Page 15 of Plotting Summer

Heath heads to the dock and Tristan toward the house. I avoid watching Tristan like the creeper I want to be until I hear his back door open. Then I peek over at him. He leans inside the house where the keys must be hanging, pauses on the threshold to look at his phone, then starts back in my direction, his thumbs moving across the screen.

Since his attention is elsewhere, I might as well allow myself a much-delayed eye roving session.

And it’s official, people: Tristan Palmer only gets better with time! The softness of his boyishly handsome face has sharpened. His sandy blond hair is a shade or two darker than the last time I saw him, styled like a Pinterest Hair God with his matching set of manicured whiskers. It’s more than a five-o’clock shadow but less than a week of growth. The perfect length for understated manliness. And I’m basically a certifiable expert on the subject with the countless hours I spend scrolling through men’s faces for inspiration pictures. Tristan fits in among the best of them—rightly confusable with a long-lost Hemsworth brother.

He’s also thicker now in all the right places, which proves that even though his football days are behind him, he’s not let up on the discipline required to maintain a physique like that. Which I respect. Especially with the way that cotton polo shirt with a Seaside Oasis logo clings to his chest and abs, hinting at the glory of the present beneath the wrapping. Before my thoughts can stray too much into what it’d be like to get a glimpse of that present or how willing I am to completely objectify him, Tristan shoves his phone into his pocket and I divert my eyes.

“Sorry, I had to send a quick text.” He steps up next to me. “Ready?”

I can’t help but wonder if he was quickly touching base with some gorgeous Bridget-esque replacement now that the two of them aren’t together anymore. But it’s none of my business.

“You’re fine.” I flick my head toward Tala and Heath’s house as if I’m functioning normally and my insides haven’t congealed into a nervous blob of energy. “The boxes are inside.”

He follows me, an uncomfortable silence between us. When we step through the screen door, hushed voices quiet, and my gaze falls on Tala and Grandma standing at the kitchen sink—conveniently near the window with the best view of the backyard.

“Look who I found outside,” I say, aiming my overdone smile at Tala. There’s not even a tiny flick of surprise in her expression or Grandma’s. Guilty. And guilty.

Tala smiles. “Hey, Tristan.”

Tristan lifts a hand in greeting. “Tala. Mrs. Winn.”

“How many times do I have to insist you call me Deedee?” Grandma says.

“He offered to help with the boxes,” I say, hoping to make this as quick and painless for Tristan as possible. I don’t need Tala or Grandma to start chatting or invite him to stay longer. I’m sure he has lots of other things to do. “They’re this way.”

I lead him upstairs to the extra bedroom and stop in the doorway to find Tristan looking around the long hallway. His gaze meets mine, and he’s wearing an empathetic expression that makes me feel like he can somehow see the state of my heart. “It looks different in here.”

A weird surge of emotion takes hold of my chest, constricting it. I take in the freshly painted walls, six-inch white baseboards, the natural wood and gold frames displaying classy artwork, and the woven jute runner on the floor. “Yeah.” It’s all I can muster.

“If I’m being honest,” he whispers, stepping onto the threshold next to me and making my body go rigid with how close he’s standing, “I prefer your grandma’s collage of pictures. There were some real classics in there.”

My eyes go wide, but before I can respond, he steps past me into the room.

“These are the boxes?” he asks.

Since I have no desire to hear what mortifying pictures of me he’s referring to, I follow him inside. “Yep.” I point to the pile—four bigger ones of varying sizes and the half-box I partially filled from the contents of the one I carried outside.

Tristan lifts the largest of the boxes, and I’m slightly relieved that it actually appears to be a struggle for him this time. “What’s in here again? Just books?”

“They’re deceptively heavy, right?”

He adjusts his hold on the box, and his veins bulge in a way that makes me want to run my fingers along them. Huh. I’ve never used that in a book before. Probably because it’s a little strange, but it doesn’t make the desire any less real. “Extremely.”

I step toward him. “I can empty some of the⁠—”

“And let Heath show me up? Not a chance.” He throws me a boyish grin that sends my heart pounding like I’m seventeen again, then he carefully maneuvers around me. “But I’m going to head down before I drop this.”

“Be careful on the stairs,” I say, like an overprotective mother. “Be careful on the stairs?” I repeat under my breath when he’s gone. What a dumb thing to say. Of course he’s going to be careful on the stairs.

I’m literally shaking from the whole interaction, so after one attempt to pick up the other half-full box, I instead decide I’ll let the men do the lifting and head downstairs to grab my keys. I don’t need to make a bigger fool of myself in front of Tristan.

My laptop bag is still in the entryway, but when I search the pockets, my keys aren’t there. The main compartment is also key free. I glance around, check my own pockets, then head into the kitchen where Tala and Grandma have resumed talking in hushed voices. Surprisingly, I hear them mention Virginia Sawyer’s name, so their current conversation must not be about me. “Have either of you seen my keys? They have the seashell keychain.”

“No.” Tala walks over to where I’m standing, her gaze following mine to the kitchen countertops. “Are they not in your bag?”

I’m pushing aside the sandwich stuff that’s set out and checking around the appliances in the kitchen. The first thing I did when coming inside was help Tala get lunch ready. I must have put them down in here, but I don’t see them anywhere. I sift through my fragmented memories to decipher where else they might be. I had them after I got out of the Jeep. I’m certain of that. Or am I? A wave of panic rushes over me. How could I not have grabbed them? But suddenly, I can’t remember.

If I left them inside the Jeep, the doors wouldn’t lock, which means, if some ill-intentioned person hasn’t already realized my error, they might soon. A whole scenario plays out in my head instantly: I return to the parking garage to find the Jeep gone. I call the cops to report the theft, but while they’re writing up my testimony (where I have to confess to thoughtlessly leaving my keys inside), a voice comes over the radio. The Jeep was found … totaled. My stomach plummets like I’m actually living it. See, that’s the problem with my author-mind—it’s always eager to create a story. Even when it’s overly dramatic and entirely unhelpful.