Page 45 of One Happy Summer

“I’m not in love with her,” I say to Scout, taking a quick glance around the shop to make sure Presley hasn’t somehow snuck her way inside and is listening to this conversation right now.

I am very much inlikewith Presley, but I’m not about to tell my mom or sister this. It’s not a good thing anyway. There’s attraction between us for sure. I know we both feel it. I wanted to kiss her last night, which is kind of a theme with me. I’ve wanted to kiss her every time I’ve been around her. It’s not a good idea. She and I are not a good idea. She’s not going to stay on this island, and I . . . well, I don’t know what I’m going to do.

And yes, I can hear my mother’s hopeful, romantic voice in my head saying that’s perfect—I don’t know what step I’m taking in life next, so I can go anywhere. But I’m not the type of man who can just do that. I need some sort of direction; I need to feel useful. And I’ve got neither of those things going for me right now.

The bell above the door rings as someone enters the shop. Her ears must be ringing…

“Hello,” says Presley, waving at us as she comes inside, a baseball cap on her head and big sunglasses on her face. She’s looking beautiful in a blue T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts.

She bites her lip as she looks around the store and then quickly removes the sunglasses when she realizes it’s just us. She’s still being careful, even though word has spread around the island that she’s not here, thanks to my mom and sister. I haven’t heard her name mentioned in days, which is crazy that they have such an influence around here. I hope they use this power for good and not evil. In the past, I fear it’s been wielded mostly for evil.

My mom and I both tell her hello, and Scout does some sort of Regency-type curtsy, the feathers still in her hair.

“Welcome, Miss Presley,” she says in a terrible British accent.

“Why, thank you,” Presley says, falling right into character and curtsying back.

“Okay, well, thanks for that, Scout,” I grab her by the shoulders and guide her toward the shelves she’s supposed to be dusting.

“She was malnourished as a child,” I say to Presley when Scout walks toward the shelves, the feather duster in her hair bouncing with each step.

“She was not,” my mom says, sounding insulted.

“I’m sorry about my weird family,” I say to Presley.

“I don’t think they’re weird at all,” Presley says. “You have a great family.”

“Thank you, Presley,” says my mom, and you can probably see the beaming that’s happening right now from space.

With a head bob toward the books, Presley and I walk away from my mom and over to some shelves that aren’t near Scout either. I caught a quick glimpse of her and she’s still not dusting but now currently doing some sort of ballroom dance with a ghost. And yes, the feather duster is still in her hair.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Presley. “I’m supposed to come get you in an hour.”

“I need another book to read,” she says.

I furrow my brow. “You read the other three already?”

“Yep,” she says, putting her hands behind her back and looking up at me with a closed-mouth smile.

The math isn’t mathing, considering we’ve been spending a lot of time together and I’ve never once seen her reading, and also, she told me while we were building the sandcastle that she hadn’t read much since we’d begun the summer adventures. So she had just magically read all three since then?

“What did you think ofThe Love Hypothesis?” I ask, testing her.

“Loved it,” she says, giving me very convincing eyes.

“What was it about?”

She purses her lips. “People who hypothesize about love.”

My lip twitches of its own accord.

“AndThe Rule Bookis about . . .?”

“Rules,” she says, emphatically. “And . . . a book.”

“You haven’t read them, have you?” I ask, reversing our roles from the day we first met, just over a week ago.

“No,” she says. “But I did finish the Sunny Palmer book.”

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