Page 46 of Plotting Summer

“Why did I think Walker was her youngest?”

I’m not the least bit surprised by his question, but Tristan straightens slightly in his seat. “I’m sure Ivy would remember her,” he says. “The two of them were consistently the highest academic performers in the school.”

I’m staring at Tristan’s profile, trying not to melt into the wood plank benches we’re sitting on. Partially because I hate attention and want to avoid it, but mostly because I have the distinct impression Tristan’s championing me to one of Florida’s most powerful men. Or the other option is that I’m actually melting with how much sweat I’m currently losing.

Senator Brooks’ brows raise slightly. “Impressive. And what do you do now, Capri?”

“I own a free-lance editing company—we focus our services on independently published authors and small press books.” I take a big swig of water from my tumbler, hoping to cool myself down a little.

“She also writes,” Tristan says.

At the unexpected reveal, I pull in a breath, but with my mouth full of water, I inhale some of it instead. A coughing fit ensues, and I can’t seem to draw in another breath.

“You okay?” Tristan asks. His touch on my sweaty back doesn’t help regulate my breathing. Not even a little.

I nod, putting up a finger to signal I need a moment.

“She must have swallowed wrong.” It’s the man who hasn’t spoken yet. “Just give her a minute.”

All three men wait in absolute silence as I attempt to hack up my lung to the point where I nearly dry-heave. I’m calling it a major victory that I don’t. When the coughing subsides some and I can finally draw a few breaths, I’m dizzy from the heat and the embarrassment. “Sorry,” I say with a rasp to my voice. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I need some air.”

The moment I step out into the steam-free corridor, my lungs seem to relax, but I’m still overheated, and my eyes are stinging.

Tristan follows me out, carrying our cups. “You alright, Capri?”

“I’m just really hot.” I'm already walking toward the door across from us. “I think I’m going to take a quick plunge in the cool pool. Want to join me?”

“Sure.”

I swing open the door, and to my great relief, the room is empty. Without a moment’s hesitation, I step into the frigid water. With how hot I am, I’m surprised I don’t hear a sizzling sound like a scalding pot being submerged into cold water. I take another step, then another, then lower down until all but my head is underwater.

Tristan sets our cups on the bench by the door and follows me into the water, dropping beneath the surface in one quick motion like I did. “Oof. That’s cold.”

“I didn’t mean to pull you away from your conversation.”

His gaze is fixed on me. “You don’t want people to know you write, do you?”

He has zero idea the layers that come with that question. “Not yet.”

“I’m sorry I said something.”

I close my eyes again, allowing the cold to numb me and all of my confusing thoughts. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.” My heart is pounding in my chest, and I can’t help but think the moment for me to tell him the truth is here. Instead of waiting until Saturday, I’d just rather have it over with now. “Tristan?”

His gaze is already on me when I open my eyes again. “What is it?”

The words stick in my throat. Tristan put a lot of thought into our outing, and it seems unfeeling to drop this truth bomb on him now, right in the middle of it. Maybe waiting until Saturday isn’t the worst idea. I’ll have time for a few more hints this way, and I can more fully think about what exactly I want to say. Besides, with my current emotional state after the whole choking situation, the risk of a tear-filled confession is significantly higher at present.

“Capri?” Tristan’s hand grazes my arm beneath the water, and I know my decision is solidified. I’ll tell him Saturday.

“Thanks for what you said in there to Senator Brooks.”

The corners of his lips lift slightly. “You’re worth remembering, Capri Sun.”

I’m not sure most people would agree, but Tristan believing it is enough for me.

Tristan’s head is leaned against the pillow in the mud bath next to mine, his muddy, muscular arms draped along the sides. If I had my phone on me, I’d take his picture and sell it to the Belacourt Resort to use in their advertisements. Or, more likely, I’d keep it to my greedy little self.

“I like that you didn’t want to ride a bike with a bell but you have no problem soaking like a diva in a mud bath.”