Briggs
I might have to set up some ground rules with Presley.
The first one being that she can’t wear that red bikini ever again.
That’s it. It’s just the one rule. Now to figure out how to tell her that without sounding like a creep.
“I literally have no idea what I’m doing,” she says as she packs sand into a turret-shaped bucket. I grabbed a bunch of supplies from my mom’s house before meeting up with Presley. My mom was more than happy to find them for me, as well as work at the bookshop this afternoon so I could be here. And she agreed to it all with stars in her eyes, which I quickly shot down, but I don’t think she’s buying it.
She’s already started her Presley James is Not at Sunset Harbor campaign, and it must be going well since the bookshop was pretty much dead for most of the day. Which is sort of a double-edged sword, since when it was busy, the shop was making good money. It’s not like the shop is in trouble or anything—it’s just not making a decent profit. My mom never expected it to when she bought it all those years ago, but I don’t want her to end up losing money on it, money she needs for retirement.
Scout is also part of the campaign, confirming that she started texting her friends last night after dinner claiming the same thing. They may have run with the rumor when it started, but they just might be the best allies for Presley in the end.
Now, Presley and I are both on our knees in the sand under a large beach umbrella, even though we’re lathered up with sunblock, attempting to make a sandcastle. We pushed the fancy beach chairs to the side to give us enough space.
That was my plan for today, the first thing on the list I made. I could have taken her on a boat ride, or done something more extravagant, more like something she’s used to, but for some reason when she said the other day that she’s never made a sandcastle, it stuck in my head.
I could picture us on the beach working together to build it, and of course, in my mind, I’d be masterful at it, showing her how to do it with the utmost confidence as I formed towers and turrets with ease. Unfortunately, it’s been a while since I’ve made one, and I’m kind of at a loss for where to begin. And also, that red bikini is distracting me.
We’re on the private beach that’s only for guests of the Belacourt Resort. It’s on the north corner of the island, palm trees blowing in the light wind, the water a beautiful blue under the afternoon sun.
It’s hot and sticky from the humidity, but the great part about being on the beach is you can run into the water and cool off, even if the water is only slightly cooler than bathwater right now.
“Maybe we should google it,” I say, grabbing my phone out of a beach bag my mom insisted I take. I instinctively look for my glasses and then remember I’ve got contacts in. I wish I liked them more, but I usually have to suffer through wearing them. But I don’t mind suffering today, here with Presley.
She places her hands on her hips, looking over at me, those large-frame sunglasses covering so much of her face. “Briggs Dalton, you’ve lived by the ocean your entire life and you don’t know how to build a proper sandcastle?”
“No, I mean, I’m looking it up for you. So you have some instructions.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” she asks.
“I’m rusty, okay? It’s been a while. And apparently building a sandcastle is not like riding a bike.”
She smiles, and I’m grateful those glasses aren’t big enough to cover that part of her face because she has a great smile. Big and warm and inviting. It’s easy to see why she’s become an A-list star. There’s just something about her . . . like someone you can picture hanging out with and forgetting they make movies for a living. Or maybe that’s only how it feels for me.
I quickly type how to build a sandcastle in the search bar, and in just a few seconds I have a list.
I sit back on my heels. “We need water,” I say, shaking my head, because how did I forget that? The water helps to stabilize the sand, making it easier to form.
Have I really forgotten, or is being around Presley in that red bikini short-circuiting my brain? I’m going to bet it’s the latter. Honestly, I’d rather it be that than the chance I’m already going senile.
“Well, crap,” she says, letting her shoulders fall dramatically. “Where are we going to find water around here?”
“That’s a really good question,” I say, looking out into the vast ocean that stretches as far as the eye can see.
She’s smiling again, and I’m smiling back, and we’re looking at each other. I think this is what the kids call a moment. I feel like I’ve had a lot of those with Presley since she first came into the bookshop last week. I haven’t had a moment with someone in so long, I think I’d forgotten how it feels. How my stomach does a little dropping thing like I’m on a roller coaster. How my pulse quickens and my palms feel sweaty. Although that could also be attributed to the heat index.
Last night I felt it on the trampoline, when we were facing each other, inching closer together as we were talking. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to lean in and feel her lips against mine. I almost did before she turned away. I was going to throw caution to the wind and just do it, right there under the stars.
It was the right thing to happen, Presley turning away like she did. Having a summer fling, because that’s exactly what this would be, isn’t a smart move. Maybe if we were teenagers and could afford foolish things. But we’re both adults, with fully developed brains. And my fully developed brain is a bit lost and wandering right now, not to mention broke, and I should probably figure that out. I don’t fit into her world, and she absolutely doesn’t fit into mine, even if right now on this beach it feels idyllic.
“Okay,” Presley says, snapping us out of the spell. “Let’s go get some water.” She takes off her sunglasses before grabbing a pail.
We walk quickly over the hot sand until we hit the water, wading in up to our ankles. We move a little deeper, and then I bend over, filling the bucket with water, and Presley follows suit. I turn to walk back toward the umbrella, and just as I do, water lands on my head and drips down the side of my body.
I turn to see a laughing Presley bent over at the waist, her hand covering her mouth.
“That was so worth it,” she says through her laughter, pointing a finger at me.
“You do know I have a bucket of water myself, right?”
She rights herself and tries to quickly move away from me, but I’ve got much longer legs and reach her in no time, dumping the entire contents of my pail on top of her head.
“You’re dead,” she says through giggles, looking a bit like a drowned rat. Only, still adorable.
She fills her bucket again, but I’m too fast, filling mine and dumping it on her once more.
She makes a sort of laughing-shrieking noise before abandoning the bucket on the sand and running toward me, water splashing as she moves, looking like she’s ready to pounce. I toss my bucket toward the shore and ready myself for whatever she has planned. What I don’t expect is for her, in some sort of ninja move, to use my knee as a hoist as she flings herself onto my back, her arms going around my neck and legs wrapping around my waist.
“What the hell?” I say. “How did you do that?” I put my hands under her knees for balance, but I don’t think she needs it. Her grip on me is so tight, it’s kind of making it hard to take a good breath.
“You forget I was in Lady of the Blade and had to learn how to jump on the back of a Viking who was trying to invade our farmland.”
“I saw that one,” I say. It was years ago, though, and I barely remember it. I do, however, remember her in that torn-up gown, dirt on her face and sword in her hand as she fought for her land.
“But I did have a mounting block that they edited out in postproduction. I’m kind of surprised I was able to do it today,” she says, her breath on my ear as she talks, wreaking havoc on my already straining resolve.
