Page 4 of Plotting Summer

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.