Page 1 of Plotting Summer

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.”