“This is the worst Saturday of my life,” Scout says as she sidles up to me behind the counter. She’s wearing a bathing suit under cutoff shorts and a white button-up shirt she’s left open. She had plans with friends that our mom quickly put the kibosh on, telling her she had to work today instead.
Scout wasn’t happy and isn’t good at hiding her feelings. Especially when she thinks it’s unfair. And making her work on a Saturday when she had plans to go to the beach with friends is “totally not fair.”
It’s not fair, really. She can’t help her mother’s big mouth and the fact that there truly is an A-lister on this island. Even though I will go to my grave saying otherwise.
Scout tucks some of her naturally-highlighted blonde hair behind her ear and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Mom is the worst.”
Our mom isn’t here to defend herself; she had to take the ferry over to the mainland to run some errands. And so, as Scout’s older brother by fourteen years, I probably should correct her, but I, too, think my mom is the worst right now. Sure, the bookshop is busy and making quite a bit of money because apparently the islanders waiting on a Presley James sighting aren’t just sitting around—they’re shopping. But they wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my mom’s gossiping ways. The money does help, though. It’s not like this shop turns over a huge profit.
“You can go,” I tell a sulking Scout. I take my glasses off and clean them with the hem of my shirt.
Her eyes go wide. “Really?”
“I’ve got it handled.”
It’s been busy, but nothing I can’t take care of.
“What will you tell mom?”
“That you left me here to work by myself without even asking,” I say.
She whacks me lightly on the arm. “Briggs,” she whines.
“Fine. I’ll tell mom I told you that you could go,” I say. Teasing Scout is so fun. She falls for everything. Or at least she used to. I once had her totally convinced the animals on the safari ride in Animal Kingdom were animatronic. It was a couple of years before she figured out the truth. She still gets mad when I bring it up.
“You’re the best,” she says, wrapping her arms around me for a quick hug.
“Where are you going anyway?” I ask her when she’s pulled away.
“We’re going to crash Belacourt Beach.”
“Why?”
“To see Presley James, duh.” She says the last word like I’m an idiot.
I reach up and rub my forehead with my fingers. “I told you it’s not her.”
“And I don’t believe you,” she says. “Maybe if you didn’t lie to me about robot animals and that Bigfoot sighting in the nature preserve, I would.”
I forgot about that. That was another good one.
“Besides, I don’t care if I see her; I’m hoping to catch a view of Declan Stone.”
“Declan Stone,” I repeat, my face scrunched. “Why would you be looking for him?”
“Because he’s hot,” Scout says, and I cringe at her word usage. I don’t like knowing that my fourteen-year-old sister likes boys. If I had my way, I’d keep her away from them until she’s thirty. I know how boys think, and frankly, it’s almost always inappropriate.
“But why do you think he’s on the island?”
Scout gives me an are-you-stupid glare. “Because he and Presley James are a thing.”
I rear my head back, tucking my chin in. “What?”
I didn’t see anything about that in my Google search. Not even one mention.
“They’ve been together for a few years,” Scout says. “Everybody knows about it.”
“They’re together?”
“Yeah,” she says, picking something out of her nails like she didn’t just drop this bomb on me. “They met on the set of that alien movie A Star-Crossed Love.” She lets her shoulders drop, her face taking on a dreamy look. “Declan Stone was the hottest alien I’ve ever seen.”
I remember that movie. He played an alien that crash-landed on Earth and met a quirky hairstylist played by Presley. I didn’t think Declan was all that great in the movie. He’s definitely better suited to play Alex Steele in the Shadowstrike Chronicles.
But . . . he and Presley are together? Something sour swirls around in my stomach. Suddenly the kiss from two days ago that I’ve been replaying in my head feels like a deception. A scam. Something A-list stars do to pass the time when they’re bored. Presley’s viral video instantly feels more believable. My perspective in the rearview mirror changes in a blip. The bright, happy frame my brain had put around her and Thursday’s events now looks rusted and broken.
I feel like Hugh Grant’s character when he finds out Julia Roberts’s character has a boyfriend. Awkward and naive. I’m William Thacker.
“I’m leaving now,” Scout declares, not even noticing the fact that I’ve gone silent and most likely have a confused look on my face.
“Have . . . fun,” I say, absentmindedly.
“Thanks for being the best brother ever,” she says before basically skipping out of the shop.
The bells chime as she leaves, and everyone looks toward the door before going back to whatever they were doing.
When the last person exits the bookshop, the dimming summer sun casting shadows across the town square, I lock the door, flip the sign to closed, and slump against the glass.
