Page 32 of My First Time Fling

“A Taste of Tolliver,” Cam said with a shrug. “It’s happening this weekend, down on the beach just south of the harbor. I don’t usually go—don’t love the crowds—but you’d probably enjoy it. Heck, as the Sea Glass’s new owners, you might want to go and get the lay of the land.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said, turning back to Jesse. “Don’t you think? Perfect for a romantic weekend.”

“Yeah,” he said, giving me an unreadable look in return. “Sounds just perfect.”

11

Jesse

What was even happening?

I’d been excited about Mark coming on this weekend trip with me, and nervous, of course, wondering what it meant. And I’d spent the entire time, from the minute he said he’d come until the minute he got in the car this afternoon, telling myself it probably meant nothing. Because I wasn’t supposed to get my hopes up. Mark and I were just friends. That’s all he wanted to be.

And now…this?

What was Mark doing, pretending we were dating? And why had he volunteered to spend the night in the same room as me? Didn’t he realize that meant we’d be sharing a bed? I mean, of course he realized. Cam had said as much. And Mark could have backed out, could have explained that we weren’t really a couple, at any time. It wasn’t like Cam would have cared, or like I wanted to rub it in his face like I had with Tanner.

The only thing I could think of, the only explanation I could come up with, was that this meant Mark wanted…But no, it couldn’t mean that. Because Mark was the one who’d said he never should have kissed me. Mark was the one who’d said it was a mistake, that he was sorry.Markwas the one who didn’t likeme.

So what the actual fuck was he doing?

He kept giving me these absurd, inscrutable smiles like I was supposed to know what they meant as we followed Cam through the house, dropped off our bags, and let him give us a key. Well, I didn’t know what those smiles meant, and while I would have appreciated being clued in at some point, I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.

I’d asked about what was going on between us last time. This time, I was content to play along. That’s why I’d answered Mark the way I had. I was just going to one-up him until he got uncomfortable enough to explain himself. We’d see how long he could last in this fake relationship of ours.

As we headed out of the house and made our way toward the beach, I alternated between trying to read Mark and trying to think of ways to throw him off his game. It wasn’t a particularly long walk, Tolliver being the size it was. The street sloped down towards the water, and music carried back up on the breeze.

I’d just turned around to study Mark again when I slipped on a rock—the street we were on was more of a rutted, sandy path than an actual road—and started to fall. Mark grabbed me before I toppled over completely, holding me steady with one arm.

“You okay there?” he asked, his eyes wide and concerned.

“Yeah,” I said, annoyed to find that I was breathless, and not just because of the fall. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

He let go of my arm, but before he could withdraw his hand completely, I grabbed it, lacing my fingers through his. He wanted to act all unconcerned? He wanted to pretend like pretending to date wasn’t weird? Well, let’s see how he likedthat.

But he didn’t react at all. He just smiled and even began whistling as we walked over to the festival.

Not. Fair.

It turned out Taste of Tolliver was a lot more than just a food festival, and involved a lot more than just businesses from Tolliver. Which, I supposed, made sense, considering Tolliver’s businesses included a general store, a surf shop, and Zeb’s Windows and Siding, which I couldn’t really see offering much in the way of food.

Restaurants from all over Summersea had set up stalls along the sand, with long lines of people queueing up for crabs, oysters, and hushpuppies, burgers and brats, tacos, and even something that purported to be pizza in a waffle cone. They’d erected a stage for bands and a dancefloor right there on the beach, and families sat on towels and blankets around the edges. There was even an art fair, with booths set up on the street that fronted the beach.

The booth closest to us seemed to belong to a local photographer with stunning landscape photos. Mark seemed more interested in the boiling pots of crabs than looking at art, but I pulled him over to inspect the photography anyway. That was one advantage to holding hands, I realized. I got to indulge in my bossy side.

“These are gorgeous,” I said to the photographer, a tall guy with chestnut hair and muscles that could give Mark’s a run for their money. “Are they all from around here?”

“I think so?” the guy said. “And thank you.” He laughed. “I wish I could accept the compliment, but I’m actually not the photographer—that’s my boyfriend, Em.” He pointed to a shorter blond guy who was finishing up a sale with a customer in the other corner of the tent. “The closest I got to any of these was building some of the frames.”

Mark stepped forward at that, peering at an artfully carved wood frame around a black and white seaside landscape. “Whoa. Did you do this one? It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks,” the guy said. “Though I still can’t take that much credit—the wood grain is doing most of the work there.”

“Still impressive. What kind of tools did you use for the carving?” Mark straightened up and offered the guy his hand. “I’m Mark, by the way.”

“Tate,” the guy said, shaking his hand. “And it depends on the stage. When I was first cutting…”

“Oh God, are they talking tools again?” said a voice behind me.

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