Page 57 of Summer People
“Huh?”
Maggie’s smile is wide. “You’re going on a date.”
I scoff. “Oh, no. That’s not—” I shake my head even as my heart skips at the mere thought that maybe Fisher did just ask me on a date.
Maggie’s green eyes glitter with excitement. “That was so him asking you on a date.”
“He barely said a word.” I clamp my lips around the straw to keep myself from saying anything more. Like how I hope she’s right. Or before I ask questions about whether he’s ever dated anyone on the island. I squeeze my lips tighter to keep myself from inviting her to help me get ready because I really want to look good if this is a date.
Maggie laughs, the warmth in her tone easing my nerves a fraction. “He says more to you than he says to anyone. Believe me, that was Fisher asking you on a date.”
I sip my soda and point to my cart. “Want a ride to the theater?”
With a giggle, she points past me. Right. We’re at the theater. “Let’s get some work done before your date,” she sings as she skips toward the building.
“It’s not a date!” I call after her, but like a glutton for punishment, I follow her back inside.
Several hours later, I step out of the theater, speckled in a rainbow of paint colors. I smile when I see my pink golf cart sitting in the shade of a tree. That is not where I left it. Fishermust have swung back this way and noticed it sitting out in the hot sun.
A girl could get used to this kind of treatment.She shouldn’t, but she could.
Humming softly, I hop on and head back to the house.
I’m still not sure what I think about this whole date situation. It could be nice dating a man like Fisher. Maggie may have never been on a date, but I’d take that over “dating” other celebrities for the publicity only. Those are the only kind I’ve ever been on. I’ve never had time for a real boyfriend. Hell, I’ve never had time for friends. Just transactional relationships where I was seen out and about with the “right” people.
For all my bravado, I don’t think I’ve ever dressed up just for the thrill of seeing how a man will react when he sees me for the first time.
But the way Fisher reacted before the lobster bake? I could get used to that. That was—I sigh, slumping in the pink seat—butterfly-inducing. Only the butterflies sucked on helium before they took flight in my stomach.
Everyone I pass gives me plenty of room, waving, then darting to one side of the road or the other. It’s a huge change from only a few weeks ago, when everyone greeted me with grumbles. I think they’re really starting to like me. Or at least tolerate me.
My butt leaves the seat as the cart jostles its way around the turn near Wilder’s house. His yard slopes pretty sharply, so I press on the brake to slow myself down. I should order a Bluetooth speaker for Putt-Putt. Put music to the way the whole cart jolts every time I round this corner.
When the cart doesn’t slow, I push harder on the brake. Only to find Putt-Putt speeding up.
Shit. I try again, stomping on the brake this time. But no matter what I do, the cart doesn’t stop its forward momentum.
It’s okay. I’ll be fine. I’ll just take my foot off the gas, and eventually it will run out of juice and come to a stop.
Except the cart picks up speed, careening down the hill, the steering wheel wobbling out of control. I’m feet away from the tree I swear just popped up in the middle of the path when I realize there’s no way to avoid it. Dammit, Fisher is going to be so mad.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
fisher
I smooththe olive green shirt down one more time. Part of me hopes Libby likes it. The other part of me itches to punch myself for being a dumbass. I don’t think I’ve ever in my life stood in front of the mirror and worried about how I look.
“The shirt isn’t magic,” I growl at my reflection, even as I tip my head to get a better look at my hair.
This is a normal Saturday night. I’ve been spending my Saturday nights at the brewery for the last three years, and not once have I put gel in my hair beforehand.
Why tonight?
Probably because Libby is used to fancy Hollywood faces and places. The kind of thrill that makes a person excited about tomorrow. Nothing on this damn island possesses that type of thrill. Nothing but her. The thrill that hits me when I see her has yet to dull. In fact, it’s only become more intense. And not because she’s Elizabeth Sweet. It’s Libby, the shy, unsure, slow to smile woman, who makes me smile.
Not that the Libby I can’t stop thinking about would want to date me either. It’s ridiculous. I’m almost ten years older thanher, and I have none of the light she possesses. I’m the opposite of that light. I’m the shadow threatening to dull her brightness.
I stomp into the bathroom, huffing as I go. Water running, I wet my hands and wipe at my hair, attempting a less formal look.
