10. Chapter 10
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.
“Well done,” I say. “But now what do you have planned?”
“I have no idea,” she says on a laugh. “In the movie I choked the Viking.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that,” I say, locking my arms around her legs and holding her tight as I go farther out into the water.
“Briggs, what are you doing?” she asks as I move us deeper and deeper, holding on so she can’t get away.
“Exacting my revenge,” I say before dunking us both under.
I bring us both back up, still holding on to her, and hear her sputtering and coughing. I feel a little bad for doing that, but then she twists and breaks free from my grasp, slipping off my back and going under the water. I barely have time to react before she launches herself back up and onto me. I’m laughing as I lose my balance and fall back under the water, managing to grab her arm and take her down with me.
When we come back up, we’re both laughing and swiping water from our eyes .
“Are we calling a truce?” I ask, out of breath but feeling so much lighter than I have in a while. Playing with Presley in the water like this feels like a soothing relief for all my worries. A temporary one, but much needed.
“No way,” she says, doggy-paddling in place to keep afloat. I’ve got both feet on the ocean floor, my head easily above water.
She looks like she’s preparing to launch herself at me again, but then her eyes go wide, and she jumps at me, but it’s more like straight into me, her arms wrapping around my neck.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, looking her in the eyes.
“I felt something touch my leg,” she says, her body basically suction-cupped to mine.
My arms go around her, feeling instantly protective.
She lets out a little scream. “I felt it again,” she says.
I look down in the clear water, seeing something dark toward the bottom. I kick my foot around at whatever it is before realizing what I’m touching.
“It’s seaweed,” I say, a laugh bubbling up in my throat.
“What?” she asks, searching my face. “No, it wasn’t. It was a fish.”
“I’m pretty sure it was just seaweed, but even so I’m a bit shocked that the Lady of the Blade, who can jump on a Viking’s back, would be scared of a little fish. ”
“It could have been a barracuda,” she says, still plastering her body against mine. I won’t lie and say I’m not enjoying holding her like this.
“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t.”
“Are there barracuda in this ocean?”
“Absolutely,” I say, and she makes a little squeaking noise, her arms going tighter around me to the point that it does feel something akin to being choked.
“In all the time I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen one in the water,” I say, wiggling my neck a little and she loosens her grip, but only slightly. I’m mostly being truthful about never seeing a barracuda. I have seen one once, when I went deep sea fishing with Keith years ago and he caught one. But I didn’t know it was a barracuda until we brought it above water. It might have been the ugliest fish I’ve ever seen with its pointed head and huge, elongated mouth filled with sharp, jagged teeth. I hope I never see one again, to be honest.
“Really?” Presley asks, her eyes still wide. I can see tiny droplets of water on her long, dark lashes.
“Really,” I say.
She releases her grip a little, her body relaxing. Then, as if it finally dawns on her that she was practically adhered to me just seconds ago, she lets go completely, and I feel sort of disappointed .
“Should we make that sandcastle, then?” she asks, as if the last few minutes never happened.
“Sure,” I say.
We make quick work of getting back to the shore, grabbing our buckets and filling them with water before making our way back to our towels and things under the large beach umbrella.
We spend the next hour working on the sandcastle—very seriously, I might add. It’s obvious Presley likes to do things right, making me redo a couple of the spots when they weren’t up to her standards.
By the end we’ve done a decent job of making our castle. There’s even a walkway to the entrance and a moat around the circumference.
“My first sandcastle,” Presley says, while I’m taking pictures of it with my phone since the camera on hers is terrible.
“On the summer rating scale, where does this one land?” I ask her once I’ve completed my role as photographer. Feeling hungry, I grab a small bag of chips I’d thrown in the beach bag before coming here.
“I’d say it’s an eight,” she says.
“That high, huh?” I say as I open the bag. I offer it to her, and she reaches inside, pulling out a chip. “What about the trampoline?”
“Also an eight,” she says, before popping the chip in her mouth .
“What gets a ten from Presley James?”
“I have no idea,” she says, talking around the food in her mouth. “We’ve still got a lot more summer activities to experience.”
“Now I have a goal,” I tell her, giving her a smile.
“What’s that?”
“To do something that earns a ten.”
She grins. “I have to warn you: I’m a tough audience.”
“Challenge accepted,” I say.
“I think the castle is a two at best,” a woman says, and we both look up to see that same opinionated older lady, that big visor on her head. She’s got a T-shirt on that says Hot Grandma . I hadn’t seen her in a few days and thought maybe she’d gone back to the hole she’d crawled out of.
“Thanks?” Presley says, looking up at her.
“I need a drink,” the woman declares.
“Okay, I can . . . grab someone for you?” I say, wondering for a second if she thinks I work here.
I’m also wondering if she’s even supposed to be on this beach. Should we tell her it’s private? I still have no idea who this woman is, and I keep forgetting to ask my mom about her.
“I’ll do it myself,” she says, her tone sounding frustrated. Then she points at Presley. “Sit up straight—you’re killing your posture. ”
I watch as Presley does, in fact, sit taller. The woman gives her a nod before walking away, muttering to herself about people these days and something about a daiquiri.
“Who is that woman?” Presley asks, when she’s walked out of listening distance.
I lift my shoulders. “I have no idea. I think she moved to the island after I left home.”
“She’s so . . . weird.”
“And has a very strange aversion to smells,” I add.
“Hmm?” Presley asks, confused.
“It’s nothing,” I say, waving the words away with my hand.
We spend the rest of the afternoon sitting under the umbrella on lounge chairs, talking about mostly superficial things, similar to the other night when we were at my apartment. I now know Presley James hates mushrooms and tried going vegan for all of one day. And she knows that I wrestled in high school and was rejected publicly by a girl named Brittany when I tried to kiss her at the homecoming dance, subsequently causing my aversion to public displays of affection.
“I never got to go to a school dance,” she says, now wearing an oversized white swimsuit coverup over her red bikini. She takes a bite of a club sandwich, which we each ordered from the resort. They delivered them to us on fancy trays and on real dishes. Food service on the beach is something I’ve never done before and will probably never do again. Especially since my bank account wouldn’t allow it at the moment. I argued to, at minimum, pay for mine, but Presley insisted it all be put on her tab.
“How did you do school?” I ask her, and then take a bite of my food. It tastes amazing, like all food seems to on the beach. It’s a strange phenomenon.
“Tutors, mostly. And some online classes,” she says.
“I can’t say you missed out,” I tell her honestly. High school for me was a rough time. I struggled with making close friends and resisted listening to Keith when he tried to be a father to me. I was kind of a jerk to both him and my mom, which, luckily, I was able to apologize for before Keith died. Still, it doesn’t make up for how I acted. I wasn’t terrible, but I wasn’t all that considerate or understanding either.
“Did you like college better?”
“Much,” I say. “I think I like being on my own.”
“Which is why you’re not happy being back here, working for your mom?”
I bob my head from side to side as I think about answering that. “I’m not unhappy about being back. I’m just not happy about how things turned out with my company.”
“I’m sure,” she says.
Once the sun is close to setting, employees from the resort bring out tiki torches and place them around the private beach. The umbrella we’ve been sitting under all afternoon has been taken down by one of the beach attendants, and we’re now lying flat on our lounge chairs, looking up at a purple sky as a few stars start to appear.
“Thanks for spending the afternoon with me,” Presley says, and reaching over, she grabs ahold of my hand and gives it a little squeeze. I expect her to pull away, but she keeps it there, and I wrap my fingers around hers. Her hand feels dainty in mine, and soft. It’s a friendly handhold. That’s all it is. Just friendly.
“It was my pleasure,” I tell her. And it really was. Today has been a good day. I haven’t felt this free in . . . well, I don’t even know how long. Probably not since college?
“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“I have to work all day,” I tell her, feeling disappointment weigh on my shoulders.
“Oh,” she says, turning her head toward me so we’re lying on our chairs, still holding hands and now face-to-face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.”
“No.” I shake my head in tiny movements. “My mom and Scout had a shopping trip planned for tomorrow on the mainland that I don’t want them to miss.”
“Yeah, of course. They should definitely do that. We’ve got all summer, anyway,” she says, giving me a soft smile. “Maybe Thursday?”
“Or … you could maybe come over tomorrow, after I close up the shop?” I ask, feeling instantly nervous, for no reason really. Maybe it’s because, in my head, I’d just assumed we’d hang out tomorrow night, and now I feel sort of ridiculous for thinking that.
“Okay,” she says, her lips pulling into a wide grin, putting my nerves at ease.
Her head lolls back to the sky, and mine does likewise, and we lie like that, holding hands, looking at the stars until the sun sets fully.