Page 7 of Plotting Summer

Heath leans into view of the camera, his toothy grin filling the screen. “It was one item, Capri. And I’d argue that most people don’t leave a rug they actually want rolled up and sitting in a garage for months after they move in.” He eases away and glances at Tala. “How was I supposed to know you didn’t intend to donate it?”

“By asking me.” Tala’s gaze follows him off camera. She gives a brisk nod and scrunches up her nose playfully before returning her attention to me. “I was trying to decide where I wanted it,” she says, loud enough for him to hear wherever he disappeared to. “All that wasted money, and he thinks we should laugh about it.”

Heath steps back into view, no longer holding Lucas, and takes a seat next to Tala at the table. He drapes an arm across the back of her chair and leans in close to her. She looks away with crossed arms and pursed lips. He doesn’t relent, and after a moment, she lifts her cheek to allow his apologetic kiss.

“Think how happy I made the bidder who scored a hundred-dollar rug for thirty bucks,” he says.

“I always admire your generosity.” She smiles. “But it was a three-hundred-dollar rug."

“Three hundred,” he mouths, looking back at me with widened eyes.

I can’t suppress a smile. For all the romance scenes I write, this is what real love actually looks like.

Tala cozies up to Heath, the rug apparently forgotten. “Anyway, I actually did call to talk to you about something.”

With our casual chat, I nearly forgot her double attempt to get a hold of me, and my stomach tightens at the reminder. “What’s up?”

She fidgets with something clasped in her fingers and doesn’t look at the camera. Shoot. That’s not a good sign. “Heath and I were hoping you’d come grab the boxes of Grandma and Grandpa’s books. With all Lucas’s baby stuff, we’re overrun, and the extra closet space would be amazing.”

At the mere thought of returning to Sunset Harbor, my heart rate doubles. It isn’t that I don’t love it there. I do. I miss it every single day, but I can’t go back. Not now. “Can we store them at Mom and Stan’s until they get back from Europe in August?”

Tala shakes her head. “With Walker staying there, I’m not sure he’ll appreciate six large boxes taking up the place. Especially since he probably brought all of his golf equipment.”

That’s right, my older brother’s back on Sunset Harbor for the time being. If only he weren’t still healing from back surgery, I’d attempt to bribe him to bring me the boxes. But I assume carrying anything heavy is currently out of the question for him, so that’s not going to work. Besides, we don’t have a super great relationship, so I’d feel more comfortable asking Heath. My gaze shifts to Heath on the screen, and I debate if I can make the request of him. The way my gut twists is a pretty clear indicator I shouldn’t. With loading and unloading and the drive here and home again, it would take up a whole day. With limited free time, a new baby, and two other kids, Tala needs him right now. “Can you mail them? I’ll pay for it.”

“Besides that getting them to the post office will be a huge pain, they’ll cost an arm and a leg to ship.” She leans toward the screen. “It’ll be easiest if you come get them.”

Is it bad that in my panicked mind, an arm and a leg seem a reasonable trade-off? “I know. But I …”

I can’t say what I want with Heath listening. It isn’t that I don’t trust Heath, I do … for the most part. It’s just that for one reason or another, I’ve postponed telling him (along with the rest of my family, sans Tala) about my being an author. Yes, he knows bits and pieces of the truth, but only as much as is required to make Tala feel like she’s not outright lying to her husband—which is basically that I write books for fun. And it’s absolutely true. I do. I love writing. But Heath views me as a hobby writer. Someone who will eventually, in the far and distant future, submit one of my silly romance stories for publishing.

The truth is, I’m actually already published. I have been for almost nine years, having written my first book as a seventeen-year-old senior in high school and self-publishing it the summer after I graduated. But I’m not just any author. I’m the recent social media sensation, now New York Times Bestselling Author—Sunny Palmer.

SUNNY PALMER!!

As in a combination of Tristan’s previous nickname for me—Capri SUN—and his last name! I foolishly chose that pen name when I was a young, naive debut author seeking poetic justice for unrequited love. Go ahead, roll your eyes and scoff. I’ve cursed my stupid choice repeatedly since Sunny Palmer became a household name for romance readers.

In my defense, when I first published, I honestly didn’t think anyone would ever read my book (or any other books I'd write). I put the first one out there for me. To prove to myself I could, and, probably equally so, to satisfy my best friend Jane’s constant harassment to do something with my manuscript. It surprisingly did okay for an unknown debut author. Nothing amazing, but I gained a steady flow of readers. Then, with each subsequent book release, the traction continued until I was making enough money to scale back on the free-lance editing I did to pay the bills and write full-time. And I was perfectly content with that.

So, it was catastrophically unfortunate that at the end of last summer my very first book randomly went viral and overnight the trickle of a following I’d managed to build throughout the years, multiplied exponentially. That number has continued to grow to ridiculously unforeseen proportions.

And as anxiety inducing as that is, it’s not even all of it. That same book, Secret Crush, is my story. Or, more accurately, my fictional choose-my-own-better-ending-with-Tristan story. Down to the freaking boat ride at sunset!

The fact that no one on Sunset Harbor has made the connection yet is in part thanks to Maven Chase, my literary agent/manager/women of all business who specializes in helping authors with pen names remain anonymous, and in part a testament to how utterly out of my league Tristan Palmer was. And still is. Even with my main characters’ minor name adjustments—Tristan and Capri to Trenton and Cali (yes, the idea for my name change was courtesy of Bridget), it won't be long until someone connects the very apparent dots. Once that happens, my life is going to turn into a dumpster fire. I’ll never be able to live down the embarrassment. Ever. And to think of Tristan getting dragged into any of it because of my mistake makes me physically ill.

So there it is. My big, awful, mortifying secret. The reason that going home with the Sunny Palmer madness still going strong is completely out of the question and why I enacted the Sunset Harbor Avoidance Protocol (which I’ve strictly adhered to for the past six months). Especially now that Tristan is back on the island to run his family’s senior living center, Seaside Oasis. The very same center where Heath works as the in-house physical therapist and where Grandma now lives. See the complications?

So, all things considered, as bad as I feel about not being upfront with my family regarding my writing career, I can’t help but think it was solid intuition that prevented me from sharing. The fewer people that know, the better. Which means, for the foreseeable future, that privileged group consists of three people: Tala, Jane, and Maven Chase—two who’ve taken an oath of absolute secrecy and the other who’s signed a legally binding non-disclosure agreement.

“I don’t think I can get there right now,” I finally say. “I’ve got a lot going on.”

As if my thoughts are transparent to her, Tala’s return look is a perfect response—no one is going to find out, Capri.

She might be correct, but there’s a slight chance she’s not, and that’s enough for me to keep my distance until I can figure out a good way to proceed. Plus, with the risk of running into Tristan, it’s simply not worth it.

Heath shrugs. “If it’s easier, we can donate the books to the next charity auction.”

“No!” I hardly register his playful grin as my mind shifts through some of the books packed away in those boxes—absolute classics like hardcover copies of The Count of Monte Cristo and Les Misérables. There’s even a third edition Jane Eyre (which had been Grandpa’s favorite book when he was alive) along with every one of Nicholas Sparks and Jojo Moyes’ books. It was Grandpa who taught me to love reading the classics and Grandma who introduced me to the glory of romance novels. For the sake of their book collection, I can put on my big girl pants. “I’ll find a time to come get them. Soon. I promise.”