Page 59 of The Beach Trap

“Not just Sunny,” he says, lowering his voice. When his eyes lock on mine, goosebumps run up and down my arms. I rub my hands over my skin, telling it—and myself—to calm down. Even if Henry Alexander was my type, he’d never be looking for a casual summer fling, which is all this could be.

“Well,” Henry says, breaking the silence after I dropped my end of the conversational volley. “I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow. Good night, Kat.”

He tips an imaginary hat before walking around to get in the front seat, and I sigh, realizing it’s just me and Blake for the rest of the night.

After Henry pulls away, I walk up the front steps, already looking forward to the morning, when he’ll be back to help Blake on the house. A few more scattered fireworks burst overhead as I open the door, and I almost fall backward at the force of the dog pushing past me, running like a frantic, terrified ball of fur.

“Shit,” I mutter, glancing back and forth between the open door and the dog heading down the scenic route toward theCrab Trap. “Blake!” I yell, hoping she’s back from the beach. “Blake!”

Goddamn it.

The dog had been hanging out, chilling, until the fireworks started. After that, he’d vanished somewhere inside, hiding who knows where, and I forgot he was in the house.

“Blake!” I yell again, running down the stairs and in the same direction as the dog.

“What?” Blake says, popping her head out the door, sounding as if I’m interrupting her instead of trying to rescue her damn dog.

“The dog!” I shout, yelling behind me.

The front door slams shut, and moments later, Blake is running beside me, a lot less out of breath than I am. Old 98 is crowded with cars and golf carts in bumper-to-bumper traffic trying to get home after the festivities.

“There!” I shout, pointing at the road ahead, where the dog is running, dodging in and out of dark shadows between the cars. I start to call his name, then realize I don’t know it. Blake usually refers to him as “the dog.” “What’s his name?” I ask, glancing over at Blake.

Her face goes blank for a brief moment before she says, “Max. His name is Max.”

“Max!” I yell.

“Max!” Blake echoes, her voice panicky. “Here, boy!”

The dog stops just before a beach-access parking lot and turns, staring as we approach. He’s trembling, tail between his legs. I slow my pace, not wanting to scare him off again, when someone—a tourist, no doubt—sets off a pop-snapper firework.

Max darts across the street, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car.

Blake gasps, and out of instinct, I reach for her arm. I don’t know if it’s for support or to keep her from getting hit herself.

“If I lose him,” she says, “if he gets hurt, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“He’ll be okay,” I tell Blake as we run across the street between two stopped cars. I wish Henry were still here; he’d know what to do.

“He’s a five-thousand-dollar dog,” Blake says, panting.

I stop in my tracks. I’d spend five grand on a lot of things, but a dog?

“Seriously?”

Blake shrugs as if she doesn’t understand it, either. When she looks at me, I wonder if she’s remembering the same thing I am—the night we played capture the flag at camp and we were the last two left on our team. Just like then, it feels like we’re in this together.

“There!” I shout, startling Blake.

The dog has circled back and is heading toward us on the sidewalk. We both start to run but are blocked by a huge family in matching T-shirts walking in the opposite direction.

“Excuse us,” I say, trying to elbow my way through.

“Maxy Waxy!” Blake calls, just a few feet from the dog. “Here, Puffball, Crazy Cheeto!”

Blake is in grabbing distance of the dog’s collar and almost has him when more fireworks go off. I curse the morons who think this is fun as the dog sprints back across the street again. A car barely misses him and Blake gasps like she’s just been punched in the gut.

I take her hand and we run across the street, waving apologies to the cars we weave in front of. The dog runs down one of the side streets, where there’s less traffic, and a lot less light.

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