I clear my throat. “Botany. That’s plants, right?”
The words sound dumber out loud than they did in my head. Heat creeps up the back of my neck.
He nods slowly. “Yeah. Plants.”
“Oh,” I say, scratching at my neck. “That’s cool, I guess.”
He cracks a small smile, revealing dazzling white teeth with a small gap between his front two—an imperfection that somehow makes him even cuter. He outstretches his hand, and I hesitantly shake it. I’m sure my palm is noticeably sweaty. Hopefully he blames it on the fact that I’ve been standing in the sun all day.
“I’m Hunter Davis,” he says.
“Mason Burke.” I shove my hand into my pocket as soon as he lets go. “So… you’re spending the whole summer just staring at plants? Sounds boring.”
Hunter laughs under his breath, eyes crinkling at the corners. The sound catches me off guard—light and warm, like a breeze slipping beneath your shirt on a hot day.
He may be annoying, but if I have to share the beach with him all summer, at least he’s easy on the eyes.
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” he says. “My research focuses on how invasive plants affect the pollination rates of native threatened species.”
I nod like I understand. “Sounds interesting.”
He flashes me a doubtful look. “You don’t have to say that. Most people think it’s boring.”
“I don’t think it’s boring,” I say quickly, letting out a sheepish laugh. “I just… don’t really know much about it.”
“Fair,” Hunter says, shrugging. “I’m used to that—from people like you.”
My jaw tenses. “People like me…?”
“Small-town folks,” he clarifies. “Environmentalism isn’t exactly popular around these parts.”
I exhale softly. “Yeah, well, I’m not like that.”
He studies me, expression unreadable. “Alright,” he says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
I understand why he’s skeptical. Claremont Shores is extremely conservative. Any discussion of eco-friendliness is deemed to be liberal propaganda. Folks out here love their red meat barbecues, gas-guzzling pickup trucks, and plastic disposables.
I shift on my feet, desperate to shake off the heavy silence. “So, uh… I should get back to work,” I mutter, nodding toward the lifeguard tower.
“Yeah, me too. See you around, Mason.”
“Yeah,” I reply, turning sharply on my heel. “See you.”
I climb back up the tower and spend the rest of my shift completely distracted. Thank God for my reflective sunglasses—no one can tell I’m staring straight at Hunter. I watch him like a hawk as he stomps across the dunes and examines plants, takes measurements, and snaps pictures.
By midday, it’s way too hot for the oversized black hoodie he’s wearing. He shrugs it off and knots the sleeves around his waist, leaving just a striped T-shirt clinging to his lean frame. He’s all finelines and long limbs, not bulky like me, but beautiful nonetheless. Almost delicate. His wrists are narrow, his fingers nimble as they brush over a leaf. I can’t help but imagine how they’d feel against my skin.
With a groan, I drag a hand through my hair and force myself to look away.
This is going to be a long, torturous summer.
***
I don’t know why I’m Googling “Pitcher’s Thistle” while sitting at the Old Harbor Tavern, sipping a beer. I remember that’s the name of the endangered plant Hunter was so worked up about. His passion intrigues me.
My brow furrows as I click through research articles. Turns out, the plant only grows in the Great Lakes region. Its leaves are covered with spines, and it blooms with bulbous pink flowers. It’s endangered due to a bunch of factors I only half understand.
I wish I cared about anything as much as Hunter seems to care about plants.
