6. Chapter 6
Briggs
The bell over the door rings, and someone else enters the fray. The bookshop is busier than it’s ever been, with people looking through the shelves and all the cozy chairs around the space filled. A quiet moves across the room as they all look at the entrance to see who’s come in, and then go back to talking when it’s not who they were hoping for.
It’s the older woman with the big visor who was in earlier this week with her unsolicited advice. She’s wearing super high-waisted, dark-gray pants and a T-shirt haphazardly tucked into them.
Her face scrunches when the door shuts behind her, blocking the humidity from the air-conditioned room. “I see you didn’t get an air freshener like I suggested.”
It didn’t seem like a suggestion.
From behind the counter, I school my features and don’t allow my face to give this woman the disdainful look it’s wanting—more like dying—to send her way. Instead, I plaster on a closed-mouth grin. I’ve been giving a lot of fake expressions today.
Her eyes scan the room. “Why’s it so busy in here?”
Why indeed.
It’s a long story, but the short version goes: I didn’t make it back to the bookshop fast enough, after Presley left the apartment, to stop Marianne McMannus, who never gossips, from spreading the word that she saw the actress.
I’m sure it was a chain of texts and probably phone calls (she wouldn’t fess up), but in my head I picture her with a bullhorn in her hands, standing in front of the fountain in the middle of the town square.
I did my best, telling her I ran into the woman she thought was Presley James while I was getting us coffee, and I verified it wasn’t her.
So, basically, I gaslighted my own mother.
It doesn’t matter because whether she believed me or not, she wasn’t about to retract that juicy piece of gossip, so the damage is done.
Because the Belacourt Resort doesn’t like it when people loiter there, hoping for a celebrity sighting, everyone has come to the only other place Presley James has allegedly been spotted: The Book Isle .
Well, not everyone on the island, but plenty of people from around here have stopped by, or are just sitting here, waiting.
It’s dumb logic, really. If she’s already been to the bookshop, then she’d probably try another place the next time, like the bakery, or the Sunrise Café, and not loiter around here.
True to my word to Presley, I’ve tried to tell everyone in here that it’s not really her, but no one believes me. I have no clout since I haven’t lived here permanently in nine years, whereas my mom has been here for sixteen years and owns a business in the town center. So her word trumps mine. And also, hers is the better story. Everyone wants to believe one of the most popular actresses in the world is visiting their island.
“Can I help you?” I say to the scowling older woman, ignoring her question about why it’s so busy. I push my glasses up my nose.
“No,” she says, her voice flat, then turns and heads back outside. The bell jingles, drawing everyone’s attention in that direction, only for them to realize it was just someone leaving. The disappointment is palpable.
A few seconds later, someone else enters the shop, and everyone goes quiet again until they realize it’s not Presley James and then go back to whatever they were doing. And the cycle continues. Why won’t anyone believe me?
I’ve told so many people that it’s not really her, I’m starting to wonder myself. It all feels sort of like a fever dream . . . spilling coffee on her, going back to my apartment, the kiss I can’t stop thinking about. I still can’t believe she did that. I also can’t believe I kissed her back. I kissed Presley James.
Because I told her I would, I watched Notting Hill last night. It’s funny how similar the beginning is to Thursday’s encounter. I think that’s where it ends for my story with Presley, though—at the kiss that I can’t get out of my head. I doubt I’ll have another run-in with her. At least I won’t have to pretend I’m from Horse 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.
This wasn’t the worst Saturday of my life, but it might have been the most tedious. I wasn’t in the best mood either since Scout dropped the Declan Stone bomb on me. And then I was annoyed I allowed it to affect my mood. I’d known I wouldn’t be seeing Presley James again, so what did it matter that she kisses men who aren’t her boyfriend for fun? Nothing was going to happen between us anyway.
And Declan is her boyfriend, at least according to the internet and the many, many pictures and sightings of the two of them together—laughing at dinner, holding hands as they walk into a movie premiere, sitting together on a beach. I’m not sure how I missed it in my initial search about her. Maybe I didn’t want to see it at a subconscious level.
Even despite knowing all that, despite feeling like a total idiot for giving any of my mental bandwidth to Thursday’s events, I kept up the ruse that she is not really on the island. I don’t know why I did. But a promise is a promise.
Not that it worked. People filtered in and out of the bookshop all day, eyes peeled and bright as they searched the store and kept an eye on the door anytime the bells chimed, no matter what I said. The patrons did taper off toward closing time, but that’s probably because they all have homes to go to and dinners to eat.
The bookshop is closed tomorrow since it’s Sunday, thank goodness. I don’t know if I could have endured another day like this. Keeping up the lie on my end and dealing with dumb questions about books we don’t have in the shop (I’m talking to you, Carl, and your refrigerator-repair manuals that we still don’t carry). I’m looking forward to cleaning up and going back to my princess-decorated apartment, where I can sleep this day away and try not to think about a certain star.
A tap on the glass door behind me makes me jump, and I turn around quickly to see who it might be.
It’s someone in a dark-colored sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over their head, the strings drawn so tight over dark sunglasses, I can’t tell who they are.
Am I . . . Am I being robbed? On Sunset Harbor? Has that ever happened here? I don’t think it has, even during peak tourist season. We don’t have any cars to make a getaway, and our one part-time police officer, Beau Palmer, drives a golf cart, so it’s hard to run away from him. Plus, you have to take a ferry to get on and off the island. Robbing someone here would require a lot of effort with not a lot of ways to get away fast.
“Briggs,” the person says, and even though it’s muffled, I can definitely hear the high tones of a woman’s voice.
I look closer, my face so near the glass that my breath fogs up a small spot on the door. “Presley?”
She holds a finger up to her mouth—or at least I’m guessing that’s where her mouth is since the drawstrings of the hoodie are pulled so tight, she looks like a minion. What a terrible disguise. Isn’t learning to hide from fans and the paparazzi part of Famous Actor 101 ?
I look around me, making sure I didn’t accidentally miss someone still in the shop, and quickly unlock the door. I open it, and she slips inside. I grab her lightly by the arm and guide her over between the shelves of books, just in case someone walking by might see us through the windows.
I let go, and she removes her hood. Her hair springs out with static cling, while some of it stays plastered to her face.
“Hey,” she says, her tone bright, a smile on her face.
“Hey,” I say, confused. “What are you doing here?”
She lets out a breath. “I’m bored.”
“You’re . . . bored?”
“I know,” she says, running her fingers through her hair, calming the static and fluffing the rest up. “I’m so bad at this.”
My hands are being weird appendages again, and I fold them in front of me. “I’m not sure this is the best place to escape to,” I say. “I spent the entire day telling people you aren’t really here.”
Her head falls to the side. “Did you?” She reaches up and grabs some of my T-shirt in her fist, pulling herself closer to me. It’s flirtatious and I don’t appreciate it.
“You’re the best,” she says.
I shake my head. “No one believed me, and word has spread. We’ve had people in and out all day hoping you might come back. ”
“Crap,” she mutters, letting go of my shirt. Then she lets out an exhale that’s a whole upper body effort, shoulders and head drooping. “Thanks for trying.”
“No problem,” I say. “But you probably shouldn’t be seen around the island if you don’t want to feed that rumor.”
She nods. “You’re right. But . . . I just needed to get out of there, you know? I needed some air. I was stuck in my room yesterday because of a wedding at the resort, and then I couldn’t even sit on my veranda today because there were a bunch of teenagers that kept sneaking onto the private beach. They were persistent. Every time I called the front desk, I’d see them asking them to leave, but they’d find a way to sneak back in.”
I guess I’ll be needing to have a conversation with Scout about breaking and entering in the near future. Like tomorrow.
“I borrowed a bicycle from the resort and came straight here.” She looks down at the floor, and swallows. “I needed to get out, and also, I wanted to say sorry . . . uh . . . about the whole kissing thing the other night. It was like Notting Hill , you know? And I got caught up, and . . . I’m . . . just . . . sorry.” She looks up at me, her expression soft, her eyes searching.
I give her a single nod. Is she sorry because she was cheating on Declan Stone? Or sorry that it was me she kissed? I don’t want to know the answer because either one sucks.
“No worries,” I say, even though I do have some concerns. But why bother bringing it up? What will it even change ?
“What are you doing now?” she asks, with a very obvious upbeat change to her tone.
I look around the store. “Closing up here, and then I was going to go home.”
“To the princess apartment?”
“That’s where I live.” I give her a nod.
“Well, I’m already here. Do you . . . want some company?”
I tap the side of my glasses with a finger. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, her eyebrows moving quickly up her face. “Right. Of course. Sorry.” She grabs hold of the drawstrings on her hoodie and pulls on them.
“It’s been a long day.”
“Is that all that’s wrong?” she asks, her brows lowered.
“I mean, yeah,” I say.
She lets out a long, sad-sounding sigh. “You saw the video, didn’t you?”
I pinch my brows together. “I did, but that’s—”
“And now you hate me.”
“What? No, that’s . . . I don’t hate you.” I shake my head back and forth. She looks so sad right now. So small.
“My gosh, it was a stupid moment caught on film,” she says, holding her hands up toward the ceiling, a pleading look on her face. “I’ve never lost it like that. I’ve always kept my cool. But no one seems to care. Everyone is just waiting for you to mess up. That’s all they care about.”
“Presley,” I say. “I don’t care about that video.”
“Yes, you do,” she says. “You must.”
I rub the back of my neck with my hand. “It’s not that. I just think that it’s probably not a good idea for us to hang out when you have a boyfriend.”
“A . . . boyfriend?” She looks at me like I have two heads.
“Yeah, Declan Stone?”
“What?” She shakes her head. “Declan’s not my boyfriend.”
“Really?” The word comes out more accusatory than I intended.
She looks to the side, then back at me. “Wait, you thought I had a boyfriend? That’s why you’re annoyed? This isn’t about that stupid video?”
“Well, don’t you have a boyfriend?”
“Wait . . . I kissed you, and you thought . . . Oh my gosh, Briggs. I’m so sorry.” She lifts her hands and presses them against her cheeks.
“So, are you saying he’s not your boyfriend? But the internet . . .”
“Haven’t you heard not to believe everything on the internet?” She removes her hands from her face and lets them hang at her sides.
“There are pictures. A lot of them,” I say .
She bobbles her head back and forth. “Declan and I are . . . I don’t know what we are. We were sort of dating in the past, but that’s been over for a couple of years at least.”
“So then why does it seem like you’re together? At least online.”
“We have the same publicist and we get buzz every time we’re seen together, so she tends to put us . . . together. That’s it. It’s just a facade, really.”
“But . . . you’re not dating.”
She shakes her head in slow movements. “No, we are not.”
I rub my temples with my fingers. “I’m an idiot,” I finally say.
She shakes her head. “You’re not. How would you know? I could have warned you, but I wasn’t really thinking about Declan when I saw you last.”
The corner of her lips pulls up in a very adorable way. I can’t help the return smile that spreads across my face.
“Okay, so now that you know I’m not cheating on Declan Stone, and I did come all the way here, risking getting seen . . . Will you hang out with me tonight?”