Page 161 of Summer Love

His voice says otherwise. Not bitterness—resignation. Luke isn’t complaining, he’s just stating it: the Market is on him.

“Meanwhile,” Luke adds, tugging on a blackened line, “you run your cars into the ground and I’m the one who fixes them.”

“That’s because you’re the only one who knows what to do,” Jace says.

“It’s because I can’t say no. Cazzo.”

The line comes loose in his fingers. A few drops of gas drip onto the sand. Luke wipes his hands with a rag, inspects the part, and tosses it in his bag.

I stand, gather the empty bowls, stack them.

“Okay, I should get back to it. I’ve got to finalize the rental contracts.”

Jace comes back over to me.

“Summer… what you wanted to tell me, let’s talk about it tonight, okay? Let me take you to dinner.”

“I can’t. I’ve got book club.”

“Okay. After, then?”

I nod. He holds my gaze for a moment, then goes back to the bus and crouches down next to Luke.

I walk off. Flip hesitates, gets up, follows me a few steps, then turns around and goes back to lie down in the shade of the van.

Behind me, a wrench knocks against metal. Luke says something I can’t make out. Jace answers.

I keep walking toward the house without looking back.

CHAPTER 51

Summer

Iclose the file, pull the USB drive out, and slip it into my pocket. I put my laptop away, grab my tote bag, and step out of Bungalow 17. Outside, the light has turned golden.

A pen in one hand, Noah is alone behind the front desk, bent over a folder. He’s wearing clear-framed glasses I’ve never seen on him. They soften his features without quite erasing the shadows under his eyes.

He looks up at the sound of my footsteps.

“Hey,” I say. “Could you print a document for me? Three copies, stapled?”

I hold the USB drive out to him. He plugs it into the computer, opens the file, and starts the print job.

“What were you working on?” I ask.

He gestures wearily toward the folder.

“Invoice for the pool supplies. Yumi wants me to double-check everything before we pay.”

“You?” I say.

He lifts one shoulder.

“I do a little of everything around here.”

The printer behind him hums to life and spits the pages out one by one. I lean my elbows on the counter and wait. Noah picks his pen back up, pushes his glasses up his nose, points to a line on the invoice.

When the last sheet comes out, he separates the three copies, taps the edges against the counter to line up the pages, staples them, and hands them to me.