“Thanks,” I say, and as I take it from him, our hands brush and a pleasantly comfortable feeling settles in my belly. I quickly stick the soaked shirt in the bag.
“I’m glad the shirt worked,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” I look down at the oversized T-shirt and then back up at him. “This is a strange time to be asking you this, but . . . what’s your name?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah, no. It’s not strange. I mean, I guess it is strange since you’re in my apartment—or, my mom’s apartment.” He reaches up and runs a hand through his hair before letting out a breath. “I’m Briggs. Briggs Dalton.”
I hold out a hand, and he takes it in his, practically engulfing mine. My grandma Mimi, my dad’s mom, says big hands, big idiot. She really is such a snarky woman. Briggs doesn’t seem like an idiot, though, and he has nice, big hands that are oddly soft. When he shakes mine, it’s with a sturdy sort of confidence—something he hasn’t been demonstrating so far. He’s mostly seemed awkward, but adorably so.
“It’s nice to meet you, Briggs. I’m Presley.”
His eyebrows go even higher. I’d thought I’d seen recognition in his face earlier—is there a chance I read that wrong?
“James,” I add. “I’m Presley James.”
“Yes,” he says, his face falling into a sort of resigned look.
He removes his hand from mine, and then we stand there in silence for a few seconds. It feels awkward now. More awkward than it’s been. Briggs reaches up and adjusts the arm of his glasses, moving them up slightly before settling them down again at the top of his nose.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, finally, and then adds, “officially.”
I give him a small smile. “Yes, nice to meet you as well. Officially.”
“Just to clarify, you’re not the actress Presley James, are you?”
I nod. “I am, actually.” Why do I feel like I need to apologize for that? It might be because his shoulders are now doing a sort of drooping thing.
“Is that . . . okay?” I’m not sure why I asked, because take me or leave me, I am Presley James.
“Yeah, of course, sorry,” he says. “I guess I was kind of hoping it wasn’t you.”
This makes me huff out an unexpected laugh. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
He shakes his head. “No, sorry, that’s not what I mean. I’ve just acted like a complete idiot since you came into the bookshop, and then I spilled coffee on you, and well . . .”
I shrug my shoulder. “All in a regular day for me.”
He chuckles. “Oh, I’m sure. Anyway, I’m sorry about all that.” He bats a hand back and forth between us, as if to sweep away all the actions he’s deemed embarrassing.
“It’s totally fine,” I say. And it really is. See, world? I’m not the diva the gossip sites are making me out to be.
“So, what brings you to the island?” Briggs asks.
“I’m . . . um, taking a little break from life. From everything, really,” I tell him and then hold my breath, waiting for the fallout—for him to remember. To put it all together. I’m sure, so far, he’s only just been working out whether it was really me, but now he’ll remember: Presley James did a bad thing and is now hiding from everyone on a tiny island.
“A break?”
“Yeah. Yes . . .” I stop myself because he’s not giving me an understanding nod, or an acknowledging gaze, or even a disappointed how-could-you glare. Instead, he’s wearing more of a questioning expression—his lips parted, his eyes searching my face.
I can’t help the brow furrow I make in response. Is it possible he doesn’t know? That he hasn’t heard about my shame? There are plenty of people not into pop culture or the goings-on of Hollywood, I realize, but someone his age would have at least seen something on social media? A headline on the news? One of the eleventy billion subreddits about me?
“I’m sort of hiding right now,” I finally tell him. That should clue him in.
“Hiding from what?”
Okay, so he doesn’t know. How absolutely refreshing. I feel lighter, suddenly.
“Just . . . life,” I tell him. I have no intention of cluing him in to my big blunder.
“Well, you picked a great place to hide,” Briggs says.
I nod. “I’m not doing the best job of it, though,” I say, holding up the bag containing my wet shirt.
“Sorry about that,” he says, looking chagrined.
“It’s not all your fault—I was trying to get myself back to the resort before anyone else saw me. I just needed to escape for a minute. I was restless.”
He gives me an understanding nod. “How long have you been in town?”
“Three days.”
He chuckles. “Three days?”
“I’m not good at staying put.”
He gives me a closed-mouth smile. “I get that.”
I lick my lips before asking him the next question, feeling slightly nervous about it. I don’t know why; I guess it’s the anticipation of his answer. I don’t expect him to say no, but I don’t know if I’ll believe him when he says yes.
