Page 28 of Summer People
“Nope, clearing my throat.” I cough for good measure. “Blue,” I call. “Let’s go.”
The tip of his more-salt-than-pepper beard brushes his flannel as he turns our way, and in true Blue fashion, the tall, lanky old man takes his time shuffling over.
“Love sliding in bare. Gives me the shivers.”
Libby chokes on a scoff, and I shake my head.
Sutton leans forward again, cupping one side of her mouth, and not really whispers, “Gramps always says the weirdest things.”
Thank fuck my eight-year-old doesn’t understand most of Blue’s inappropriate comments. Not yet, anyway. “Without doors, you mean.” I glare at him through the mirror, only to find his blue eyes dancing with amusement. I don’t know why I waste my breath.
“Gramps, do you know Libby?” my niece asks. At least one of us here has manners.
“I’ve seen the lovely Libby around. I’m Blue.” He leans forward and holds out a hand.
A growl escapes me, and before I know what I’m doing, I say, “Two feet.”
Blue raises his brows. Although Wilder has a girl a week during tourist season and has to warn Blue off all the time, I’ve never claimed anyone before.
Libby cocks her head, her blond hair slipping past the swell of her breast, garnering my attention. She ducks, following my gaze, then straightens and locks eyes with me for the space of a heartbeat. I swear the air crackles.
Swallowing thickly, I force myself to focus on the path and slowly ease off the break.
Blue chuckles, but I ignore the asshole.
“Libby,” Sutton chirps, thankfully breaking through the tension. “Did you see the casting for the play? I get to be Frenchie.”
By the lightness of her tone, she’s excited. Although why the hell Sutton wants to be French is beyond me. Maybe the idea is alluring because it’s unlike anything she’s used to on this island. Although I keep Sutton here because that’s what Hunter and Marissa wanted, my niece’s desire to see the world isn’t lost on me.
“Oh my gosh. That’ssocool.” Libby spins in her seat, and the two girls gush about the summer play all the way to the inn.
I half listen, mostly grateful that they can prattle on so easily without my input. Sutton requires so many words every day. She has so much to say, and I’m typically the one stuck responding to most of them. I can easily reach my daily quota by breakfast. So this? Quietly listening to them chatter and not having to say a single word? I could get used to this.
When I peer into the rearview mirror as I round the inn, the man behind me catches my eye, his smirk far too knowing. Fuck.
Blue is climbing out before the wheels have come to a complete stop on the dirt patch behind the house. But I know better than to try to control the man who’s lived on this island his whole life.
During the offseason, a peaceful silence hovers over the piece of land floating in the ocean, especially at night. And with so few lights, the entire night sky is visible.
But tonight, the inn is lit up. Almost every window shines with a yellow haze that even the blinds can’t hide and the air buzzes with noise. It’s nothing like Boston, but also nothing like the peace of a month ago.
“No, we don’t go to the inninn.” Sutton yanks Libby’s hand, pulling her toward the back of the large bed-and-breakfast where Blue has just disappeared. “We go to Mrs. K’s house. Only family comes to Sunday dinner.”
In this case,familymeans Sutton and me, Mr. and Mrs. Knowles, their kids Wilder and Eddy, and their granddaughter Lindsey. And, of course, Gramps, a.k.a. Blue, a.k.a. Mr. Knowles’s almost ninety-year-old father. That’s it. Yet tonight, Libby is here, having somehow wrangled an invitation.
As I follow her toward the house, unable to avoid noticing the way her blond hair shines in the moonlight when she gently bumps her shoulder against Sutton’s, I don’t feel like complaining.
I lock my jaw. I’m not dumb enough to believe the Hollywood princess will make it more than a few weeks on this island. But so far, Libby has surprised me. She’s nothing like what I expected when her father called to let me know she was coming. She’s got grit and personality. She’s nowhere near the plastic Hollywood drama queen I expected.
Honestly she seems more like her character on the show than the girl plastered across the cover of every tabloid.
“Fisher, you comin’?” Sutton asks as she holds the back door to the Knowleses’ home open.
With a nod, I quickly eat up the space between my truck and the door. The second I step inside, the scent of the salt air is replaced by the aroma of coffee and Murphy’s Oil Soap.
“Did you hear she’s tired of getting things rammed down her throat night after night?”
I fight the smirk, though I have no idea what prompted that response from Gramps.
