Her name fits her—light and lilting, with a hint of sharpness beneath the surface. She gestures to Jonathan. “And this is Jonathan Grey.”
I glance at him, noting the subtle tension in his jaw. He doesn’t offer his hand, and neither do I.
“A pleasure,” I say, though it isn’t entirely true.
Jonathan smirks, a flash of white teeth. “You live around here, Calum?”
“My family owns Holiday House,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the cliffs. It’s a statement of fact, not a boast, but I see his smile falter slightly, and it pleases me more than it should.
“Ah,” he says, recovering quickly. “That explains the brooding artist act.”
Annabel laughs, a sound like bells, and my irritation deepens. She looks at me, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So what are you drawing? Me, I hope.”
“Of course,” I say, meeting her gaze. “How could I not?”
Her laughter fades, and for a moment, something passes between us—an understanding, an unspoken challenge. Then she steps closer, leaning in to peer at the sketchbook still clutched in my hand.
Jonathan watches her, his expression unreadable.
“Well?” she says, tilting her head. “Are you going to show me?”
I hesitate, then hold out the book. She takes it, her fingers brushing mine briefly, and the touch lingers longer than it should. She flips through the pages, her expression shifting from amusement to something more serious.
“You’re good,” she says softly, almost to herself.
“Good?” Jonathan cuts in, stepping closer. “Let’s see.”
Annabel hands him the sketchbook, but her eyes remain on me. Jonathan flips through the pages, his brows furrowing.
“Impressive,” he admits grudgingly, though his tone suggests he’d rather say anything else.
I smile faintly. “High praise.”
Annabel steps between us, taking the sketchbook back and holding it against her chest. “You’re both ridiculous,” she says, her tone light but with an edge. “Men and your egos. Jonathan is a writer—he’s working on the next great American novel. He’s three years in and at this pace he’s at least a decade away from writingthe end.”
Jonathan laughs, but it’s forced. “Says the girl who lives off daddy’s oil money. So what’s your story, Calum? Just another summer in paradise?”
I shrug. “Something like that. And you?”
“Passing through,” he says, his tone clipped. “Spending time with Annabel.”
His words are pointed, a clear claim staked in the sand. I glance at her, but she’s looking out at the waves, her expression unreadable.
“Well,” I say, my voice steady. “You’re lucky to have such good company.”
“I am, aren’t I?” Jonathan says.
The tension eases slightly, but it’s still there, an undercurrent beneath the surface. Jonathan steps closer to her, his hand brushing her arm. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t lean into him either.
“You should join us,” she says suddenly, surprising both of us. “We have enough food for three.”
Jonathan frowns, but I nod before he can protest. “I’d like that.”
The picnic is a strange affair. Annabel chatters endlessly, her words tumbling over each other like waves. She talks about everything and nothing—her love of storms, her hatred of conformity, the time she almost drowned trying to rescue a dog. Jonathan watches her with the same intensity I feel, though his is tinged with something darker.
I can’t take my eyes off her. The way she tosses her hair, the way she gestures with her hands, the way her laugh bubbles up like champagne. She’s magnetic, a force of nature, and I can already feel myself being pulled into her orbit.
Jonathan feels it too. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens when she laughs at one of my jokes, the way his eyes narrow when she leans closer to me to reach for the wine.
