Page 41 of Summer Reading

“I would never assume there’s some quick fix for a neurodivergent brain,” he said. “My idea was just that I could join you for my lunch break.”

“Hmm.” I was dubious. “How did you know I was here?”

“Tyler mentioned that you like to come to Inkwell Beach on your bike since it’s the closest to your house. He said something about being forced to paddleboard with you this weekend, so when you weren’t at home, I figured...”

“I’d be here?”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t know what to say. I glanced out at the ocean. The vast blue-gray waves really were a spot-on match for his eyes. I appreciated that he was here to check on me. He was a nice guy, and he probably wanted to make sure my feelings weren’t hurt by Mrs. Bascomb’s incredible rudeness.

“I’m okay,” I said. I pushed some sand with my feet. “Really.”

“I had a conversation with Mrs. Bascomb.” He carefully removed his brown leather shoe from his foot and poured the sand out. Then he peeled off his sock, shook it out, and stuffed it in his shoe. He did the same with the other foot. There was a ridiculous amount of sand in his shoes. I tried not to laugh.

He rolled up the bottom of his pant legs and settled back in his chair. I wanted to reach over and loosen his tie or roll up his sleeves, but I didn’t.

“A conversation, huh?” I asked. I tried to picture that—couldn’t—and turned to study his face. The wind tousled his thick, wavy shoulder-length hair. I couldn’t see his eyes because of his sunglasses, but the set to his jaw was tight, and a muscle clenched in his cheek. “Why do I sense that might be an understatement?”

“The word ‘conversation’ does imply there was give-and-take,” he admitted. “There wasn’t. She’s been put on notice to check her behavior or I’ll put a note in her file about her aggressively hostile demeanor. And just so you know, you aren’t the first person with whom she’s been rude and difficult. This has been brewing for a while. I’m sorry you were the tipping point.”

“She does have a blunt force trauma way about her,” I said.

He laughed. His full lips parted, and his head fellback. It felt good to make him chuckle like that. As if he felt me watching him, he turned and lowered his sunglasses, allowing his gaze to meet mine. His expression grew abruptly serious.

“I am very sorry that she hurt you, Samantha,” he said. “Part of me wants to go ahead and put that note in her file without giving her a chance to improve.”

My hurt feelings were all for that, but it seemed unfair. Everyone should have a chance to try again. That being said, I’d met Mrs. Bascomb’s type before, so I doubted it would do any good. I’d had years of her sort of well-meaning advice, which were variations of “just focus” or “try harder.” Bleh. Still, I did own a part of this mess.

“In all fairness, I should have told you about my dyslexia when we met, but it’s a surprisingly awkward factoid to work into conversation with a hot reader guy.”

One of his eyebrows lifted as he continued to peer at me over the top of his shades. Mercy, that look turned his hotness up to scorching. I wondered if it was going to leave burn marks on my lips, my throat, the line of skin just above my bikini top. I reached for my water.

“Did you just call me hot?” he asked.

“Maybe.” I shrugged. I took a long sip, trying to maintain my cool.

“Are you flirting with me, Samantha?” he asked. His voice was a low, deep growl that made a cloud of steam rise in my core.

“Nope, just stating the obvious.” I cleared my throat and kept my face blank.

“Well, that disappoints... sort of.” His grin was positively wicked and impossible not to respond to. I let my lips turn up just a little in the corners.

“Real talk,” he said. “If horror isn’t your genre, what is?”

And just like that. Total buzzkill.

“I’m not a reader, remember?” My voice was tight and now I just wanted him to go away. I didn’t want to talk reading or books or any of that stuff that made me feel shitty about myself.

“Apologies,” he said. “I meant in film. What is your favorite genre of film?”

“Why?”

“Humor me.”

“You’re going to judge me,” I said.

“Librarians never judge,” he countered.

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