Page 28 of Plotting Summer

2) I cannot and will not guilt-blurt my confession. Timing is everything. It’ll take a little while to get to a place in our friendship where an admission of this magnitude will make sense. I’ll know when the moment comes. Hopefully.

3) Don’t revert into seventeen-year-old Capri every time Tristan looks at me. Or talks to me. Or smiles at me. And especially not when he touches me—platonically.

I glance down at his knee, settled so close to mine that I can almost feel his body’s energy jumping between our skin. The mere thought sends a rush of pleasure through me. This is going to be difficult.

Eventually, we turn off at the nature preserve. I haven’t been here in years. We took a few school trips to the preserve, and I have a vague memory of coming with my family when I was young, but all I can recall is that I was hot and hungry and that I got a collection of bug bites as souvenirs.

We park the golf cart and Tristan pays at the kiosk, then we start down the paved road on foot to a water-front shack with kayaks and canoes stacked around it. A slender woman with tanned skin and a long, blond ponytail is organizing life jackets when she catches sight of us and straightens.

Tristan waves. “Hey, Lola.”

“Tristan Palmer,” she says with a smile just for him. I glance at her hand and notice a gold wedding band on her finger that somehow makes me feel less insecure. “Back already?”

“I had to bring my friend … a different friend.”

That infamous word again, and this time with an added nuance that I’m trying hard to not care about. What friend did Tristan bring here recently? It’s not my business, but he made it sound like he didn’t have a lot of friends on the island he hangs out with at present. But maybe his friend isn’t from the island. He did say he had no intention of dating anyone from the island again, not that he had no intention of dating.

Lola looks at me like she just noticed Tristan wasn’t alone. “You look familiar. Are you a Collins?”

Again, I nod, and I feel Tristan’s gaze shift to me.

“I know Tala. And my husband and I are big golfers, so we’re also huge fans of your brother. How’s his recovery going?"

Walker’s back had been hurting for years, but it finally got bad enough that he underwent a pretty extensive surgery for it this past spring. “He seems to be doing well.”

“Do you know if he’ll make it back to the PGA tour this year?”

“I’m actually not sure.” Walker doesn’t inform me about much of anything in his life. I get most of my information about him from Mom, and on occasion, Tala.

“Well, tell him he has some loyal fans here on Sunset Harbor rooting for him.”

“I will.”

Lola’s gaze shifts back to Tristan, who’s still watching me. “You reserved the clear-bottomed, double kayak for four hours, right?” she asks.

He returns his attention to her. “Yep.”

“I have it in the water for you already. Paddles are in there as well.” She hands each of us a life jacket. And not just any life jacket, the old-school, bright orange kind that you put over your neck. “Make sure to keep these on, and don’t disturb any of the wildlife. If they come to you, that’s fine, just don’t touch or feed them. But you know all the rules,” she says to Tristan. “Besides that, have a great time.”

“A clear-bottomed kayak?” I ask, snapping the waist strap of my life jacket.

Tristan nods, leading us toward the dock. “The water is clear enough, especially in the mangrove forest, that you can see all the way to the bottom.”

And suddenly, kayaking sounds like the best idea ever.

I’m about to step into the front of the kayak when Tristan grabs the strap of my life jacket, halting me. “Not so fast.” I turn to face him, and he has his phone out and in selfie mode. “I think it’d be wise to document our outings—you know, compile evidence so that when I win, you can’t claim the whole thing was rigged.”

“Ah. The proof will be in the pictures?”

“Something like that.”

We stay a decent length apart—a still-becoming-friends distance—and he lifts up his phone, but before he clicks the side button, I drop my shoulders and give an exaggerated frown. I don’t know where the idea comes from, but it feels right. When he presses on the thumbnail to see how it looks, a grin spreads across his face, and he holds the picture out so I can see it.

“Wow,” I say, squinting at it to keep myself from smiling. “I look pretty miserable. Is that the proof you were talking about?”

“This is what you meant about watching out for the quiet ones, isn’t it? You play dirty.”

I shrug, no longer able to fight my smile. “Or maybe I play smart.”