Boys of Summer (21 page)

That stupid salesgirl made me completely paranoid that I wasn't doing enough to “woo” Whitney, so I spent the whole afternoon getting sucked into a Google spiral of dating advice. Now Whitney is scheduled to arrive any minute, and this tent is about to collapse into the tea candles and set fire to the whole damn thing.

Why didn't I just opt for a romantic dinner at one of the island's nicest restaurants?

Oh right, because I can't afford any of the island's nicest restaurants.

What made me think I could possibly impress Whitney Cartwright? The girl who grew up with everything. She's probably dated a hundred guys who can afford much better than a lousy makeshift love hut on the beach.

No,
I try to reassure myself.
This will work.

I try once again to insert the supporting pole into the
sand, wedging it down far enough that I'm sure the people in China are wondering why there's a freaking pole sticking out of the ground. It seems to take, but just in case I keep one hand firmly wrapped around it, holding it in place, while I bend at an embarrassingly awkward angle to grab the bedsheet.

The blog post entitled “Summer Lovin' Ideas” that I found on the Romance Guru website didn't say anything about what
kind
of sheet, so I just grabbed a clean cotton one from the linen closet at the Cartwright house. But now I'm thinking that this one might be too heavy. The support pole looks like it's about to buckle under the weight of it.

I find two large rocks nearby, pull the sheet taught, and secure the ends down with the weight of the rocks. That seems to keep the whole contraption stable.

For now.

I spread the blanket down underneath the tent, rearrange the throw pillows I stole from the guest bedroom, position the tea candles so they form a circle around the perimeter, and go to work arranging the food. Nothing fancy. The article said wine, fruit, and cheese would suffice, but once again it didn't specify what kind. I spent twenty minutes at Coconut's Market deliberating over the cheese selection. What kind of cheese do rich people eat? Brie? Gouda? Some other French kind I can't pronounce? What if Whitney is lactose intolerant? How come after all these years I can't summon a single memory of her consuming dairy?

I eventually opted for a Welsh cheddar. It seemed like a safe compromise. A cheese I recognize from a country I probably can't locate on a map.

Despite my efforts, Old Man Finn at Coconut's refused to sell me any wine, so I bought sparkling grape juice
instead, figuring it counts for the wine
and
the fruit. But now that I look at my pathetic spread, I fear it's severely lacking.

This is supposed to woo her?

A bottle of fizzy juice and some cut-up chunks of cheddar cheese?

Ugh. This is totally hopeless.

I should have asked Mamma V at the beach club for help. She knows everything about food, and she's always eager to help us out, especially when it comes to girls. One summer she actually helped Grayson bake cookies for a hot new tourist he was trying to impress. It went over so well, they dated for two whole weeks. Basically a record for Grayson. But asking for help would require actually
telling
someone about this date, and I still haven't even wrapped my own head around the idea.

Maybe I just need some crackers or something. I wonder what the Cartwrights have lying around in their pantry.

I check the clock on my phone. Two minutes until eight. I can make it if I run.

I sprint up the beach and across the plank walkway to the Cartwrights' backyard. I opt for the back door so I won't have to accidentally bump into Whitney on the way in. I don't want her to see that I'm still scrambling around at the last minute. I want her to think this was all part of my plan.

Suave, smooth, sweep-her-off-her-feet-with-crackers Ian.

I rifle around the pantry but can only scrounge up a half-empty sleeve of Ritz. I guess it's better than nothing. I grab them and hurry back out the door.

Whitney and I must have just missed each other, because when I arrive back at the “love hut,” she's already there. Her back is turned to me, but I can tell she looks
incredible. She's wearing a black off-the-shoulder dress that hangs, loose and flowy, around her slender frame. Her dark skin practically sparkles in the moonlight. And her as-black-as-night hair is tied back in a bun at the nape of her neck.

She's staring at my construction, and I pause to watch, hoping to glean a reaction, but it's impossible because I can't see her face.

Is it just me, or does it seem like she's been staring at it for an awfully long time?

It's the cheese. It's not fancy enough. I knew I should have gone with the Brie.

I take a single step toward her, hoping she'll hear the footfall, but it's muffled by the sand and the sound of the waves in the distance. I should say something slick and charming and Casanova-like, but all I can come up with is, “Hi.”

She startles and turns around, wiping hastily at her eyes.

Was she crying?

Panicked, I look at the tent. It's not
that
bad, is it?

“Sorry,” I rush to say. “It looked better in the pictures online. I think I used the wrong sheet or something. But it didn't say what kind of sheet, and—”

She stalks toward me, her steps heavy and purposeful. I'm pretty sure she's going to walk right off the beach. I'm pretty sure I royally fucked up this whole wooing thing. That's the last time I listen to random salesladies when it comes to dating advice.

But Whitney doesn't walk off the beach. She walks right to me.

She smashes into me.

She collides with me.

She kisses me.

Hard.

Her lips are searching for something. Her mouth moves eagerly against mine. I drop the crackers and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her to me. Her body feels amazing pressed against mine.

We stumble backward, falling onto the pillows inside the makeshift tent. She never pulls away. She kisses me like she's trying to save my life. Or hers. Or both.

I'm going to have to write the Romance Guru a very passionate fan letter tomorrow morning.

We lie on our sides, our bodies facing each other. Our lips still moving, exploring, dancing.

I place a hand on her hip and pull her closer. She rolls on top of me, and I can feel every inch of her. Every gorgeous curve.

But her foot must accidentally knock into the support beam in the process, because a second later the entire contraption comes collapsing down on top of us.

Thankfully the wind must have already blown out all the tea candles, because we don't instantly catch fire. We just lie there, staring at each other, unsure what to do next. I say the first thing that pops into my mind.

“Do you want some cheese?”

GRAYSON

T
he Fourth of July is a big deal on Winlock Harbor. Visitors come by the boatload from all over the East Coast to watch the parade, visit the shops downtown, eat ice cream at Scoops, swim in the ocean, and take over our beaches like an invasion.

Traditionally Ian, Mike, and I don't do anything special. We hang out at my house, drink by the pool, swim, chat, eat, and watch the fireworks at the end of the night. Anything to avoid dealing with the mob. And I'm actually looking forward to these little acts of normalcy.

I'm looking forward to the three of us hanging out like old times.

No girlfriends. No dates. No drama.

I haven't spoken to Harper since I left her on my father's boat yesterday. She's texted me twice, but I haven't responded. I don't know what to say to her. I don't know what to do. If I see her, I'll kiss her. If I kiss her, I'll feel wretched.

And yet all I want to do is see her.

Being with her feels safe. It feels right. Even though I know it's not.

The whole thing is just messed up.

The guys and I have the house to ourselves today. My father is on the mainland for work, and Whitney left about an hour ago, looking as giddy as a schoolgirl. No doubt she's found some hunky tourist to keep her company for a few days.

I turn on the barbecue and go inside to get the steaks from the fridge. On the way back out I grab the chips and salsa, and set them on the table next to the cooler.

I'm just putting the first filet on the grill and taking a sip of beer when the doorbell rings.

“I'll get it!” Ian calls, emerging from his room and sprinting toward the door. It's the first I've seen of him all day. Sometimes I get the sense that he's avoiding me, although I don't have the faintest idea why.

A few seconds later Ian steps onto the patio with Mike. We exchange fist bumps, and then for a minute we all kind of just stand there, staring at each other, wondering what comes next.

No,
I think. I will not let this become another one of those awkward conversations where none of us can find anything to say to each other. I will not endure that torture again.

Yes, we're all going through some shit, but we're best friends. There has to be
something
we can talk about.

“So, Ian,” I say, trying to sound casual, which, of course, makes it sound just the opposite. “Mike told me you had a date yesterday. How'd that go?

Girls. Girls are always a good topic.

“Oh,” Ian says, sounding flustered. “That. Yeah, it wasn't really a date. It was no big deal. Just a casual thing.” I try to give him a knowing look, but he refuses to meet my eye. He plunges his hand into the cooler and grabs two beers, then hands one to Mike and unscrews the other to
take a long gulp. “What about you?” He lobs the question back at me. “Mike says you have a new lady friend you've been sneaking off to meet.”

My gaze darts quickly to Mike, then back to the grill.

Okay, maybe girls was a bad topic.

I shake my head, clearing my throat. “Yeah. Well, you know me.”

“We sure do,” Mike says with a chuckle. I know he means it in jest. Making fun of my continual rotating door of hookups has always been a harmless joke between us. But today, I don't know, there's something about the way he says it that strikes a nerve.

Or maybe I just need to chill the fuck out.

I press down on one of the filets and listen to the satisfying sizzle.

The guys must sense my unease, because Mike changes the subject. “I saw a football on the kitchen table. Wanna toss a few while those steaks cook?”

I press down harder on the steak, until my arm starts to throb. “Maybe later,” I grumble, and out of the corner of my eye, I just manage to catch the look Mike and Ian exchange.

“So,” Ian says, bouncing on his toes a little. At least someone seems to be in a good mood. “How long do you think those steaks will take, anyway?”

I shoot him a look. Does he have somewhere else to be?

“The normal time,” I tell him. “Unless you want yours rare.”

He shrugs. “I could do rare.”

“You
are
rare,” Mike jokes.

“Yeah, rare form,” Ian counters, striking a ridiculous pose.

Mike guffaws, pointing to Ian's beer. “How many of those have you had?”

“This is my first one!” Ian swears. “I'm just high on
life.” He breaks into an awkward dance move that is
way
too advanced for him and spills his beer in the process. “C'mon, Grayson,” he coaxes in a falsetto sexy voice. “Give it to me
rare
.”

Mike breaks out laughing.

“We're not eating rare steak,” I snap, and immediately wish I could take it back. Ian stops dancing, and Mike's laughter screeches to a halt. They're both staring at me like I've completely lost it.

And who knows? Maybe I have. Maybe I really am going insane.

I rack my brain for something to say. A safe topic. “Hey, did anyone watch
Crusade of Kings
yet?”

Ian and Mike both take long sips of beer, shaking their heads in unison.

“Me neither,” I say, sounding
way
too chipper. “Maybe we can watch it later.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Mike says, but I can tell he doesn't mean it.