Page 37 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
Looping her arm through mine, Sadie skips toward the bar, half-dragging me. With a laugh, I skip with her. We reach the bar, collapsing against it, laughing. Clutching each other.
“What will you ladies have tonight?” The bartender is a little older than we are, with an unfortunate mustache—the kind that looks like it requires at least four expensive products to curl up at the ends.
“Vodka tonics,” Sadie says. “Extra lime.”
“Put it on my tab,” a voice says, and Sadie’s laughter evaporates.
She straightens, crossing her arms. “Cumberbatch,” Sadie hisses, and I wonder how she knows this guy, and how likely it is he’s related to the actor who starred in BBC’sSherlock.
The man in question looks nothing like his namesake. Blond, with that whole rich guy at the beach look. Collared shirt with khaki shorts and a belt. Leather boat shoes that look weather-beaten but probably cost five hundred dollars.
“Hi,” I say, reaching out my hand between him and my sister. They for sure need a barrier. He shakes my hand but only has eyes for Sadie.
“I’m Merritt,” I say. “And you are?”
“Benedict.”
My eyes widen. “Wait—your name is actually Benedict Cumberbatch? Like the actor? What are the odds!”
Beside me, Sadie is laughing uncontrollably, somewhere between a cackle and a guffaw. The man groans and raises his eyes to the ceiling like he’s searching for patience.
“BenedictKing. Nice to meet you, Merritt Markham.”
It clicks into place exactly who this man—who obviously is a few steps ahead of me—actually is. The Kings, if I remember correctly, own this whole island. Now that I’m thinking back, Benedict might have been around the summers we were here. Hanging out with Jake, maybe? I don’t think we ever hung out together, but there’s something about him that seems familiar.
Still, that vague connection isn’t enough for Sadie to talk like she knows the guy. And she definitely knows the guy.
“I see you seem to have some … history with my sister?”
Benedict’s eyes flick to Sadie, who is still doubled over with laughter. When he looks back at me, his expression has shifted to something like wicked amusement.
“Our history is just beginning.” His grin is smug.
Sadie pops up, all traces of laughter gone. She pokes Benedict in the chest. “It most certainly is not!”
Benedict grabs Sadie’s finger, which is still jabbing at his sternum. “It’s true. You just don’t know it yet.”
When he presses a quick kiss to her fingertips, Sadie gasps. “You didnot!”
“Like I said. Just the beginning.”
He must be at least aslightlysmart man because Benedict disappears through the crowd with a cocky wave. I decide not to interfere as Sadie follows him out to the patio, a murderous look on her face. Whatever is going on there—I don’t want to be in the middle. Forget being a barrier. Sadie’s on her own.
I’m sipping a vodka tonic (which is a littletooheavy on the limes) when my eyes snag on a familiar, bearded face angled my way.Hunter.
This bar is one of the last places I’d expect to see a man who would rather socialize with ceramic garden gnomes than most people. But there he is: at the end of the bar, facing out toward the room. But only watchingme. His jeans are darker than the ones he wears to work. Tighter too. His black t-shirt fits just snugly enough that it doesn’t look painted on, but it highlights all those muscles earned by his work.
His eyes, though—they’re what pull me in. I shouldn’t want to get closer. Not if we’re only friends. Not if I’m leaving Oakley.
The thought that overwhelmed me on the dance floor pops back into my brain.
I’m never going back.
Not going back to New York could look like a lot of things. There are other cities. Other advertising firms. Other jobs. But all of those options feel too similar to a life I’m beginning to realize never actually made me happy.
What ifnot going back to New Yorklooked likestayingon Oakley?
The voice in my head takes on a Sadie-like quality as it fires off question after doubt-filled question.
