“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my eyes on his when all they want to do is pore over the length of his perfectly-chiseled torso.
He might not be my type, but it doesn’t mean I can’t find him attractive.
I mean, honestly, you’d have to be dead or blind not to see how ridiculously, unfairly, and disgustingly hot this guy is.
“Thayer,” he says.
“I know.”
He lingers, leaning against the doorway, the sweaty towel still in his hands.
“You, uh, you like it so far out here?” he asks.
No.
But I can’t tell him that.
“It’s beautiful here,” I say. “I look forward to my stay here this summer.”
His full mouth inches up at one side and my heart revs in my chest.
“You’re lying,” he says with the cutest smirk I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Excuse me?”
He takes a step closer.
Then another.
What is he doing?
“It’s lonely here. It’s isolating. We’re an hour’s boat ride from the mainland. We get the mail and groceries once a week. There’s no internet. You don’t have to say you’re looking forward to your summer here,” he says.
“All right. Fine.” I straighten my shoulders and clear my throat. “But the place is beautiful. I meant that part.”
His smirk morphs into a full-on smile that literally makes me weak in the knees, and he drags his hand through his mussed-up hair.
“I’ve summered here for as long as I can remember,” he says. I hate that he’s using ‘summered’ as a verb, but I let it slide. “If my family wasn’t freakishly close knit, I’d never come here by choice.”
I don’t know why he’s telling me this, but I smile and nod like the good little housemaid I’m trying to be.
“The twins are having a bonfire tonight,” he says, his dark brows arching as he pauses. “It’s on the other side of the east cliffs, just after the sun sets. You should come hang out with us. There’s this little alcove right off the water, and—”
“—I can’t,” I interrupt him.
His eyes search mine, and then he squints as if he thinks he misheard me. But from the moment I set foot on this island, my grandparents made it abundantly clear that I’m not to hang out with Mr. Bertram’s grandchildren. They told me I’m here to work and not to play, that it was imperative that we remain professional at all times, and that any trouble I might find myself in would reflect poorly on them—potentially costing them their jobs.
“Thanks for the invite though.” I turn to leave.
“You can’t? Or you don’t want to?” he asks.
I stop again, but this time I keep my back to him. I appreciate his kindness, but this is for the best.
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
I close his door behind me on my way out and all but sprint down the stairs. Turning the corner, I nearly run into his mother on my way to the back door.
“Excuse me. I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Everything okay, lovey?” she calls as I slip my shoes on. I can’t remember her name—only that she’s nice and she calls everyone ‘lovey.’
“Yep, everything’s fine,” I call back. “Thanks.”
“Have you seen Thayer, by chance?” she asks.
“He’s upstairs, I believe.” I tie the laces on my Chucks, and then I’m gone, out the door, heading back to my grandparents’ cottage, which is ironically bigger than the average American house. There’s nothing quaint about it, though I guess when you put it next to The Bertram, The Ainsworth, and The Caldecott, it gives off cottage vibes.
When I get inside, I kick off my shoes and trek to the kitchen to pour a glass of my grandma’s famous Earl Grey iced tea, and then I collapse on the plaid sofa, watching the wind make the curtains dance and listening to the seagulls and crash of the ocean waves.
The muscles of my upper back burn, and my knees are on fire. Cleaning all day every day is no joke—and my grandma’s been doing this for decades.
I think she likes this sort of thing though, being a housekeeper. She likes structure and order and cleanliness and being needed.
The sound of a chainsaw in the distance is more than likely my grandpa doing one of the zillions of outdoor projects Bertram has him working on. I think this morning over breakfast he mentioned cutting down some dead trees for firewood—aaaaand now I’m thinking about that bonfire.
I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want to go.
Of course I want to go.
There are three other people on this island who are my age, and I’d much rather hang out with them on a Friday night than hole up in my new room getting firsthand experience of how people lived before the internet was born.
Sitting up, I rest my arm on the back of the couch and stare out the window toward Thayer’s house. I can’t quite get a read on him yet given the fact that we’ve had one conversation in the history of ever, but if he was nice enough to try to include me in his plans tonight, he can’t be all that bad.