Page 7 of Hot Monster Summer

I settle onto the rickety dock, dangling my feet above (not in, thank you very much) the water. The wooden planks are already sun-warmed against my thighs. I open my journal to a fresh page and write the heading: “Day 2: Positive Thoughts Only.”

The page remains stubbornly blank after that.

“Turns out watching your relationship implode doesn’t give you profound insights,” I mutter, taking a sip of coffee. “Who knew?”

I try again.

“I am grateful for…” My pen hovers, searching for something—anything—genuinely positive.

“I am grateful for coffee. And that this dock hasn’t collapsed yet. And no one can see me talking to myself like a crazy person.” I sigh, closing the journal.

Self-improvement is exhausting.

Something breaks the lake’s surface about twenty feet out—a ripple too large and deliberate to be a fish.

I freeze, coffee mug halfway to my lips.

Maybe it’s a beaver.

Or a really ambitious duck.

Caspian rises from the water like some Renaissance painting of a sea god. Water sluices down his chiseled torso, catching the morning light. His black eyes fix on me with unsettling intensity.

“Good morning, little trespasser,” he calls, his voice carrying easily across the water.

“Still not trespassing,” I reply, trying to sound bored rather than breathless. “And I have a name. It’s Lily.”

“I know.” He glides closer to the dock, movements smooth and predatory. “I heard you talking to yourself yesterday. You do that a lot?”

Great.

Not only am I sharing my summer getaway with a sea monster, but he’s been eavesdropping on my trauma-induced monologues. “It’s called processing. Very healthy. Therapist recommended.”

He reaches the dock, resting his forearms on the edge near my feet but not touching. He’s breathtaking—there’s a faint scaling to his skin I hadn’t noticed yesterday, the too-perfect symmetry of his features, and the absolute blackness of his eyes. His tentacles undulate lazily in the water behind him.

“You’re not in the water today,” he observes. “Afraid?”

“Cautious,” I correct. “Nearly being drowned by a kraken tends to make a girl reconsider her swimming habits.”

His mouth quirks. “I told you, I wasn’t trying to drown you.”

“Right. Just ‘inspecting’ me with your grabby appendages.” I wiggle my fingers in air quotes. “Totally normal lake behavior.”

“You’re not frightened enough,” he says, tilting his head. “Most humans would have fled by now.”

I shrug, trying for nonchalance despite my racing heart. “Maybe I’m not like most humans.”

“No,” he agrees, voice dropping lower. “You’re certainly not.”

One tentacle rises from the water, hovering near my ankle. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the coolness emanating from it. My skin prickles with goosebumps that have nothing to do with temperature.

A crash from the tree line breaks our standoff. I whip my head around to see the underbrush parting and—oh, holy hell.

He’s enormous.

At least eight feet tall and built like a massive oak tree covered in moss and bark. His skin looks like tree bark but… alive, somehow, with small white and blue flowers growing in patches. His features are craggy but unmistakably humanoid—if humans were carved from ancient oak trees. His eyes are deep set, glowing a soft green. He moves with surprising fluidity forsomething so massive, stepping out of the forest and onto the shore.

“Uh,” I manage eloquently. “There’s… there’s two of you?”

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