Page 21 of One Happy Summer

Except, I totally am. Presley James, what is wrong with you? I can’t help that it feels like he’s a mile away. I’m not sure if he still doesn’t believe me about Declan, or if he’s just trying to be a gentleman. But he could sit a little closer.

I have hateful feelings toward my publicist right now. The are-they-aren’t-they thing with Declan is so old. We are most certainlynot. No way. And definitely not now after everything . . .

Nope. Not going there.

I didn’t come here tonight with the expectation of more kissing, even though the one outside his door keeps replaying in my head and I wouldn’t mind engaging in more of it because I am only human, after all. But I did apologize for it, and I meant it. It was really presumptuous of me. Honestly, I’m doing all kinds of idiotic things lately. What if he has a girlfriend? Somehow, I doubt it. Not with how he reacted about the Declan thing. And not with how he kissed me back.

It doesn’t matter, because it’s for the best that we stay on our separate ends of the couch—me on my end and he on his. I’m here for the summer to hopefully fix my life, not complicate it more. I don’t think Briggs wants to get caught up with a disgraced actress anyway. Even if the video didn’t seem to bother him. Which is . . . odd. And also lovely.

We can just be friends. Friends who never see each other again since I must go back to my resort prison and stay put this time for real. I can’t leave again.

I don’t know what compelled me to leave this time. I’d made it nearly two days by myself. It might have been the lack of fresh air since I couldn’t go out on the veranda, or the fact that even though I’m loving the Sunny Palmer book, I just can’t focus. But just as the sun started setting, I couldn’t take it anymore. I borrowed a bike from the hotel and flew over here, a woman on a mission.

Sitting here with Briggs, I feel like I should have regrets, or at least be mentally punishing myself right now for once again not being able to stay put, and yet . . . I can’t even bring myself to feel regretful.

But I am staying put. After tonight. I swear it. No more leaving the resort for me.

“I haven’t read a fiction book in a while,” Briggs answers my question, his eyes on the TV, even though he hasn’t been watching. “But I’d say it’s probably Harry Potter.”

“Good answer,” I say, giving him an appreciative nod. “I love those books too. And the movies.”

“Don’t tell me about the actors in real life,” he interjects quickly, looking toward me. “I don’t want to know if they’re horrible.”

“They’re not,” I say through a laugh. “Am I . . . tainting Hollywood for you?”

He gives me a side-eyed glare through his rectangle-shaped glasses. “Maybe a little.”

“I’m ruining the magic with all my name-dropping, aren’t I?”

“You do drop a lot of names,” he says, tilting his head to the side.

I let my jaw fall open, placing a hand on my chest. “I’m not a name-dropper—you told me you wanted to know.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

I grab a throw pillow out from behind me, a red velvet one that looks like it might be used to present a glass slipper, and toss it at his head.

“Um, my mom would have you kicked off this island for that kind of roughhousing,” he says before setting the pillow gently beside him and giving it a little pat like I’ve hurt its feelings.

“Apologies to your mom,” I say. “I promise to never attempt to damage anything of hers again.”

“Thanks. But if you do, maybe next time you could go for the curtains,” he says, pointing to the ruffled, pink billowy things on the window across the room. “I actually like this pillow.” He pets the velvet material again.

I chuckle. “I’ll do my best.”

Being around Briggs is delightful and also kind of calming. Like a healing balm to my heart. So unlike anything I’ve experienced in a while.

For so long I haven’t known if people are spending time with me because of the fame thing or if they actually want to be myfriend. It’s something that’s always in the back of my mind, hanging over me like a dark cloud. And after the video went viral, I found out the truth: It wasn’t my friendship they wanted. So, that was fun.

With Briggs, it feels different. Genuine. Real. I’ve hardly spent time with the guy, but I recognize it because I haven’t had much real in my life in . . . well, I actually don’t know when the last time was. Eighth grade? Wow. That’s sad. And maybe a little pathetic.

He could be faking it. Maybe he’s only interested in the fame part of my life and is just using me for my social status too. Somehow, I don’t think that’s true. Not as I watch him practically snuggle a red velvet tufted pillow.

“So, how did you get into acting?” he asks.

See? Right here. This is what I’m talking about. Most people would have read my Wikipedia page and then regurgitated it back to me thinking it would give them some sort of clout with me. But not Briggs.

“In middle school, actually,” I tell him, reciting the story I’ve told probably hundreds of times. But it feels fresh and new, telling him.

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