“I can design flyers,” Jo offers. “And post in the Driftwood and Dreams window.”
“Social media campaign,” Amber adds. “I’ll coordinate with the restaurant’s accounts.”
“And I’ll manage the pen pal outreach,” Michelle says. “Draft a letter to all current participants explaining the event and asking if they want to participate in the reveal.”
They’re all looking at me.
“What’s my job?” I ask.
“Your job,” Michelle says, “is to write to Coastal Quill. Tell him about the event. Invite him personally.”
My stomach flips. “And if he doesn’t want to come?”
“Then you’ll know. But I don’t think that’s going to happen.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Someone who writes letters like that—who’s been honest and vulnerable with you—isn’t going to run away from the chance to meet you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No. But I believe it.” She grins. “And I’m usually right about these things. Ask Grayson.”
The planning session continues for another hour. By the time we’re done, we have a timeline, task assignments, and a preliminary budget.
Six weeks until I meet Coastal Quill and to find out if any of this is real.
SIX
SCOTT
Ilove the Fourth of July.
There. I said it. Scott Avery, allegedly heartless real estate developer and confirmed emotional disaster, genuinely loves America’s birthday. The fireworks, the terrible hot dogs, the way the whole town smells like sunscreen and gunpowder. The kids running around with sparklers. The elderly couples holding hands on beach blankets. The general sense that for one day, everyone agrees to just...be happy.
It’s the most romantic holiday on the calendar, and I will die on this hill.
Not that I’d ever admit that out loud. I have a reputation to maintain.
Currently, I’m manning the ring toss booth at the Twin Waves Fourth of July Festival because Grayson guilt-tripped me into volunteering, and I’ve discovered I’m surprisingly good at convincing eight-year-olds that the game isn’t rigged.
It is absolutely rigged. The rings are slightly too small for the bottles. But hope springs eternal, and I’ve given away approximately forty stuffed dolphins to kids who “came so close” that I couldn’t bear to disappoint them.
I’m a soft touch. Another thing I’d never admit out loud.
“You’re hemorrhaging prizes,” Grayson observes, appearing at my elbow with two hot dogs and a grin. “The festival committee is going to ban you from booth duty.”
“They can take it up with my lawyer.” I accept the hot dog he offers. “Besides, did you see that little girl’s face when she won the purple dolphin? She cried, Grayson. Actual tears of joy. I’m not a monster.”
“Debatable.” He leans against the booth, watching the crowd stream past. The beach is packed—blankets and umbrellas as far as the eye can see, the boardwalk thick with families and couples and teenagers trying to look cool while sweating through their clothes. “Michelle’s looking for you, by the way.”
“Why?”
“Something about the local authors event. She needs volunteers for the planning committee.”
My stomach drops. “The event in August.”
“August ninth, yeah.” Grayson takes a bite of his hot dog, oblivious to my internal crisis. “Jessica’s running some kind of pen pal program, and they’re doing a big unveiling. Michelle thinks it’ll be ‘adorable.’ Her word, not mine.”
The pen pal program.
The reveal event.
