CHAPTER 1
CASSIE
July
“I don’t think we should hook up anymore.”
Oh my God.
No.
No no no no no.
See, this is why parties should be banned. I’m not even joking. We need to go back to the prohibition days, except we outlaw social events instead of alcohol. It’s the only way to avoid this level of embarrassment. Or rather, secondhand embarrassment, because I’m not even the one getting dumped.
That honor is bestowed upon the guy with the deep, playful voice, who hasn’t caught up to the fact that his dumper is dead serious. “Is this some weird sort of foreplay? I don’t get it, but, sure, I’m down.”
The girl’s voice is flat, lined with dry humor. “I’m being serious.”
She pauses for a long beat, during which I consider whether I can make a run for it without the couple noticing.
No more than ten feet away from them, I’m sitting against a driftwood log, concealed by shadows. But a clean getaway is difficult because they chose to break up in the worst possible location—right where the beach grass thins and the dunes flatten into a stretch of packed sand. My mind has been Mission: Impossible–ing escape routes since The Dumping commenced. The couple is facing the dark ocean, which means if I attempt to take the beach route back to the party, they’ll see me. But if I try to sneak behind them, they’ll hear me. Have you ever tried walking silently in beach grass? You might as well attach a bell around your neck.
My only option is to remain hidden until it’s over. The conversation and the relationship. Because while nobody wants to get dumped, having it happen in front of an audience is a hundred times worse, so I’m officially trapped here. Held hostage by social etiquette.
Of all the times to wander away from the bonfire and look at the stupid stars.
“I think this has run its course,” the dumper says.
I can’t tell what either of them look like. They’re mere shadows. A tall shadow and a shorter one. I think the short one has long hair; I glimpse wispy strands blowing in the night breeze.
From the other end of the beach, the hum of voices, laughter, and faint hip-hop music travels along the water, triggering the desperate urge to be back at the party. I don’t know a single person there, yet I don’t think I’ve ever longed for the company of total strangers more than I do in this moment. The party is at some local named Luke’s house. I was supposed to meet my friend Joy, who bailed at the last second. I was literally getting out of my car when her text popped up; otherwise, I would’ve just stayed home. But I figured, hey, I’m already here. Might as well mingle, maybe meet some people.
I should’ve hopped right back in the car and escaped when I had the chance.
The guy is finally catching on that this isn’t a joke. “Wait, really? I thought we were still having a good time.”
“Honestly? Not so much lately.”
Ouch. Sorry, bro.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I don’t mean the sex. That’s always good. But we’ve been doing this friends-with-benefits arrangement for almost a year now. Yeah, it’s been on and off, but I think the longer we keep it up, the greater the risk that one of us catches feelings. We said from the start that we didn’t want anything serious, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
The tall shadow lifts a hand and drags it through his hair. Either that, or he’s petting a tiny cat that’s sitting atop his head.
I truly can’t see a damn thing out here.
“I’m not interested in getting into a relationship anytime soon,” she adds. “I don’t want a boyfriend.”
There’s a pause. “What about Wyatt?”
“What about him? Like I keep telling him, he and I are just friends. And I just want to be alone for a while.” She chuckles. “Look, we both know you’ll have no trouble finding a new friend with bennies, Tate. And if you want more than that, you’ll have no trouble finding a girlfriend either. It’s just not going to be me.”
Double ouch.
I appreciate her candor, though. She’s not wasting any time. Not leading this guy around by the nose. I mean, it does sound like this was more of a casual FWB situationship, but that might actually be the worst kind of breakup. Being friends with the person before the sexy stuff and wanting to remain friends after it? That’s a tricky needle to thread.
I haven’t been officially dumped before—that would require being in an actual relationship—but if I were to ever be the recipient of a breakup speech, I’d want it to sound like this one. Quick and to the point. Just snuff out the candle so there’s not even a glimmer of light left. It’s over. Move on.
Granted, I say that now. But considering I bawl at those courier commercials where the lonely grandmother receives a holiday card from her grandkids, I’d probably collapse in a pool of tears at my dumper’s feet and then promptly check myself into a posh wellness facility for melancholia.
“Okay. Cool.” He chuckles too, albeit wryly. “I guess that’s that, then.”
“That’s that,” she echoes. “Are we good?”
“Of course. We’ve known each other since we were thirteen. We’re not going to stop talking just because we’ve stopped banging.”
“I’m holding you to that,” she warns.
Finally, blessedly, miraculously—they’re done. The interaction ends. Her flip-flops smack loudly against the sand as she walks away, taking the beach route toward the party.
One down.
One to go.
To my dismay, the guy moves closer to the water, where he proceeds to stand like a statue, staring out. The new position places him closer to a shard of moonlight, providing a better view of him. He’s tall. Muscular. Wearing board shorts and a T-shirt, although I can’t tell what color they are because it’s too dark. I think his hair might be blond. And he’s got a great butt. I don’t tend to notice butts—didn’t think I was a butt girl, in fact—but this one really draws the eye.
With his back to me, this is my chance to creep away. I slowly rise to my feet and wipe my clammy hands on the front of my denim shorts. Man, I hadn’t realized how wrought with tension I was. My palms only get sweaty before a first kiss and a particularly harrowing situation. Aka every conversation with my mother. Ergo, my palms are perpetually damp.
I take a deep breath, and then a small step.
Relief flutters through me when the guy doesn’t turn my way. Yes. I can totally do this. Hell, I only need to make it to that dune ten feet away. If he notices me after that, I can pretend I came from the grass. Oh sorry! Just taking a walk, didn’t see you there!
Escape is within reach. I can taste it. So, of course, I make it about five feet before my phone decides to thwart my efforts by loudly alerting an incoming text.
And then another one.
And another one.
The guy spins around, startled.
“Hey.” His deep, suspicious voice travels toward me in the night breeze. “Where the hell d’you come from?”
I feel my cheeks heat up. I’m grateful it’s too dark for him to see the blush. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I, um…” My brain scrambles for a suitable reason for my presence. It fails. “I didn’t hear a single second of your breakup, I swear.”
Oh, fucking hell. Brilliant, Cassandra.
That gets me a faint laugh. “Not a single second, huh?”
“Nope, not a one. Seriously, I can assure you I most certainly did not just sit here and listen to you get dumped.” My mouth has run away from me. It’s in charge. It’s the captain now. Another thing that happens when I’m nervous: I tend to babble. “For what it’s worth, you handled it well. I mean, you didn’t drop to your knees and cling to her legs and beg her not to go. So I’m grateful for that. Spared us both more embarrassment, you know? It’s almost as if you knew I was trapped behind that log over there.”
“Trust me, if I knew you were sitting there, I would’ve upped the sadness factor by like two hundred percent. Thrown in some tears, maybe cursed at the heavens and bemoaned my poor broken heart.”
He saunters closer, and when I get a better look at his face, my heart instantly speeds up. Holy shit, he’s gorgeous. What on earth was that girl thinking letting him get away?
I sweep my gaze over his classically handsome features. I wish I could discern what color his eyes are, but it’s too dark out here. I was right about the blond hair, though, so I assume he has light-colored eyes. Blue. Maybe green. In those board shorts and slightly rumpled tee, he looks like the quintessential beach boy.
“And why would you have done that?” I ask.
“You know, just to make you extra uncomfortable. As punishment for your eavesdropping.”
“Involuntary eavesdropping.”
“That’s what they all say.” His mouth curves into a mischievous smile, which I think might be his default expression. He tips his head thoughtfully. “But you know what, I’ll let it slide. I can never hold a grudge against a cute girl.”
My cheeks get hotter.
Oh my God.
He thinks I’m cute?
I mean, I did select tonight’s outfit with the end goal being cuteness. Short shorts that give my legs a deceptively longer look, paired with a tight tank top. Black, because that’s the only color with the ability to make my boobs appear smaller. In light colors, they’re bouncing around like two uncontained beach balls, even with a super supportive bra.
I realize his gaze hasn’t once drifted to my chest, though. Or if it has, he’s done it so smoothly and discreetly that I hadn’t noticed. His eyes remain fixed on my face, and for a moment I’m tongue-tied. I see attractive guys back in Boston all the time. My college campus is practically crawling with them. But something about this one is making me wobbly in the knees.
Before I can think of a witty response to his cute girl remark—or any response at all, really—my phone dings again. I glance down. Another text from Peyton. Followed by another one.
“Someone’s popular,” he teases.
“Um, yeah. I mean, no. It’s just my friend.” I grit my teeth. “She’s one of those annoying people who send, like, ten one-line messages instead of a single paragraph, so they just keep popping up and the phone dings over and over again until you want to smash it over their head. I hate that—don’t you hate that?”
His jaw drops. “Yes,” he says, with such sincerity I have to grin. He shakes his head. “I fucking hate that.”
“Right?”
A final ding sounds, bringing us to a total of six Peyton messages.
When I skim the notifications, I’m once again thankful to be in the dark, because I’m certain my face is even redder.
Peyton: How’s the party?
Peyton: Any cute guys?
Peyton: Who are we going to fling with?
Peyton: Try to snap some pictures of the candidates!
Peyton: I really want to be part of this process.
Peyton: I wish I was there!
I want to say that Peyton is joking. Alas, she is not. My main purpose for coming to the party tonight was to find a worthy candidate for my summer fling.
It’s been a while since I spent an entire summer in Avalon Bay, but I still remember watching various friends over the years fall headfirst into summer romances. Those passionate, giddy, exhilarating love affairs where you can’t keep your hands off each other and everything feels so urgent and intense because you know it’s only temporary. Every moment is precious because come September, it’s goodbye. I’d been so jealous of those girls, longing for a summertime love of my own, but it was hard to focus on boys and romance when my family was in constant turmoil.
After my parents divorced when I was eleven, Mom and I continued returning for the summers, at least at first. Mom’s side of the family, the Tanners, has a long history with Avalon Bay. My grandparents own a beach house in the more affluent part of town, and they expected us to make the yearly trip to visit them. Back then, Mom and Dad were still putting on the cordial pretense for my sake. Once Dad remarried, however, all bets were off. Mom’s anger and disdain toward him was out in the open now, and vice versa, which made coming back to the Bay an exercise in psychological warfare.
Fortunately, Mom remarried shortly after and announced we would no longer be spending our summers in the South Carolina beach town where I’d been born and raised. I can’t say I wasn’t relieved. It meant that when I did come back to visit, I could see Dad in peace and enjoy myself. Of course, then I’d return to Boston where Mom would interrogate me and demand to know every word my father uttered about her. Which was annoying and unfair, but still better than being trapped in the same town with both of them.
“Are you going to text her back?”
The guy’s voice jolts me from my thoughts. “Oh. No. I’ll answer her later.”
I hastily tuck the phone into my back pocket. If I thought hearing him get dumped had been uncomfortable, it’s nothing compared to the mortification I’d feel if he saw Peyton’s message thread.
He watches me for a moment. “I’m Tate,” he finally says.
I hesitate. “Cassie.”
“Are you here for the summer?”
I nod. “I’m staying with my grandmother—she has a house over on the south end. But I actually grew up in Avalon Bay.”
“You did?”
“Uh-huh. I moved to Boston with my mom after my parents’ divorce, but my dad still lives here, so I basically became a summer girl. Well, maybe not an official summer girl, since I usually only come back for a week or two every July. Except this year I’m staying till after Labor Day, so I guess I’m a real summer girl now.”
Stop babbling! I order myself.
“What about you?” I ask, desperate to take the focus off me and the fact that I must’ve used the phrase summer girl about four million times in one sentence.
“The opposite of you. I moved to the Bay at the start of junior high. Before that we lived in Georgia. St. Simon’s Island.” Tate sounds a bit glum. “I envy the Boston thing, to be honest. I kind of wish we moved to a city instead of trading one beach town for another. Do you go to school up there?”
“Yes. I go to Briar University.”
“An Ivy girl, huh?”
We fall into step with each other, headed in the direction of the party. It’s not a discussed course of action, just instinctive.
“I’m going into my senior year,” I add.
“Cool. What are you studying?”
“English Lit.” I glance over wryly. “I know. Totally useless unless I want to be a teacher.”
“Do you want to be a teacher?”
“Nope.”
He grins, and I catch a glimpse of straight white teeth in the moonlight. His smile is perfection. A girl could get lost in it.
I force myself to look forward, shoving my hands in my pockets as we walk. “You know what pisses me off, Tate?”
“What pisses you off, Cassie?” I can still feel him smiling at me.
“Everyone says you find yourself when you’re in college, right? But from what I’ve seen, it’s just a bunch of lame parties and all-night study sessions and listening to some blowhard drone on and on in a lecture hall. And meanwhile you sit there pretending you enjoyed the boring-ass book you were assigned to read, when in reality it’s more enjoyable watching water boil than reading most classic literature. There—I said it. The classics suck, okay? And college is boring.”
Tate chuckles. “Maybe you’re not going to the right parties.”
He’s right. I’m not. Because I’ve never, ever attended a party where I’ve spoken at length with a guy who looks like Tate.
As we near the bonfire, our path is now clearly illuminated. Music continues to blast, a slow reggae song that has several couples wrapped around each other, moving to the sultry beat. The crowd seems to be comprised entirely of locals. At least, if there’s anyone here from the country club, I don’t recognize them. The summer set doesn’t typically socialize with the year-round folks. Joy thinks the only reason she was invited tonight was because that Luke guy was hoping to hook up. “Those local boys get a kick out of seducing the rich girls,” she’d laughed over lunch earlier.
Not that I would know. I’ve never been seduced by a local. I also don’t consider myself a rich girl, although I suppose I am one. My mother’s side of the family has money. A fair amount of it. But I’ll always view myself as the girl who grew up on Sycamore Way, in a cozy house in the suburbs not far from this section of the Bay.
With the light of the bonfire making it easier to see each other, Tate eyes the ponytail I’m fiddling with and lets out a groan. “You’re a ginger,” he accuses, his eyes twinkling. They’re a light blue, just as I suspected.
“Don’t paint me with that ginger brush,” I protest. “I’m a copper.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“I’m a copper,” I insist. I grip my ponytail and hold it closer to his face. “See? Dark red. It’s practically brown!”
“Mmm-hmm. Keep telling yourself that, ginger.”
He seems distracted now. His gaze drifts across the fire and my gaze follows, coming to rest on a girl with bright red hair. A true ginger. Unlike me, who is a copper, thank you very much.
The ginger is chatting with two other young women, and all three are drop-dead gorgeous. Shiny hair and pretty faces. Skimpy clothes. And they’ve got those perfect beach bodies that trigger a pang of insecurity in me. I’ve always wondered what it’s like to have normal proportions. It’s probably awesome.
Tate’s expression grows pained for a moment before he wrenches his eyes off the girl.
Understanding dawns on me. “Oh my God. Is that her? The dumper?”
He slides out a laugh. “It wasn’t a dumping. And we’re still friends—that’s not going to change. She just caught me off guard, is all. I’m usually the one who ends those types of things.”
“Do you want me to go beat her up for you?” I offer.
Pursing his lips, he assesses my frame. I’m five-three and kind of scrawny. Slender, except for my huge chest. Really, my boobs are probably more effective weapons than my fists.
“Nah,” he answers, lips twitching. “I don’t think I’d feel right being responsible for your death.”
“That’s really sweet.”
He snorts.
“Tate!” someone calls, and we both turn toward the shout.
A very tall guy with a reddish beard stands nearby, holding up a joint. He waves it enticingly at Tate and arches a brow. An invitation. Tate nods at the guy, indicating with his hand that he’ll be right there.
“Why are there so many redheads here?” I demand. “Is this a convention?”
“You tell me. These are your people, after all.”
I growl at him, and he just laughs again. I like the sound of his laughter.
“Want me to introduce you around?” Tate offers.
Hesitation grips me. I’m torn. On one hand, it would be fun to stay and hang out. But the redheaded girl is watching us now, a slightly bemused look on her gorgeous face. In fact, a lot of eyes are on us, I realize. I get the feeling a guy like Tate invites this kind of attention, and I suddenly wish we were still shrouded in the darkness of the beach, just he and I. I hate being the center of attention. And I can’t imagine how much nervous babbling I’ll do with each new person I meet.
So I shake my head and say, “Actually, I’m heading out. Got somewhere else to be.”
He grins. “Fine. Be that way, Ms. Popular.”
Hardly. The only place I’m going after this is home. But it’s probably better to let him believe I’m fluttering from party to party on Friday nights like some elusive social butterfly. Peyton would approve of that plan. Always leave ’em wanting more is my best friend’s motto.
“You’re here till September, you said?”
“Yup,” I say lightly.
“Cool. Then I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Shit. That sounded far too noncommittal. What I should have said is something coy and flirty, like, I hope so … and then asked for his number. I inwardly smack myself, scrambling for a way to fix the error, but it’s too late. Tate is already sauntering off toward his friends.
If they look back, it’s a good sign. That’s what Peyton always says.
Swallowing hard, I stare at his retreating back, his long stride making tracks in the sand.
And then.
He looks back.
I breathe in relief and offer him an awkward wave before turning away. My heart’s beating fast as I head up the grassy path toward the road, where I parked my grandmother’s Land Rover. I pull my phone out of my pocket just as another text lights up the screen.
Peyton: So??? Have we found the lucky guy?
I bite my lip and glance back in the direction of the party.
Yes.
Yes, I think we have.