5. Chapter 5
Presley
“Presley James, what are you doing?”
I say this to myself after I’ve splashed cool water on my face, because even though it feels like sticky iced coffee is on all parts of my body, I don’t think it made its way to my cheeks. Still, I’m in need of a good slap in the face right now, and this was the best I could do.
Not only am I not back at the resort prison, I’m in a stranger’s apartment. One that’s decorated in a princess motif, which is neither here nor there, but being here was not part of the plan.
But, okay. Wow. This bathroom is so much cleaner than I was expecting. I honestly didn’t know what to think when I was invited here. I suppose I wasn’t thinking at all.
Too bad Tinker Bell is just a painting on this wall and not real, or maybe she could offer me some pixie dust to magically transport me back to the Belacourt Resort .
Of course, being doused with a cold, caffeinated beverage was also not part of my plan when I set out to go back to my room, but I certainly didn’t need to come to the apartment of a guy I barely know. What has gotten into me? Am I losing my mind from the time I’ve spent alone? Two and a half days in solitude should not an unhinged person make. Yet here we are.
Unhinged might be a tad over the mark, but that’s how I’m feeling. I don’t do things like this. Unless you count the time I tried to break into Zac Efron’s trailer. I was a dumb teenager back then. Fun fact: I could have just knocked on the door since we were filming the same movie. Which is what he nicely told me as he helped pull my stuck body out of the tiny window. So embarrassing. At least we can laugh about it now. Still, that was the only time I’d done something that crazy.
Oh, right . . . I’ve been crazier. I guess my big faux pas that brought me to this island might be more proof. Maybe I am unhinged. Maybe it’s always been a thing I’ve done and I’m just now learning this about myself.
I look in the mirror. Am I a nutjob? I don’t look like one. Right now, I look like a kid in her dad’s shirt with how this one hangs on me. I’ve tied it in a knot at the front, my cross-body bag sort of helping it stay in place, but it’s not working that well. At least it’s clean and not soaking wet.
I wring out the coffee-drenched tank I was wearing in the sink, and then, grabbing it, I make my way out of the fairy- decorated bathroom and into the princess-themed living room to find cute-bookstore-boy sitting on the out-of-place plain gray couch—shouldn’t it be some kind of regal purple with a high back and gold detailing?
“Everything okay?” cute-bookstore-boy asks as he jumps out of his seat. Then he moves his hands around awkwardly before he tucks them in the back pockets of the jeans he’s wearing, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s wearing his glasses again, and although he’s handsome without them, the rectangular frames take him to a whole other level.
“Yes, thank you,” I say. I hold out my wet tank top. “Do you have a bag I could put this in?”
“Sure,” he says, walking over to the small kitchen. I stifle a giggle as he walks over there with his hands still in his back pockets. It just looks ridiculous. He’s kind of adorable.
He disappears behind the lower cabinets, and I hear him rifling around them until he pops back up, a grocery sack in hand.
He walks over to me and offers me the bag. “Here you go,” he says.
“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.
“Could you . . . would you mind not saying anything to anyone? About me being here?”
“Of course,” he says without even the slightest hesitation, and I smile because I believe him. In a business where you’re basically taught by experience to trust no one, and after finding out recently who my true friends are (the answer is: I don’t have any), it’s an odd feeling to trust this guy so quickly. But I do. There’s something in those green eyes of his that just looks trustworthy.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling relieved.
He fiddles with one of the arms on his glasses, his forehead creasing. “Actually, I think people might already know,” he says.
“Really?” A feeling of dread fills my stomach.
“My mom said she saw you outside the bookshop.”
“That was your mom?” I ask, remembering the flustered-looking woman who did a double take when I passed her on the sidewalk.
Crap. I knew she’d recognized me.
“She said she’d heard a rumor you were here and staying at the Belacourt Resort.” He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. “Word does spread fast around here.”
“Great,” I say. “Well, serves me right for going to a small island.” I guess I can’t beat myself up for leaving my room today if people were already talking. I wonder who’s spreading the news? Noah? That doesn’t sound like something he’d do.
“I might be able to help,” Briggs offers.
“How so?”
He lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. “A lot of people come through the bookstore. I can shoot down any rumors I might hear there and when I’m out and about.”
“You’d do that?”
He smiles. “Of course. ”
“Would it work?”
“Possibly. Like I said, word travels fast. If I tell people it’s not you, that will spread as well.”
“Briggs, that would be so amazing.” A little tiny voice in the back of my head wonders if Briggs would be so willing to help out if he knew why I’m hiding. Probably not.
“Well, thank you so much for the shirt,” I tell him.
“No problem.”
“I’ll figure out a way to get it back to you.”
He shakes his head. “Keep it. I don’t need it back.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. Think of it as payment for dumping iced coffee all over you.”
I bob my head from side to side. “I think that covers a bit of it.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “If you think of another way for me to even the score, let me know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, giving him a grin.
I turn and walk toward the front door of the apartment, Briggs following behind me. He opens the door for me, and I walk out onto the threshold. I turn around before going down the stairs.
“Thanks again.”
“No problem. Maybe I’ll see you around?” He looks at me, his eyes behind his glasses bright and focused .
How I wish I could tell him that yes, I’ll be back at the bookstore, back for more conversation with this charming man who has no idea how adorable he is. I think that’s the best part about Briggs Dalton. At least, from what I can gather about him.
“Maybe,” I say, knowing it probably won’t happen. I’ve got to stay in my resort prison now. No more real world for me. Even if it does come with pretty green eyes and a handsome face.
I give him a little wave and he gives me one back, then I head down the stairs, hearing the click of the door shutting just as I reach the bottom.
A sort of sadness lands in my gut. I’m not sure why. Probably because Briggs was a real person who actually talked to me. He expected nothing of me, didn’t want me to act a certain way or give off a certain vibe. I could just be myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a genuine conversation where no one wants something from me.
I walk out into the humid air, resigned to go back to the resort and keep myself secluded—now more than ever, with word getting around the island. If there are no more sightings of me, the rumor will go unfed, and maybe it will die.
At least I’ve got some books to keep me company now.
The books! Crap. I think I left them in the bathroom. I look around me like they might magically appear, before turning back toward Briggs’s apartment, going inside and up the stairs .
I knock on the blue door of his apartment, feeling little butterflies dance around in my stomach, wondering how I can be so elated that my visit with Briggs isn’t quite over yet. Is it him? Or is it just the fact that I need human interaction so badly?
“Just a second,” I hear him say through the door.
“Oh, hello,” he says as he opens it and sees me standing there. He’s smiling like he’s happy to see me, which makes my stomach do a little dipping thing. It has to be the human interaction thing, right? I’m just starving for it, that’s all.
“I forgot my books,” I tell him. “I think they’re in the bathroom.”
“Sure, of course. Do you . . . want me to grab them?” His eyebrows peek out above his glasses.
“I can do it,” I say, walking inside the apartment.
“Hopefully they’re still there and Tinker Bell hasn’t sprinkled them with pixie dust and sent them off to Neverland,” he says. Then he closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
I smile because he’s all kinds of adorable right now as he’s running a hand through his hair, and suddenly I know the excitement and the butterflies in my belly are because of him and not just because I’ve missed being around people. It’s all just Briggs. A man I barely even know. Strange.
“I better go see if they’re still there, then.” I play along, heading toward the bathroom .
It dawns on me, as I grab the bag of books off the yellow-and-white checkered tile floor and walk back into the princess living room, that this interaction with Briggs reminds me of something.
“Have you seen the movie Notting Hill ?” I ask Briggs.
He shakes his head. “I haven’t.”
“It’s one of my favorites. I’ve seen it like probably ten times or maybe even more,” I tell him. “Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant. He owns a bookstore, and she’s an actress.”
“Oh,” he says, giving me a small smile. “Sounds familiar.”
“In the movie, he even invites her back to his place after spilling orange juice on her shirt.”
“That’s . . . really strange,” he says, that space between his brows pinched.
I smile as I think of the rest of that scene—Hugh Grant standing there, looking surprised, the slight raise of his brows indicating he didn’t think he’d ever see Julia Roberts’s character again, and then there she was.
Kind of like how Briggs is looking at me now.
“She even leaves his place and then has to come back because she forgot her shopping bags.”
“Wow,” he says. “Was his apartment princess and fairy themed, by chance?”
I shake my head. “Sadly, no. ”
“That’s a shame,” he says. “That could have taken the film to a whole other level.”
“Definitely a missed opportunity.”
“So, what happens after she comes back for her stuff? In the movie?”
The corner of my mouth lifts up of its own accord. “She kisses him, actually.”
“Oh,” Briggs says, his eyes going a little wider behind his glasses.
“It’s kind of a weird kiss, to be honest,” I tell him. “Very out of the blue, and a little stilted.”
“And this is your favorite movie?”
“I mean, there are better kisses after that first one. But yeah, it’s funny and lighthearted,” I say. “You should watch it.”
“I apparently just lived it,” he says.
We both have silly grins on our faces now. “Okay, well, I’m really leaving this time,” I say, holding the bag of books up as evidence.
I walk to the door, Briggs behind me, just like the first time I tried to leave. He opens the door, and I step out.
Maybe I’m caught up in the moment with Notting Hill in my head, or maybe it’s the thought of going back to the resort to live out my self-imposed solitary confinement sentence, or maybe I really am unhinged, because there’s no good explanation for what I do next .
I turn back toward Briggs, lift up on my toes, wrap the arm that’s not holding my books and wet shirt around his neck, and I kiss him squarely on the mouth.
I only mean for it to be a quick peck, but as soon as my lips touch his, my eyes flutter closed, and I’m entranced.
His lips are soft and pillowy, and not what I expected. I can’t stop myself from leaning in, adding more pressure to the kiss.
For a second, he’s a statue, caught off guard by my forwardness, but then his body melts into mine, his arms snaking around my back and practically lifting me. The smashing of our lips morphs into movement then, soft and slow, both of us giving and taking.
I can feel his hands solid on my back, fingers splayed as he holds me, and our lips move together. One hand moves up and presses against the base of my skull, angling me back just so, giving him more access.
Oh man. I totally get why Julia Roberts’s character kissed the nerdy-cute bookstore owner in Notting Hill . This kiss is everything. Not awkward and stilted like the movie, though—hotter and more intense. Not in a chaotic I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off sort of way, but like a slow sort of dance.
The distant, muted sound of bells jingling on a door makes Briggs pull out of the kiss. I can feel and hear his startled intake of breath. Or maybe that was me.
Presley James, what have you done ?
He slowly sets me back down so my heels touch the floor beneath them, and removing his arms, he takes a tiny step back.
“Sorry,” I say, breathlessly, feeling a bit shell shocked. Did we really just do that? Did I just do that?
“Sorry,” I say again. “I think I got caught up in the moment, or the sea air or something.” I reach up and touch my lips that now feel sort of empty. Maybe lonely is a better word.
Briggs reaches up and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Me too,” he says. “It’s definitely the sea air . . . or the moment. Or something.”
“Or the movie,” I add.
“Right. What was it called again?”
“Notting Hill.”
He nods. “I’ll make sure to watch it.”
“You definitely should.”
I want to apologize again, but I don’t. Instead, I take a big, kiss-recovering breath.
“I’d better go,” I say. I search his face, not sure what I’m looking for. If he invited me back inside his apartment, I’d probably take him up on it.
He doesn’t, though. Which is good. That’s what I’m telling myself. It’s good. Great. Excellent.
I turn and walk down the stairs. Before I exit, I look back up and see him standing there. He gives me a little wave, and I return it before I leave for real this time.