Page 34 of My Star-Crossed Summer

When I open the door to leave, he says, “One more thing.”

I turn and find him looking at me intently. His gaze drops to the floor between his feet—another tell—and when he looks up at me again, his smile is a little more than friendly. “I’m really glad you’re here, Vic.”

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. Despite my slip-up, he’s back to being my colleague now, the nice guy who put me back together after a bad spill and is trying so hard to make me feel welcome. As I slip out the door and head down the hall, I try to imagine what else he wanted to say—because when Noah looks down at his feet, it means he’s reconsidering. He’s shoving down a thought he thinks he shouldn’t share.

And now, despite my better instincts, I’m dying to know what precisely that thought might be.

Chapter Ten

NOAH

I’ve been kidding myself. All week, I’ve been telling myself that I can get along just fine with Vic as my colleague.

But that’s a total lie.

I kept telling myself that lie as we ate meals together in the cafeteria, as we played games with the kids in the evening, and as we planned new activities in the afternoons. I told myself that lie as she laughed her musical laugh when she caught me staring at her across the table at breakfast while I was half-asleep and hungover from the wild dreams about her that had me tossing and turning all night. (Did you know that you can have a hangover from an intensely vivid dream? Neither did I.) Victoria Griffin swept onto this mountain like a summer storm that makes everything brighter and takes your breath away when the clouds break. And she’s going to leave me wrecked.

Ever since the Great Frisbee Incident, it takes everything in me not to cup her cheeks in my hands and kiss her senseless every time I see her. The longing in her eyes tells me she wants that, too—which makes me feel both better and worse. Better, because I’m not alone in feeling this churning want, thisneed—but worse because now I’m going to feel this torturous ache every time we’re in a room together.

And heaven help me, that ache is going to make me combust and leave a little Noah-shaped pile of ash at her feet.

Friends. Colleagues. That’s what we can be for each other right now. But what I want is so much more.

“Shoot,” Victoria says, glancing at her phone. “We’re going to miss lunch.”

“Will we though?” I ask her. “Will we reallymisscorn dogs and tater tots?”

We drove into Laurel Creek after breakfast this morning to get some supplies for the kiddos, and somehow, it’s already noon. I shove our shopping bags into the back of the Tahoe and shut the back door.

“Fair point,” she says, her lip lifting in a sly smile. “I spy a bakery over there that I’ll bet can do way better than corn dogs.”

She points to a building on Main Street that’s painted yellow and has a giant sign over the door that’s shaped like a bright pink and white cupcake. No name—just a cupcake. A couple of bistro tables are set up on the sidewalk next to a wrought-iron bench and waist-high flower boxes overflowing with pansies and daisies. This street is like a living ad for small-town mountain getaways, packed with boutique shops and blissful-looking tourists.

“Come on,” she says, linking her arm in mine and practically dragging me across the street. “Tasty treats await.”

I follow, relishing the warmth of her hand on my bicep. It’s a glimpse of how we could be together if the camp rules didn’t apply.

A bell above the door jingles as we step inside. The space is filled with retro-style tables and vinyl chairs that look like they came straight from a 1950s-era diner. Two upholstered chairs are set up by the front window, and the walls are covered incolorful paintings and fiber art that are no doubt made by local artists. Half the tables are full with families who look like they’re in vacation mode, the others occupied by people with laptops.

Victoria makes a beeline to the back, where there’s a coffee bar and a pastry case a mile long.

“Would it be wrong to take a stash of contraband back to my cabin?” she asks, her eyes roaming over the endless trays of treats. Somewhere between the blackberry pie and the apple fritters, my stomach has started rumbling loud enough to shake the foundation.

“I won’t tell,” I answer. “But you might make lots of raccoon friends.”

“Actually,” she says, eyes glittering, “I’d rather order a bunch of those for the dance on the last night. What do you think?” She points to the far end of the pastry case, where there are cookies decorated like rockets, complete with rivets and bright orange flames coming out the back.

“I think the kids would go nuts,” I reply. “As if they don’t already have enough reasons to love you.” My breath hitches over the last two words, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Done,” she says with a grin, and the next thing I know, she’s talking to the owner about airbrushing sugar cookies to look like planets and discussing the group’s food allergies.

We order two deli sandwiches and a mix of pastries, including a couple for Sophie. When a family of four abandons the table by the window, Victoria swoops in like a hawk to claim it, grinning as she slides across the vinyl booth. Being with her like this, out in the world that doesn’t revolve around camp and kids, feels so familiar and natural. Victoria always did put me at ease, but she also made even the most mundane activities seem exciting. Something tugs at my chest when I realize that in just a couple of weeks, I’ll be back in the real world like this—but she won’t be with me.

I’ve missed her more than I realized.

She opens her big purse to make room for our take-home pastries and pulls out her wallet, an e-reader, and a dog-eared copy ofReady Player One.

“I must be the last person on earth who hasn’t read that book,” I tell her. “I keep meaning to because it’s been recommended to me no less than a thousand times.”

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