12. Chapter 12
Briggs
“So, how are things going with Presley?” my mom asks me, her voice full of insinuation with a dash of hopefulness. It’s full of romance and weddings and grandbabies.
We’re both behind the counter of the bookshop. I worked the morning and early afternoon, and she came in to work the remainder of the day so I can take Presley out on a boat for a day at sea. Our next summer activity.
I’ve borrowed a boat from Dax, a guy I knew from school who now owns Keith’s boat repair shop. Keith left it to him in his will. There was some chatter around the island after Keith passed and didn’t leave the shop to me, but the truth is, I never wanted it. I have no idea how to fix a boat, and it’s never been something that interested me. It was right that it went to Dax. That’s who should be running it .
Meanwhile, I have no idea what I should be doing with my life. It’s weird to be so directionless and nearly penniless right now. I have no idea what to do next, but I need to do something.
Maybe I should call Jack to see what he wants to talk about. Maybe he’s got something up his sleeve, or maybe my nightmares will come true and I’ll learn he’s only been trying to reach me because we owe more money. Since I currently have no money, that would not be good news. Maybe he wants to continue the fight we had before I left. Maybe I should never call Jack again and run away and hide on an island like Presley. Of course, I’m currently on an island, one I also sort of ran away to, so I guess that’s pretty much what I did. Huh. How am I just now realizing this?
“Things are fine with Presley, Mom,” I say, trying to indicate with my voice that nothing is happening, so she’ll stop with the freaking stars in her eyes and the naming of the grandchildren.
“I think you’re in love with her,” Scout says, walking up to the counter, obviously eavesdropping and not dusting the shelves like she’s supposed to be doing right now. Instead, she’s stuck the end of the feather duster into the bun on top of her head, and it’s looking like some sort of Regency-era headdress. And the only reason I know anything about that is because my mom forced me to watch period pieces with her when I was young. I don’t even know the number of times I’ve watched Pride and Prejudice . I think the 2005 adaptation is the superior version, but I would never admit that to my mom. She’s a Colin Firth fan forever.
“I’m not in love with her,” I say to Scout, taking a quick glance around the shop to make sure Presley hasn’t somehow snuck her way inside and is listening to this conversation right now.
I am very much in like with Presley, but I’m not about to tell my mom or sister this. It’s not a good thing anyway. There’s attraction between us for sure. I know we both feel it. I wanted to kiss her last night, which is kind of a theme with me. I’ve wanted to kiss her every time I’ve been around her. It’s not a good idea. She and I are not a good idea. She’s not going to stay on this island, and I . . . well, I don’t know what I’m going to do.
And yes, I can hear my mother’s hopeful, romantic voice in my head saying that’s perfect—I don’t know what step I’m taking in life next, so I can go anywhere. But I’m not the type of man who can just do that. I need some sort of direction; I need to feel useful. And I’ve got neither of those things going for me right now.
The bell above the door rings as someone enters the shop. Her ears must be ringing…
“Hello,” says Presley, waving at us as she comes inside, a baseball cap on her head and big sunglasses on her face. She’s looking beautiful in a blue T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts .
She bites her lip as she looks around the store and then quickly removes the sunglasses when she realizes it’s just us. She’s still being careful, even though word has spread around the island that she’s not here, thanks to my mom and sister. I haven’t heard her name mentioned in days, which is crazy that they have such an influence around here. I hope they use this power for good and not evil. In the past, I fear it’s been wielded mostly for evil.
My mom and I both tell her hello, and Scout does some sort of Regency-type curtsy, the feathers still in her hair.
“Welcome, Miss Presley,” she says in a terrible British accent.
“Why, thank you,” Presley says, falling right into character and curtsying back.
“Okay, well, thanks for that, Scout,” I grab her by the shoulders and guide her toward the shelves she’s supposed to be dusting.
“She was malnourished as a child,” I say to Presley when Scout walks toward the shelves, the feather duster in her hair bouncing with each step.
“She was not,” my mom says, sounding insulted.
“I’m sorry about my weird family,” I say to Presley.
“I don’t think they’re weird at all,” Presley says. “You have a great family.”
“Thank you, Presley,” says my mom, and you can probably see the beaming that’s happening right now from space .
With a head bob toward the books, Presley and I walk away from my mom and over to some shelves that aren’t near Scout either. I caught a quick glimpse of her and she’s still not dusting but now currently doing some sort of ballroom dance with a ghost. And yes, the feather duster is still in her hair.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Presley. “I’m supposed to come get you in an hour.”
“I need another book to read,” she says.
I furrow my brow. “You read the other three already?”
“Yep,” she says, putting her hands behind her back and looking up at me with a closed-mouth smile.
The math isn’t mathing, considering we’ve been spending a lot of time together and I’ve never once seen her reading, and also, she told me while we were building the sandcastle that she hadn’t read much since we’d begun the summer adventures. So she had just magically read all three since then?
“What did you think of The Love Hypothesis ?” I ask, testing her.
“Loved it,” she says, giving me very convincing eyes.
“What was it about?”
She purses her lips. “People who hypothesize about love.”
My lip twitches of its own accord.
“And The Rule Book is about . . .?”
“Rules,” she says, emphatically. “And . . . a book. ”
“You haven’t read them, have you?” I ask, reversing our roles from the day we first met, just over a week ago.
“No,” she says. “But I did finish the Sunny Palmer book.”
“And what did you think?” I’m not sure why I’m asking because it’s not like I’ve read it.
“Loved it; I want to play the main character, Cali, in the adaptation.”
“Is that happening?”
“I have no idea,” she says.
“Okay, so what actually brings you here? Not that I mind you coming here. You can come to the bookshop whenever you want.” I’m rambling. Great. I’d come so far with her and I’m reverting back to nervous me. I reach up and mess with my glasses.
She nibbles on her bottom lip. “I need a favor.”
“Of course,” I tell her.
She places a hand on her hip and pops it out. “Briggs Fitzwilliam Dalton, you don’t even know what I’m going to ask. I could be asking for your assistance in burying a body.”
“Fitzwilliam?” I ask her.
“I’m just going to start throwing names out there until I figure it out.”
“Well, you were wrong with that one.”
“Damn,” she says, her lips pushing out in an adorable pout. Yep, and I want to kiss her again. Get yourself together, man. It would be one thing if I’d never felt her lips on mine—I could delude myself into thinking she might be a terrible kisser, or that her lips are rough. But I know how they feel. Soft and giving.
Crap. I’m staring now. I’m staring at her lips.
“So, what’s this favor?” I ask, forcing my eyes up toward hers.
She lets out a breath. “I need you to look online and see if they’ve said anything about the movie I’m supposed to be doing. If they’ve . . . replaced me.”
“Oh, okay, sure,” I say, taking my phone out of my pocket and pulling up the internet. “You know, they do have Wi-Fi at the Belacourt Resort.”
She gives me a scowl. “I know that. I’m staying offline right now. Maybe forever.”
The internet must be hard for people like Presley. It can be hard for anyone, really. Someone could post something they thought was benign and wake up the next morning canceled. Everyone has an opinion these days, and they have a way to share it with the world now.
“Okay, so what am I looking up exactly?” I say, fingers at the ready to type in the search bar.
“Just Presley James and Cosmic Fury ,” she says. “They were supposed to announce casting today.” She nibbles on the side of her thumb, nervous energy oozing from her .
“No problem.” I quickly type in the words, and a headline pops up almost immediately: Cosmic Fury Now in Preproduction, but Will Presley James Still Play the Lead?
“What does it say?” she asks, looking from me to the phone.
“Hold on,” I say, quickly skimming the article.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s not bad,” I say, my eyes quickly catching on to key words. It’s not ideal either. I feel a little whooshing sensation in my stomach.
“Tell me,” she says.
“So, you still have the role.”
She lets out a breath.
“But apparently, there’s still a lot of backlash.”
According to the article, because of the outcry to cancel her after the viral video, the producers have gone quiet about the role, but as far as the author of the piece can tell, she’s still cast as the lead.
Presley closes her eyes, placing her hands on her face. I put my phone in my pocket and wait for her to talk because there’s nothing I can say to her right now that might help the situation. First of all, I don’t understand the ins and outs of how things in her industry work. Secondly, for all I know about Presley, there’s so much I still don’t know. She might be one of those people who needs to process things inwardly before she wants to talk about them .
Presley moves her hands away from her face and takes a big breath, as if she’s trying to clear out whatever she’s feeling right now.
“Okay, that’s not horrible,” she says, and I nod. “If the producers aren’t saying anything right now and I still have the role, chances are they are also waiting to see if this dies down.”
“That makes sense,” I say. It’s so awkward not to offer some sort of platitude right now. It’s my instinct to try to fix things or offer solutions. It’s what I do for a living . . . or what I did. Searching for bugs in a system and creating ways to fix them. It’s hard for me to just stand here and let her process without offering her something.
But I do have one thing. I take a step closer to her, putting a hand on her shoulder, and when she leans in, I gather her into my arms and hold her. Her head falls onto my chest and her arms wrap around my waist. I rest my face on the top of her head and rub comforting circles on her back.
She feels warm, her body melding with mine, and she smells like vanilla and coconut.
“Thank you,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it.
“You okay?” I ask after a minute of holding her. Honestly, if she wanted to stay like this for the rest of the day, I’d be okay with it. I don’t have a lot to offer her, but I can give her this.
I feel her nodding under my head. And then she pulls back and looks at me, a sad sort of resigned smile on her face .
“Whatever you had planned today, can we . . . maybe do it another time?”
“Of course,” I tell her. I can’t help the disappointed feeling that lands on my shoulders. It feels selfish to feel this way. Stupid viral video. Of course, if it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t get to hold this woman like I am right now.
“I think I just need to lie on the beach or something.”
“Read a book?”
She smiles then. “Yes. There are lots of hypotheses and rules to learn about.”
“Exactly,” I say, returning the grin. But then I let it drop. “I’ll . . . be here whenever you want to do something.”
She pulls her head back, tucking in her chin. “No, I was . . . I hoped . . .” She stops and takes a deep breath. “Would you come with me? Would you sit on the beach with me?”
I search her face. “Yeah, absolutely.”
“Okay, perfect.” She pulls out of the hug, grabbing on to the hem of my T-shirt like she’s not ready to let go. “You’re kind of my emotional support human.”
I chuckle. “Glad to be of service.”