Chapter Two
MY STOMACH GROWLS LOUD ENOUGH TO ECHO, AND I REALIZE I haven’t eaten since that airport latte and the granola bar on the flight.
It’s the kind of hunger that sneaks up on you when you’re distracted.
I open the kitchen drawer and curl my fingers around the keys to Gran’s Jolly.
The frayed pink-and-green friendship bracelet is still looped through the ring, the one I made when I was nine and insisted she keep forever.
She did. Of course she did. By the door, a rack of straw totes hangs on the wall.
Island made. I snag one as I head outside.
Everything in this house has a purpose, even the decor.
Across the lawn, the garage door creaks open, revealing the light blue Fiat Jolly with its open-air sides, caramel wicker seats, and blue-and-white striped canopy. It looks like a beach postcard come to life. Gran adored it. It was the last gift Gramp ever gave her.
I slide behind the wheel, the wicker already warm in this heat, and coax the engine to life. It coughs, then settles, stubborn as ever. The shade of blue matches Lazy Daisy’s shutters.
As I roll past her cottage, I spot Milly on her porch. She’s in black linen pants and a fitted short sleeve gray tee, always efficient but still pulled together. Her cropped black hair glints in the sun as she looks up, already clocking me. Nothing on this island happens without Milly noticing.
“Well, would you look who’s back,” she sings, rising to meet me as I hop out for a hug.
“It’s so good to see you,” I say, wrapping my arms around her. Milly has always been part-aunt, part-big sister, part-savior.
She pulls back and wipes her eyes. “Margaret sure is missed around here, Lucy.”
We stand there for a moment, letting it hang in the air.
Then I remember. “I was hoping we could go over some of the house stuff sometime this week.”
“How’s nine tomorrow morning?”
“Perfect,” I smile, and she squeezes my hand before stepping back.
Five minutes later I’m parked in front of the Piggly Wiggly. Our grocery store is small and always requires a bit of improvisation. I grab the basics, plus cheese, crackers, fruit, and water, because island logic says you should always have snacks on hand.
From there, I swing by Tip Top, our general store that sells everything from pillow inserts to starfruit.
The owner is restocking the produce basket with pineapples from her farm on Eleuthera, the larger main island next door.
I pick the best one and add more cheese from the little fridge in the back.
I load the bags into the passenger seat of the Jolly and head back toward the house, mentally calculating how much time I have to shower and get ready before margaritas at Jack’s. The answer is enough, if I don’t overthink it.
I’m passing the island’s little pink library when a golf cart flies around the bend, way too centered in the lane.
I swerve, heart in my throat. The cart jerks back just in time, and we miss each other by inches. Cool. Great. Love a casual brush with death before dinner.
As we pass, I lock eyes with the driver, annoyed. He looks terrified, hands tight on the wheel.
Oh. It’s him. Notebook Guy. My pulse spikes for an entirely different reason now, which feels unfair given the circumstances. He glances over his shoulder as he slows to a stop and offers me a sheepish wave.
“Sorry about that,” he calls. “I’m not used to driving on the wrong side of the road.”
I’ve pulled to the shoulder, half-turned in my seat to face him. His golf cart idles several yards away.
“You don’t say,” I call back, my heart still trying to catch up.
He gives a charming, lopsided grin. “I’ll do better?”
I can’t tell if it’s the heat or the near miss making my face warm. Or that grin. A cart pulls up behind him, so he waves again, then shifts into drive and disappears around the curve.
This island is full of surprises today.
After I finish putting the groceries away, I head back upstairs to shower. The sun’s dropping lower now, casting a golden glow across the yard and straight into my bedroom windows.
I try on a few things before settling on a short, creamy white linen dress. It’s fitted at the waist, skimming just enough over my hips to feel quietly dangerous. The neckline twists at one shoulder, leaving the other bare.
I study my reflection, tilting my head. It’s definitely too much. Which makes it perfect.
I leave it on. Jack and I have a long history of breaking each other’s hearts, a pattern that has repeated too often. And every summer, that inexplicable pull returns. Honestly, who am I kidding? That pull lasts all year long.
I twist my hair into a loose knot, a few blonde strands slipping free to graze my shoulders.
It’s the kind of golden that always lightens after a few days here, like even my hair knows where it is.
I glance at myself once more. Sun-kissed, a little flushed, blue-green eyes brighter than usual thanks to salt air and a day spent outside.
Fine. This is happening.
Downstairs, I queue up something upbeat and lay out wedges of cheese and glossy fruit, arranging them over a platter.
I don’t overthink it. I grab the house keys and head out, the evening air thick with charcoal smoke from a neighbor’s grill and the promise of margaritas I should probably be nervous about. Probably.
The path between our houses is worn into me as much as the sand, every step a muscle memory of summers past, bare feet, quick dashes, stolen moments.
I’ve been in love with Jack since I was sixteen.
Back then, I was just Allie’s friend, always tagging along, pretending I didn’t notice the way he’d run his hands through his hair or tease me like I was still a kid.
It took several more summers before he started seeing me differently, and by then it was already too late. I was gone for good.
That’s the thing about us. Every summer we find our way back to each other, like the tide doesn’t know any better.
But once we return to our real lives, his in New York, mine in Charleston, it eventually all falls apart.
But he spent last summer in London. Which means other than the twelve seconds in the receiving line at Gran’s funeral, this is the first time I’ve seen him in nearly two years.
I climb Jack’s porch like I’ve done a hundred times before, the boards creaking under my feet. Pausing, platter in hand, I remind myself what I’ve been rehearsing all day: I will not fall for Jack this summer.
“There you are.” His grin is just a little too eager as he opens the door.
“Guess I still know my way,” I say, slipping past, my shoulder faintly catching his.
The kitchen smells like grilled sausage and lime, and there’s music playing somewhere in the background, something old and easy. Jack takes the platter from me and sets it on the counter next to a half-sliced lime and a bottle of tequila.
“I had to make do with island groceries,” I grin, stabbing a cube of cheese with a toothpick and popping it in my mouth.
He reaches for the shaker, wrist flexing as he tips it.
When he slides the glass toward me, rim half salted, just the way I like it, my eyes snag on his hands.
I’ve felt those hands touch me hundreds of times, yet somehow they look different now.
Stronger, rougher, like the city hasn’t managed to sand down the boy who spent summers fixing boats and hauling gear for his dad.
He leans back against the counter, sipping. His brown eyes are steady on mine as I catalog the pale green button-down, sleeves rolled, collar open—definitely new. Maybe a girlfriend picked it out. Maybe a current girlfriend. The thought stings, and I take a bigger sip than I mean to.
“So,” I say, setting my glass down firmly, “how’s the family? I can’t wait for Allie to get here.”
Allie is Jack’s younger sister. She’s my age and has remained one of my closest friends since childhood.
And not just because she was two doors down.
Allie is a genuinely good human. The kind that I could always trust with my deepest secrets.
She and her husband Drew just had a baby, the first baby in our friend group, and I’m dying to get my hands on him.
“Yeah, me too. I’ll move out to the guest cottage when they get here so they can have the house to spread out a little.”
“You’ll definitely sleep better out there,” I laugh, the sound a little lighter than I feel.
I slip onto a barstool, my woven sandals dropping with a soft thud. His gaze flicks down quickly, and I cross my legs slowly, heat rising as I feel his eyes tracing over me.
“So, you said you’re not painting much these days?”
I shrug, twisting the stem of my glass in frustration. “Trying. I guess I’ve felt uninspired the last couple of months. I managed to finish all my commissions, but what I really need is to start on a new collection.”
Something familiar flickers across his face, the way he used to look when he wanted to fix something. Before either of us can say more, footsteps thud on the porch. Dawn’s voice carries in ahead of her.
“Oh.” I wince, setting my glass down. “I forgot to tell you. I invited Dawn.”
Jack’s smile comes a little too quick. “That’s great. I’ve barely seen her.”
The front door swings wide. “All right,” Dawn calls, vowels clipped just so, unmistakingly posh. “Where are you hiding her?”
People always assume she’s from London, but Dawn’s as Harbour Island as pink sand, just shaped by a childhood spent shuttling between home and very proper English boarding schools.
“In the kitchen,” I shout back, and a second later she’s sweeping in, all long limbs and confidence, her braids pulled back and her dark skin glowing against a yellow dress that hugs her frame like it was made for her.
She throws her arms around me in a twirling embrace, and then she turns to Jack with a glare.
“You avoiding me, Jack?”
“Caught,” he lifts his hands in surrender. “Work’s been busy.”