Chapter 9
Fifteen Years Earlier
I pulled off the main drag near Folly Beach and parked my car close to a boardwalk entrance. My golden curls stood up wildly,
practically alive from whipping in the wind coursing through the windows as I belted off-key accompaniments to the Top 40
on the radio.
I laughed when I imagined my mother’s face if she saw me out here, unkempt in public.
But Folly Beach was a place of freedom, far from my hometown and far from Magnolia’s battalion of hair straighteners. It was
a place where the core of me was acceptable as is, without the trappings I’d suffocated under as a child. The patent leather
shoes that dug blisters into my skin. Even that one foray into childhood pageants that was kept mercifully short due to Magnolia’s
disapproval of participants she dubbed the riffraff .
I grabbed my tote, climbed down the sandy boardwalk, and hobbled across the mounded sand toward the water. I chose a spot
and unrolled the towel from my bag, catching whiffs of laundry detergent, and unpacked my water and interior design magazine
before stretching out on the cozy fabric and letting the weight of everything go as my skin warmed in the sun.
I had only a couple weeks of papers and exams left, and I was enjoying a little break before my summer internship with a local design firm. The thing paid pennies, but it justified staying in Charleston—well away from my mother. And it was excellent experience to climb the historic preservation ladder toward the future I envisioned for myself as a top Charleston designer.
Not to mention Lincoln Kelly was meeting me here after he finished shooting photos for a newly engaged couple. It wasn’t a
date, per se, but more of an informal hangout between two interested parties. The morning after the bar, I woke up to a text
message on my phone with a gift card link from Lincoln for doughnuts for breakfast—living proof of how lovely and terribly
optimistic he was. His only ask? That I let him know my doughnut order.
All it took was cinnamon sugar typed on my screen and sent with a whoosh, and the greatest text debate of the century ensued. Regrettably, Lincoln sat firmly
in the chocolate cake doughnut camp. It was my responsibility—for the sake of all humanity—to explain how and why that particular
doughnut was a travesty to the entire fried dough industry and that the person responsible for it deserved to be imprisoned—or
perhaps just fined, with a show of remorse.
My cheeks had ached from grinning.
Still, his no-strings-attached generosity was evidence that he’d gotten the complete wrong idea about me. Maybe he thought I was someone who was just trying on messy for size. He’d probably never guess that only one of my parents had stuck around for me, and the one who did seemed perpetually let down by my existence. Or that the one boyfriend I’d had seemed mostly to like me because I’d been preselected, vetted, and dropped right into his lazy lap. Maybe I was hard to love, or maybe it was just the fallout of the circumstances I was born into, but nothing about me seemed like his type.
Maybe I was just right for a summer fling.
Halfway through my magazine, on the center-spread story about making over shipping containers in the Midwest, I dozed. Sometime
later, the sound of a photographer calling directions followed by giggles pulled me from my sleep. I pushed up onto my elbows
and watched.
Lincoln was just as he was before: confident, composed, magnetic. But today, standing there in the sunshine, it was as if
he were dazzling in ways I didn’t first realize. The light lit his limbs, and I remembered how they’d felt around me, firm
and solid, like I could fall into them for days and still be standing.
“Great work, guys,” he called.
The couple squealed as the waves rolled up and splashed their legs.
When the pair eventually disappeared up the boardwalk, I hopped up, adjusted my bikini, and sauntered toward the water. Lincoln
stood in the shallows, tapping buttons on the camera’s back. I tiptoed in and flicked small kicks of water in his direction,
then stood twirling a curl on my finger in a way I hoped was alluring.
“You seem pretty good at that photography stuff,” I said as his eyes hit mine.
A wide smile appeared on his face, and I felt it run across my skin.
“Miss Cinnamon Sugar,” he said. “I was looking forward to this all day.”
I frowned. “Can we workshop that one? Cinnamon Sugar has a certain adult-entertainment ring to it.”
“That’s fair. Especially since we’re going on dates in the daylight now.” He clicked a cover over the lens and waded closer
to me.
I shot him my best fake-angry look. “Oh, not so fast. We never said this was an official date.”
“I guess you’re right,” he said. “Maybe it’s an unofficial date, but I’m open to official anytime you change your mind. Though
you might have to meet me here. I’m working every weekend when the sun’s out. Folks—”
“I know, I know. ‘Folks can’t get enough of beach engagement photos.’” I mimed gagging myself.
“And yes, I know , I know your every single love conspiracy theory.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Truthfully, I’d forgotten I’d spilled that much of my guts. “That was right after you tied up the unicorn
you rode in on under the rainbow that delivered you to the bar.”
He nodded. “Even stopped off at the pot of gold for a few coins to cover the drinks.”
“You served me drinks bought with money stolen from a good and decent leprechaun? How can I ever look at you straight again?”
His eyes hung on me. “So what you’re saying is... there’s going to be a next time?”
I fought the urge to grab him and squeeze him—and perhaps hold on—because he had me: I wasn’t planning on this ending right
here in the shallows.
I tried to look resigned. “Touché.”
We both stood like fixtures in the moving surf, big and small waves flowing in and out and up our legs. He opened his mouth
as if to say something, then closed it. He fidgeted with his camera. I stood staring, like a supreme fool, wishing for the
return of my booze-induced bravado.
He shifted his feet in the sand and met my eyes. I remembered the first time I’d looked into those pools, and I made up my
mind then that this wouldn’t be the last time I’d see him. Not if the choice was mine to make.
“I know I said I didn’t want something serious, and I meant it,” I said. “I’m a bona fide hot mess, even if it is dressed up fancy and expensive and looks not-so-bad. But I also think you’re really interesting.”
“‘Interesting,’ huh?” Lincoln chuckled. “That’s not always—maybe not often—a compliment.”
I bit my lip and said, “In all the best kinds of ways, Lincoln. Maybe we can enjoy each other’s company, even if it’s only
for the summer.”
There were no brakes on this thing between us. Even if we did end up burned in the end, I’d rather be scarred than afraid
or full of regrets.
“I think I can manage that,” Lincoln said.
He linked his arm in mine, and we climbed the beach back to where I’d set up my towel. We settled in the space and let the
sand form to the shape of us; all we needed was each other’s company, and before long, hours had passed.
“So do you like photography?” I asked. “Or is it just a good side hustle?”
Lincoln pulled himself upright, and his face shifted to something intent. “It’s my favorite thing in the world.” He took his
time, enunciating each word.
“Yeah?” I was surprised at this serious shift in the guy who, so far, was nothing but locked and loaded with witty comebacks.
He nodded and dropped his eyes to the sand. “I’ve worked at an accountant’s office from nine to five since I graduated college
last year. It’s slowly sucking my soul dry, but this”—he leaned over and tapped the top of his camera—“is what I actually
care about most.”
“Well, you’ll have to show me some of it.”
“Stick around for a bit, Mack, and I might even take a good picture or two of you.”
Soon the sun started to go down, and we realized we were famished. We decided to pack up and leave in search of food. As I walked back up that boardwalk, the sun setting behind me, I felt freer than I might’ve ever felt before. And I was certain of one thing.
If this was how a summer with Lincoln Kelly would be, I was fully behind it.