old house. Him and Beau, actually. They’re roommates.”

My sneaky, back-stabbing, secret-keeping sister! And Heath! Oh, they are in so much trouble. I bet neither of them even cared about storing my boxes of books longer. They just needed an excuse to get me here so I’d run into Tristan—their freaking next-door neighbor!

“Isn’t that great?” Heath asks, and only then do I realize I haven’t responded.

I give another small nod, my mouth literally hanging open as though I’m a fish gasping for air. Close your mouth, Capri. Like I’m an animatronic bass, my mouth shuts mechanically, but my eyes seem to be doing some weird bulging thing while I stare at Heath. Why am I suddenly so aware of my whole self?

Yes, this bomb-shell encounter with Tristan was unexpected, but I’m no longer that awkward, love-struck teenager. I’m a grown woman. A woman who communicates with men regularly and has been in several healthy relationships. Okay, several is a bit of an exaggeration, but I’ve definitely been in a few.

But then again, this isn’t an encounter with any old secret crush. This is the man whose last name I’ve stolen and who has been the love inspiration for a book that involves a fictional relationship between us. A book that now has its own collection of fan-art and a number of overly-used hashtags: #MyOwnSecretCrush #CaliandTrentonforlife #SunsetProposalorBust. I think I might throw up.

“What brings you to Sunset Harbor?” Tristan asks, pulling my attention to him again.

I keep my eyes trained on his so I don’t risk ogling him like every particle of the instinctual portion of my brain wants to do. “I’m only here for a few hours.” I did it. I spoke. And I didn’t even sound like an idiot. Just a mature adult speaking to another mature adult. I can totally do this. With a slight confidence boost, I gesture to the box in his arms. “I came to get some books Tala and Heath have been storing for me.”

“Serenity and Jack couldn’t talk you into staying for the talent show tomorrow?” Tristan asks, and my heart warms that he knows my niece and nephew’s names. Until I remember that we are on Sunset Harbor—population: everyone knows everyone. “It’s set to be the event of the season,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“I bet it is.” I try not to hear what I shouldn’t want to hear but also really want to hear—that he’d like it if I stayed for it. “Unfortunately, I’ve got a bunch of work, so I’ve got to get back.”

Heath drapes an arm around my shoulder. “Capri owns a very successful freelance editing company. It keeps her insanely busy.”

I drop my gaze. I don’t enjoy being the center of attention ever, but even less so when it involves talking about my work. Yes, technically, in addition to being a writer, I own a freelance editing company with a handful of editors who work for me, but I’ve personally only kept one client so I can honestly say that I edit books when people ask me what I do. At this point, the company’s a well-running machine that has required very little marketing since it got out that Sunny Palmer uses our editing services (because I do—Susan, one of our editors is irreplaceable to me). I’m proud to say the company’s done well, but the success Heath is referring to—my recent home-owner-status, leather-interior-Jeep-Wrangler-driving success—has more to do with publishing my own books, including the colossal jump in book sales this past year.