“You . . . made a list?”
I give her my best sheepish smile. “I figured it could end up being useful.”
“You assumed I wouldn’t be able to stay at the resort, didn’t you?”
“No,” I say, pushing my glasses up my nose with a finger. “Of course not. I made it just in case.”
Her mouth pulls up into a full smile, and it’s pretty dazzling.
“What’s on it?” She tries to peek at my phone, but I hold it away from her.
“It’s a surprise,” I say. It’s not a surprise, but it feels sort of vulnerable to let her look at the list I made. What if she hates it? What if it’s stupid?
“I love surprises,” she says.
“Good,” I tell her. “Because that’s why . . . I mean that’s what it’s going to be. A surprise.” Great. I’m fumbling over my words again.
“So, what should we do tonight? Can we knock something off the list?” She points to the phone in my hand.
I scan my screen to see what we could do this evening before remembering that I already have plans. “Oh crap,” I say, shaking my head and briefly looking up at the ceiling. “I have dinner with my sister and my mom. But I can cancel it.”
“No,” she says as I start to pull up my mom’s number. “Do you think . . . would they . . . would they care if I came with you?”
I stare at her, unsure I heard her right. She fumbles with the drawstrings on her hoodie, and I put the phone in my back pocket, which begins to vibrate as soon as I do, but I ignore it.
I open my mouth to say something, but she talks first. “If it’s too much to ask, don’t worry. I’m . . . sorry. We can meet up tomorrow, or the next day, or whatever?”
The way she’s fumbling through her words and her nervous energy makes me smile. She’s Presley James, famous actress extraordinaire. And I’m . . . well, I’m nobody. And yet, with the way she’s acting right now, you’d think she was trying to ask for a meeting with King Charles.
“Sorry, was that dumb to ask?” she says, now taking the ends of the drawstrings and nervously tapping them together.
“No, my mom would love to have you,” I say. “That’s not the problem.”
“Really? Then what’s the problem?” She looks around the room for a possible answer, and then back at me when it seems like she’s landed on one. “Oh, did you . . . were you planning on bringing someone with you? Like a date or something?”
I shake my head, quickly. “No, no date. It’s just me and my family. The problem is”—I reach up and adjust my glasses—“my mom happens to be the person who most likely spread the news that you might be here, and my sister was probably part of the teenage group that kept sneaking into the resort.”
Not probably—they literally did those things. But I don’t want to tell Presley that.
Her face falls, just the slightest bit, but I see it, and I hate that it’s my own family that’s been some of the cause of her seclusion.
“That does pose a problem,” she says.
I don’t respond; I just nod.
A noise from the back of the shop has us both turning our heads in that direction.
“Briggs! Mom made me come here and tell you to come to dinner. You ignored my call,” I hear my sister say as she walks into the main area of the shop with her phone in her hand, having most likely used the back entrance.
She stops dead in her tracks, only a few feet away from us, when she sees me standing there with Presley James.
“Holy crap,” Scout says, her eyes wide. “It’s true!” She covers her mouth with her hand.
“Scout,” I say as I take the few steps toward her. “She’s not who you think she is.”
“Briggs,” Presley says. “It’s okay.” She moves to stand next to me.
“You’re Presley James?” Scout finally says, her words muffled behind her hand.
She nods. “Yes, and you must be . . .” Presley looks at me for some help.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head, trying to get my bearings. “Presley, this is my sister, Scout.”
“You really are Presley James?” Scout asks, her eyes still wide. “You’re in Sunset Harbor?”
“It’s really me,” she says, holding her hands out, like she’s presenting herself.
“Oh my gosh, Briggs.” Scout turns toward me. “You liar.”
“Sorry, Scout, I’ve been trying to keep Presley’s secret. She doesn’t want people to know she’s here.”
“Oh, right, because of that video,” Scout says, like it’s no big deal, like it didn’t completely upend Presley’s life. “Was that AI? Because I’ve been telling people I think it was.”
“Uh,” Presley starts, but you can tell she’s not sure where to go with that.
“Scout,” I say, attempting to save Presley. “You can’t tell people she’s here, okay?”
Scout nods her head in quick little movements. “Sure, yeah. Okay.”
