Page 14 of Plotting Summer

“That’s what I’ve heard.” Tristan’s comment pulls my attention upward again. There’s a teasing glint in his eyes, and I’m hoping it’s not because I’ve been the subject of other conversations involving Heath or my sister. Or my grandma. But I’m sure it is. Those traitors!

“Have you heard that she’s also working on becoming a published author?” Heath continues.

I can sense the skin-splotching coming on strong, and a wave of panic rushes through me. “It’s nothing.” My throat is unusually dry as I force the words out. “Just something I do for fun.”

“It’s not nothing,” Heath counters. “Capri’s written several stories that Tala says are actually decent.”

Oh heavens! Why have I never thought to clarify to Heath that I don’t want people knowing about my so-called-hobby? “She’s biased. She’s my sister.”

Tristan’s brow lifts. “Regardless, that’s impressive. What kind of stories do you write?”

And here it is. My reddened décolletage is on full display. I put a palm to my chest in hopes of covering it partially. “Umm … all sorts.”

“She writes romance,” Heath says matter-of-factly, and I want to kick him in the shin. And then kick him again twice in the other shin. Romance comes with a certain stigma attached to it, especially for two guys that likely don’t understand the appeal. “Tala wouldn’t read them if they were anything else.”

“Is that so?” Tristan asks, his amused gaze sliding to me.

I shrug, like my life isn’t flashing before my eyes. “I hear there’s a big market for it.” As though that’s my reason for writing romance and not because I’m downright obsessed. Tristan’s intent gaze makes me shift, and I take hold of the collar of my tank top and start lifting it up and down to allow for some airflow. Why is it so blasted hot?

“But back to my original point.” Heath looks at me. “One would think, being your own boss, you could take a weekend off. You know, stay a couple of days. See what you’ve been missing on the island.” His gaze slides from me to Tristan. If discretion were Heath’s lifeline, he’d be a goner.

I’m shaking my head before I can think of my next excuse. “I also have a date tomorrow,” I blurt, glad I’ve already made plans with myself to celebrate turning in my recent manuscript to the editor. Actually, my whole day is booked—food deliveries from a few of my favorite restaurants, a 90s romcom movie marathon, and an hour-long reading session in a skin-reddening bubble bath. It’s a tradition. And I’d be loath to break with tradition, especially since coming to Sunset Harbor has delayed the celebration an entire day.

“With who?” Heath asks, his eyes narrowing. He’s onto me.

“It’s none of your business,” I say playfully, hoping he’ll let it go. Before he can press me further, I point to the box, my gaze settling on Tristan’s muscular arms without my consent. “Sorry, that's probably getting heavy.”

“I’m okay. But is there somewhere you want me to put it?” When I pry my eyes from Tristan’s arms, his slight smile sends my attention back to Heath.

“The fishing boat,” Heath and I answer in unison.

Tristan glances at the sorry excuse for a boat and back to us. “How many boxes do you plan to haul over in that thing?”

“Just two or three at a time,” I say. “We’ll make a couple trips.”

Tristan’s gaze returns to the boat again, his expression lined with concern. “Why don’t we take my boat? That way we can do it all in one trip and eliminate the risk of capsizing.”

The repeated image of the third edition Jane Eyre slowly descending into the watery depths fills my mind’s eye, but even that isn’t motivation enough for me to accept Tristan’s offer. Because I know one thing about myself that makes this risk-averse girl eager to hop in that metal dingy and paddle a near-sinking boat loaded with beloved books across the bay: the moment I saw Tristan again, I instantly realized that my secret crush is still alive and well. No, not only well. It’s flourishing by the second. So, all things considered, even a short ride with him over to the mainland is dangerous territory.

“That’s kind of you but—” I begin, but Heath cuts me off mid-sentence.

“That’d be awesome. Thanks, man.”

I swallow down my rising panic. “You really don’t have to. The fishing boat is sturdier than she looks, and I’m sure you’re busy.”

“I’m on my lunch break.” Tristan glances at his watch, like the box in his arms is full of helium balloons instead of over fifty pounds of books. “I’ve got some time.”

“We owe you.” Heath claps his hands and rubs them together as if it’s settled. “Our family will appreciate the extra time we’ll get with Capri.” He sends me a side smile. “Each minute with her is a rare, precious gift.”

Gag me. I glare at him to indicate I’m not the least bit amused by his overdone praise. How can I love someone so completely and despise him so intensely at the exact same moment?

“Great,” Tristan says. “I’ll go grab my keys.”

“Let me take that.” Heath snags the box from Tristan. “I’ll put it in your boat and move the other one over. Capri can show you where the other boxes are.”

The idea is reasonable, unremarkable even, but with the proud grin Heath is wearing, I know exactly what he’s up to. And though I briefly wonder if Grandma’s mention of my little crush on Tristan is the cause of his sudden enthusiasm, the whole situation—me not being told that Tristan is currently living next door—is too orchestrated to not be pre-conceived.

“I’ll wait here while you get the keys,” I say to Tristan, hoping to be the bigger person, although Heath will one-hundred percent pay for this later. In fact, after this little stunt, a name-change for the male antagonist in my upcoming release might be in order.