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“Here, hold this,” I order Carson, thrusting my phone at him.
“Holy shit,” he whispers, quickly grabbing my phone as I take a couple of deep breaths and run my fingers through my long, dark-red hair to fluff it while I will the room to stop spinning. “You’re actually doing it. You really can’t turn down a dare, can you?”
“Physically impossible. How do I look?”
“Hot as hell, of course, but also like you just drank half a bottle of tequila and you’re about to make several poor life choices that will require bail money and possibly an antibiotic.”
The room stops spinning long enough for me to be able to successfully lean in and give Carson a quick kiss on the cheek without falling, a reassuring smile on my face as I pull away.
“I’ve got it all under control; don’t worry about me. It’s not like I’m ever going to see or talk to that man again after tonight. I’m gonna be a pass rusher and get to his juicy end zone.” I wink at Carson, trying to make a cat-clawing motion with my hands but just ending up looking like I’m smacking at air.
“Yeah,” he replies in a not-so-encouraging voice. “You’re going to worry about the dare after you apologize to him, of course.”
“Of course! What could possibly go wrong?”
And just like that, I’ve completely forgotten every scary movie I’ve ever seen, when someone always jinxes themselves by asking that question, and then they die a slow, tragic, painful death.
This night isn’t going to kill me slowly or tragically, but I’m pretty sure the aftermath might.
CHAPTER 1
Emily
“Fuck you, fuck you, and definitely fuck you.”
Present day
Summersweet Island
“That’s it! We’re having an intervention!”
When the front door to the Sandbar Cottages rental office bangs against the opposite wall after being flung open, I don’t bother looking up from my phone. I also unsuccessfully try to stifle a yawn with my free hand before replying.
“Will this be a small, intimate affair that can take place in one of our regular-sized cottages that sleeps four, or are you planning something a little larger that will require a family cottage that sleeps twelve?” I reply in a bored voice, resting my elbow on the new white shiplap check-in counter my dad built while I was living in California. Putting my chin in my hand, I continue tapping away on the screen of my phone.
“Emily, I’m serious,” Wren complains with a huff as I bring my phone up closer to my face, wondering if I need glasses.
“So am I. No one wants a shitty intervention. What size cottage you want will tell me how much you love me and how serious you are about intervening me. You know there isn’t enough counter space in the smaller cottages for complimentary veggie, cookie, and cheese trays, ever since I had those larger pantries installed last month. If I have to sit through my loved ones reading me poorly written letters, I want all three.”
My phone is immediately snatched from my hand, and I let out a grunt of annoyance that I temporarily forgot Wren is a mom and has the ninja-like ability to make it across the room at the speed of light without making a sound.
“Come on, man. After four days, I was finally gonna make it past Level 212 of Mahjong,” I complain, finally looking up at my best friend standing on the other side of the counter with my phone in her hand, shaking her head at me.
“This isn’t my normal, peppy, happy-go-lucky, up-for-anything friend, and I don’t like it,” Wren gripes, crossing her arms in front of her and glaring at me.
Wren Bennett is an adorably hot MILF, with dark-brown hair always piled on top of her head in a messy bun, wearing her usual Summersweet Island uniform of cut-off jean shorts and a hoodie, whose hugs and smiles can probably achieve world peace. But when Wren gives you a stern look and a foot tap, you immediately feel her wrath and feel bad about whatever behavior brought on her disappointed “mom look.” Guilt churns in my stomach that I haven’t been honest with my best friend, or anyone, since I’ve been home. Clearly, I’ve been doing a shitty job of keeping up the farce my stupid, drunk brain came up with five months ago.
“I’m sorry.” I sigh, leaning back in my chair behind the counter and letting my head drop back to stare up at the recessed lighting in the ceiling. “I’m just so bored.”
If that isn’t the understatement of the year, I don’t know what is. One of the perks of living on an island is the ocean view. But being stuck in the Sandbar Cottages rental office all day, right smack in the middle of town at the very end of Summersweet Lane where all the businesses are located—a good distance away from the shoreline—means I don’t even have that. The only view I have is of people sporadically walking by on the sidewalk and these four walls. White ceiling, attached to white walls, down to the white hardwood floor in this small cottage office my mother decided to “modernize,” also while I was away. I guess “modernize” in my mother’s eyes means sterile, blank, and lifeless.
