Summer
The sun’s way too strong as I bike home, a whole plate of curry sitting in my stomach. Passing the surf school, I hear the Bluetooth speaker blasting “California Gurls” by Katy Perry, obscenely loud. Kids laughing. A whistle. Maya’s voice correcting a stance.
I don’t look.
I go in through the front door, drop my bag, and get back to work in the living room—the boxes, the dust, the sorting.
Except twenty minutes in, nature catches up with me: I have to pee. I stare down the hall to the bathroom, then close my eyes.
I forgot the water jugs.
I should’ve asked for them at the lodge over lunch, and instead I sat there eating with Miles like I was on vacation.
No water. No flush. No fix.
Okay. Plan B.
I step out into the yard facing the beach. The dunes are right there, and if I go a little ways toward the rocks…
Jace is in the water. Far out, thirty yards or so, sitting on his board in the middle of four students, his back to me. The ocean is impossibly blue.
Look away.
He lies down on his board and paddles toward a student who’s drifted too far. His arms pull with that ease I hate—he has this way of moving through the water, like it’s his element.
Look away.
He shouts something I can’t make out, but I see the gesture—arm up, finger pointed at the wave. Even from this far, he takes up too much space.
Look away, Summer.
A bark makes me jump. Flip.
He comes barreling out of the surf school yard and lands on me with all the grace of a cannonball. His tail whips the air, his nose is caked with sand, and he circles me like I’ve got a steak hidden in my pocket.
“No. No, Flip. Go away. Please.”
He barks louder. Then he sits, tongue lolling, and looks at me like I just made his whole day.
So much for discretion in the dunes. I retreat to the garage. The room is dark, cluttered, and smells like damp cardboard. I shove aside a rusty grill, step over a crate of Christmas decorations, and find what I’m after: a dented bucket, its handle barely hanging on.
Columbia. Economics major. And here I am with a bucket.
If anyone could see me right now, my career would be over—assuming I even have one.
I do what I have to do, empty the bucket out in the yard, and promise myself I’ll never do it again.
Standing in the garage, I wash my hands with the last of the water in my bottle. I can’t keep going like this. The house is huge, everything needs doing, and with no water or power, it’s hopeless.
The number for the Coral Bay water district is on the town’s website—a sleepy voice, an online form, and a wait of “two to three business days.” The power company is less friendly but faster: proof of ownership by email, a reconnection fee, and someone will come out by the end of the week.
I hang up. I can hold out two or three days.
I work another half hour. Dust collects in my hair, sweat glues my T-shirt to my back. Drained, I sit down in the middle of the living room. The boxes aren’t shrinking—they’re multiplying. Every object demands a decision. Sort, put away, toss, keep.
It’ll be better tomorrow.
And then I remember the drink with Ryan Caldwell tonight. Smile, listen, stay awake. In that order.
I get up, close the shutters, and climb back onto my beach cruiser.
At the lodge, Miles is still behind the bar. A black cat sleeps curled in a ball at the end of the counter.
“This is Nori,” Miles says. “Back already?”
“I’m beat.”
“You want a—”
“No thanks,” I cut in. “It’ll be better tomorrow.”
Miles watches me go and doesn’t push it. He scratches the cat’s head with his fingertips, and it purrs without opening its eyes.
My shower—my second of the day, and hopefully the last—lasts three minutes. The hot water feels incredible.
I stretch out on the bed, hair wet, wrapped in a towel. On the nightstand, I notice the book Maya lent me this morning.
Stroke of Desire — Dani Heart
The torso on the cover is as ridiculous as ever—and just as effective. Water droplets on skin, the title in gold lettering, and below it: Breathless, Book 1.
I flip the book over.
Xander is the fastest man in the pool. A beloved champion, his body sculpted by years of training… and a reputation as an out-of-control bad boy.
Daisy is the physical therapist assigned to fix his injured shoulder. Professional. Methodical. Untouchable.
But when their rehab sessions grow more and more intense, one thing becomes clear: some lines are made to be crossed.
Swimmer, PT, injured guy. Okay. I see the setup.
I start reading.
The swimmer climbs out of the water after practice. He pulls off his goggles, runs a hand through his wet hair. The PT waits at the edge of the pool with his chart and her professional expression.
Three paragraphs later:
I know I shouldn’t look at him. Not like that. Not him.
I set the book down on my stomach and stare at the ceiling.
Welcome to the club. I go back to reading.
It’s well written. The pacing’s good, the dialogue rings true, and the tension builds through small moments: a look held too long, a silence during a PT session, the swimmer’s hand grazing the therapist’s when she passes him a towel. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make me turn the page.
By chapter four, they’re alone in the treatment room. The lights are low. She’s working his shoulder. He says something funny, she laughs, their faces drift closer. They don’t kiss.
I turn the page a little too fast.
Chapters five and six. The tension climbs higher. Then in chapter seven…
They’re in the locker room. The door is shut. And they stop pretending.
My cheeks heat. Dani Heart leaves nothing to the imagination now.
You can tell a woman wrote this. No man would have that kind of precision.
The way she describes Daisy’s hands on Xander’s wet skin, the slowness, the attention to what she feels… It’s written by someone who knows.
I settle deeper into the pillow and turn another page.
Then another. Then five.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I jump.
Dad
Holding up okay, sweetheart? Thinking of you. The days run together here, but call me anytime. Love you.
Me
Thanks. Making progress. Love you.
The screen reads 6:32 p.m.
Ryan. The drink. Shit.
I slip Ryan’s business card between the pages at chapter twelve. The book got me.
I get up too fast, hurry to the bathroom, and do in thirteen minutes what should take forty. Mascara, a line of eyeliner, a little blush. I comb out my still-damp hair—it’ll finish air-drying.
I only brought one semi-dressy outfit: a long pale-blue dress, slightly low-cut, perfectly tailored. In New York, it was the one I wore on days I wanted to look like I had my life under control.
I slip on my Louboutins—scored at a Brooklyn thrift store, with a tiny scuff no one’s ever noticed.
The heels are too high for Coral Bay’s sandy streets—and for a foot that has never forgiven a missed triple lutz.
But after a day of dust, sweat, and a bucket to top it off, I need this.
And I know Ryan will be dressed to the nines.
For once, he’ll be right to call me “the New Yorker.”
In the mirror, I almost look pretty—at least prettier than I did at seventeen, when Jace…
Stop, Summer.
My right foot is already protesting. I ignore it.