Page 18 of One Happy Summer

I forgot about that. That was another good one.

“Besides, I don’t care if I see her; I’m hoping to catch a view of Declan Stone.”

“Declan Stone,” I repeat, my face scrunched. “Why would you be looking for him?”

“Because he’s hot,” Scout says, and I cringe at her word usage. I don’t like knowing that my fourteen-year-old sister likes boys. If I had my way, I’d keep her away from them until she’s thirty. I know how boys think, and frankly, it’s almost always inappropriate.

“But why do you think he’s on the island?”

Scout gives me an are-you-stupid glare. “Because he and Presley James are a thing.”

I rear my head back, tucking my chin in. “What?”

I didn’t see anything about that in my Google search. Not even one mention.

“They’ve been together for a few years,” Scout says. “Everybody knows about it.”

“They’re together?”

“Yeah,” she says, picking something out of her nails like she didn’t just drop this bomb on me. “They met on the set of that alien movieA Star-Crossed Love.” She lets her shoulders drop, her face taking on a dreamy look. “Declan Stone was the hottest alien I’ve ever seen.”

I remember that movie. He played an alien that crash-landed on Earth and met a quirky hairstylist played by Presley. I didn’t think Declan was all that great in the movie. He’s definitely better suited to play Alex Steele in the Shadowstrike Chronicles.

But . . . he and Presley are together? Something sour swirls around in my stomach. Suddenly the kiss from two days ago thatI’ve been replaying in my head feels like a deception. A scam. Something A-list stars do to pass the time when they’re bored. Presley’s viral video instantly feels more believable. My perspective in the rearview mirror changes in a blip. The bright, happy frame my brain had put around her and Thursday’s events now looks rusted and broken.

I feel like Hugh Grant’s character when he finds out Julia Roberts’s character has a boyfriend. Awkward and naive. I’m William Thacker.

“I’m leaving now,” Scout declares, not even noticing the fact that I’ve gone silent and most likely have a confused look on my face.

“Have . . . fun,” I say, absentmindedly.

“Thanks for being the best brother ever,” she says before basically skipping out of the shop.

The bells chime as she leaves, and everyone looks toward the door before going back to whatever they were doing.

When the last person exits the bookshop, the dimming summer sun casting shadows across the town square, I lock the door, flip the sign toclosed, and slump against the glass.

This wasn’t the worst Saturday of my life, but it might have been the most tedious. I wasn’t in the best mood either sinceScout dropped the Declan Stone bomb on me. And then I was annoyed I allowed it to affect my mood. I’d known I wouldn’t be seeing Presley James again, so what did it matter that she kisses men who aren’t her boyfriend for fun? Nothing was going to happen between us anyway.

And Declan is her boyfriend, at least according to the internet and the many, many pictures and sightings of the two of them together—laughing at dinner, holding hands as they walk into a movie premiere, sitting together on a beach. I’m not sure how I missed it in my initial search about her. Maybe I didn’t want to see it at a subconscious level.

Even despite knowing all that, despite feeling like a total idiot for giving any of my mental bandwidth to Thursday’s events, I kept up the ruse that she is not really on the island. I don’t know why I did. But a promise is a promise.

Not that it worked. People filtered in and out of the bookshop all day, eyes peeled and bright as they searched the store and kept an eye on the door anytime the bells chimed, no matter what I said. The patrons did taper off toward closing time, but that’s probably because they all have homes to go to and dinners to eat.

The bookshop is closed tomorrow since it’s Sunday, thank goodness. I don’t know if I could have endured another day like this. Keeping up the lie on my end and dealing with dumb questions about books we don’t have in the shop (I’m talking toyou, Carl, and your refrigerator-repair manuals that we still don’t carry). I’m looking forward to cleaning up and going back to my princess-decorated apartment, where I can sleep this day away and try not to think about a certain star.

A tap on the glass door behind me makes me jump, and I turn around quickly to see who it might be.

It’s someone in a dark-colored sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over their head, the strings drawn so tight over dark sunglasses, I can’t tell who they are.

Am I . . . Am I being robbed? On Sunset Harbor? Has that ever happened here? I don’t think it has, even during peak tourist season. We don’t have any cars to make a getaway, and our one part-time police officer, Beau Palmer, drives a golf cart, so it’s hard to run away from him. Plus, you have to take a ferry to get on and off the island. Robbing someone here would require a lot of effort with not a lot of ways to get away fast.

“Briggs,” the person says, and even though it’s muffled, I can definitely hear the high tones of a woman’s voice.

I look closer, my face so near the glass that my breath fogs up a small spot on the door. “Presley?”

She holds a finger up to her mouth—or at least I’m guessing that’s where her mouth is since the drawstrings of the hoodie are pulled so tight, she looks like a minion. What a terrible disguise. Isn’t learning to hide from fans and the paparazzi part of Famous Actor 101?

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