Page 25 of The Beach Trap

Tears fill my eyes and I hear a sniffle on the other end of the line. I can’t handle this, not right now.

“I have to go,” I tell her. “I’ll call you soon.”

I hang up, feeling worse than before I called. Next time I’m looking for comfort, I’ll just turn to Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. I mentally put a pint on my grocery list for tomorrow and open my phone to check Instagram.

Engagement is down, but that’s my own fault. I haven’t been as active as usual since I’m out of my daily routine. But I can’t let a personal catastrophe get in the way of my job if I don’t want to prove my parents right.

I take a deep breath and open the camera, switching it to selfie mode. I frown at the image I see reflected back at me—the siding of the house is too shabby to be chic. As much as I love this place, it’s not on-brand, so I turn and lean against the railing, ignoring the way it creaks under my weight.

This angle is much better. My makeup isn’t perfect, but the light from the setting sun makes up for it.

I snap a few shots, then load the best one into a separate editing app. I make a few small adjustments, softening the glare on my face to a golden glow and adding my signature preset so my grid feels cohesive. When I’m satisfied, I go back to Instagram and start a post with the captionLife’s a beach when you remember to #KatWalk.

I don’t usually ad lib posts on my feed—my grid is plannedout at least a week in advance and I carefully select the most advantageous times to post based on my followers’ activity—but sometimes you happen on a magical picture that demands to be posted. And to be honest, I could use some support right now, even if it’s from people I’ve never met.

A few seconds after I hit post, hearts and comments start flooding in. While they make me smile, I can’t help but think of what the camera couldn’t see. A house that’s seen better days, and a girl who has, too.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BLAKE

The dog is whining.

I peel my eyes open, wincing against the sunlight streaming in the windows. Last night was my first night at the casita, where I’ll be staying every other week to clean up after Kat’s rich friends. I talked to Mrs.Vanderhaaven yesterday, and she agreed to pay me up front and let me keep the dog down here this summer.

A glance at my phone tells me that it’s almost ten o’clock, and I inwardly curse. I’d planned to get up early, but the dog kept hopping on my bed last night, trying to sleep on my feet, which meant I kept waking up to remind him that he has a very nice dog bed on the floor. Now he needs to go out and I’ve overslept. I can imagine Granddad’s voice:Come on, Blakers, we’re burning daylight!

With a sigh, I haul myself out of bed. The casita is colorful and bright, with its own small kitchen and bathroom, but I’m too bleary-eyed to appreciate it. I shove my feet into my flip-flops, brush my messy hair out of my face with one hand, and head to the door.

The dog is off like a shot before I can even get the door all the way open, running to the grass on the other side of the poolto do his business. I step outside and stretch, thinking about getting some coffee. I saw a Keurig in the kitchen and a few pods to get me started.

The Rooneys’ house is all gleaming and white in the morning sun, three stories high with big windows and tall pillars. The courtyard contains a pool surrounded by lounge chairs and blue-and-white-striped umbrellas that are currently in a closed position. The space is bordered by palm trees and flower beds filled with plants I’ve never seen before, and—

I jump. There’s a man here, too. He’s kneeling next to the flower bed across the pool from me, his back toward me. He’s wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a threadbare T-shirt. I assume he’s the groundskeeper Kat mentioned.

His shirt has ridden up to show a few inches of golden skin on his toned lower back. His shorts are riding low on his hips, and I find my eyes drifting downward until...

“You done ogling me yet?”

His voice startles me; he hasn’t even turned around, so I’m not sure how he knew I was looking at him.

“I wasn’t—”

“No matter how hard you stare,” he says, cutting me off, “my clothes aren’t going to suddenly fall off.”

My cheeks heat. “I didn’t—You just surprised me. I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

Turning, he gives me a quick, dismissive glance, his face shadowed by his straw hat. “Clearly,” he says.

I am suddenly aware that I’m wearing pajama shorts that barely cover my ass, a tank top, and no bra.

Quickly, I fold my arms across my chest. “You must be the groundskeeper,” I say.

“That would appear to be the case,” he says in a dry voice as he turns back to the flower bed.

I roll my eyes. Apparently, he’s one ofthoseguys, the kind who think they are hilariously deadpan but are actually kind of douchey.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, determined not to let him get to me. “I’m staying here every other week this summer to do some light housekeeping.”

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