One Golden Summer(16)

     Take up a water sport. Paddle boarding? Wakeboarding? Waterskiing?



     Go skinny-dipping



     Make a new friend



     Do something reckless



     Ride a Jet Ski



     Glittery makeup like Heather used to wear



     Put on the green dress



     Low-key drugs???



     Sleep under the stars





I’m laughing by the time I finish. It’s probably the most embarrassing bucket list ever penned, and I doubt I’ll accomplish half of it before the end of August. But it also feels radical—two months of adolescent freedom. And I know where to start. Luca and Lavinia are visiting for my birthday, and the twins love a party.

I spend another hour on the island, shooting a roll of film then taking a swim, before I pack my things and untie the boat. It’s a short ride back to the cottage and my bathing suit is wet, so I throw my caftan at my feet and my hat on my head. I start the motor and pull away from shore, mindful of the fallen tree trunks and rocks beneath the surface.

And then I see a burst of yellow.

I’m so startled that I turn the throttle without looking where I’m going. There’s an earsplitting scrape of metal, and I’m flung forward. My elbows hit the middle bench, my knees the floor.

Groaning, I slowly pick myself up and peer over the side. There’s a rock just under the surface, and I’m stuck on it. I’m shipwrecked.

I hear the whir of another boat pulling alongside mine. The engine cuts.

“That was interesting,” a wry voice says.

I push my hat off my face and find a familiar yellow speedboat floating a few feet away. In it is a man with celery-green eyes.

“It’s you,” he says, mouth arching. His dimples wink. “Whoa.”





9




“Do you need help?”

I hear the words, but I must be in shock because all I can do is stare. The man from the grocery store is here, shirtless, in the yellow boat from my picture.

His body is absurd. It’s big and broad yet tight and toned, and it fills six feet of space better than any other body.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I wrestle my attention back to his face, wondering if he’s one of the boys in the photo. That fierce jaw, those full lips, the upper one bowed and sweet—at odds with the mischievous grin tugging at its corners. His strange green eyes are even brighter in the sun. I blink before I get lost in them.

“I’m fine.” I twist my arms around. Bruises bloom on both elbows. Between the scrapes on my legs and this, I’m a disaster. “Just a little banged up.”

He leans over the side of his boat, inspecting the damage on mine. “I think you’ll be all right. You should be able to use an oar to push off the rock.” He meets my gaze, eyes shimmering like this is all very funny.

I pick up one of the wooden oars with the confidence of someone who knows what she’s doing. But it’s heavier than it looks, and I lose my grip, almost dropping it into the lake.

“I can help if you want,” I hear him say as if smothering his laughter.

“No need.”

Gripping the oar tight, I push against the rock and end up stumbling back a step. I hear a low whistle. I put all my strength into the next push and move the boat precisely nowhere.

“You sure I can’t give you a shove?”

I glance over my shoulder. The man’s pretty mouth is curved into a lazy grin, arms crossed over his superb chest. My gaze falls to the hard ridges of his stomach, to the waistband of his red bathing suit.

A laugh, and then: “Eyes up.”

I immediately turn as scarlet as a rose on February 14.

His eyes wander to the flaming mass of hair tumbling out from under my hat. “That’s okay, Red,” he says. “I was checking you out, too.”

I hate when people call me Red, though I never say anything about it. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at me, so smug and amused, that has me snapping back.

“Do. Not. Call. Me. That.” I push and push with every muscle in my body. Nothing.

“I’d be happy to give you a hand,” he purrs.

“You can keep your hands to yourself,” I bite out, and then with one final push, the boat slides off the rock.

He claps slowly. “Well done, Red.”

“Are you serious?” I glare at him from beneath the brim of my hat.

“Not usually.”

Not usually.

I’ve heard those words before. I blink at him.

“Charlie?”

Dimples firing, he taps his temple with two fingers. “At your service, Alice Everly.”

My cheeks heat at the way he says my name. The Alice is as smooth as melted butter, but Everly sounds like it’s being scraped over his tongue.

“How do you know who I am?” I ask.

“You sent me your photo, remember? And that’s John Kalinski’s skiff you just crashed.”

I wince.

“You’re having quite the day,” he says. “Destroying produce displays and crashing boats. Do you always wreak such havoc?”