Page 38 of Summer People
I refuse to be what others say I am in general.
So I sip my Diet Pepsi, which apparently Doris has no trouble getting, and enjoy the sound of the ocean and the way the sun warms my skin. June hasn’t just brought more tourists. Warmer afternoons and a balmy breeze are also welcome changes on the island.
I’ve just let out the loudest of sighs, content in a way I’ve been striving for since I came up with the idea to run off to this island, when the lightest of giggles carries over the summer breeze. “Libby! Libby!”
I lift a hand to block the sun and spot Sutton rushing toward me, her hair back in braids that bounce with as much enthusiasm as she does.
Behind her, Fisher follows, his movements much more subdued.
Dammit, he’s not making it easy to avoid him.
After the way my stomach did that little swoopy thing yesterday when he carried me to practice, the last thing I need is another run-in with the man.
“Hi, pretty girl. What’s all the excitement for?”
I keep my eyes on Sutton despite the intensity of Fisher’s gaze.
“Fisher and I are here to take you for a picnic.”
Fisherand picnic do not belong together in a sentence. Eye twitching, I sit up. “A picnic?”
Blue eyes brighten as she swipes at a stray hair with the back of her hand. “Yeah. It’s a tradition. Wednesday nights in the park.”
“There’s a park?” This time I can’t help but look at Fisher. No one has mentioned a park.
He grins. The man fucking grins, and my heart somersaults down the path and lands with akathwumpat his feet.
“Sure is.” He holds up the picnic basket as if trying to prove to me that he hasn’t been possessed by aliens who’ve come to earth to kill me with the unsuspecting promise of a smile. It only makes me more suspicious. “Even got some of your favorite things.”
“He did. He got your sodas and straws and strawberries and the—” She tilts her head back, peering up at Fisher, and snaps her fingers. “What’s the nut called again?”
“Pine nuts,” he says.
Sutton raises a finger in excitement. “Yup. Pine nuts for your salad. We even looked up the recipe for your favorite salad.” She holds her hand up to her mouth, my favorite of her little quirks, and whispers loudly, “Did you know there’s a whole article on what Elizabeth Sweet eats for lunch?”
A laugh bubbles out of me, and I finally haul myself out of my chair. “Yes.” I brush off my leggings, then straighten. “People on the mainland are a bit ridiculous.”
Head tilted, she purses her lips. “But there’s a lot more to do there too.”
“We’ve got goats,” Fisher says, his lips twitching. When he lifts his gaze to mine, like we’re sharing some sort of secret, I swallow my tongue.
I only now notice that his typically messy hair is swept to the side like he took time to get ready. And I think he may have even trimmed his beard. His brown eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen them, like he’s truly happy. Why is he happy? And why do I feel like I’d do anything to keep him this way?
“So what do you say, Princess? Come with us to the picnic?”
I have to look away from him. Those words combined with the earnest hopefulness in his expression are screwing with my mind. “Is this a tourist thing?”
“Nah.” He adjusts his hold on the basket. “It’s an islander thing, but tourists tend to discover it.”
“So summer people are invited?” I swallow past the lump in my throat. I’m tired of feeling unwelcome, so while I appreciate that Sutton and Maggie do their best to include me in activities reserved for islanders, I don’t particularly feel like getting the stink-eye from Doris or being run off by the woman from the bakery. Especially when I’m feeling better than I have in a long, long time. Why ruin the vibes?
Fisher’s eyes flash with an emotion that, if I weren’t so jaded, I’d think was empathy. “You’re invited, Libby. Come with us to the picnic. Please? Like Sutton said, we’ve got your favorite salad, diet ginger ale,andstraws. And if you’re a really good girl, there’s a carton of sherbet in the freezer when we get home.”
The husky quality of his voice makes it impossible not to imagine him saying those two words—good girl—in acompletely different way. When he’s wearing significantly less. When I can feel the burn of that scruff between my thighs.
Somehow I know that Fisher is the type of man who would praise me for coming. He’d work hard to get me there, and then he’d be the one thanking me.
A fierce shiver works its way down my spine, sending goose bumps erupting along my arms.
