One of Sigmund's friends decides to make a dramatic landing right next to Scott.
Except it's not a landing so much as a collision.
The seagull hits Scott's shoulder, squawks indignantly, and in the chaos, Scott's coffee cup goes flying.
Right into my lap.
I yelp and jump up, which startles approximately seven more seagulls who have apparently been waiting for their moment to join this circus.
They all take flight at once.
It’s like a scene fromThe Birdsexcept more embarrassing and less murderous.
Scott leaps up to help me, steps on Sigmund’s tail (Sigmund isveryvocal about this betrayal), stumbles into me, and we both nearly go down.
His hands catch my arms to steady us both.
We’re standing very close, both covered in coffee, surrounded by shrieking seagulls who are judging our life choices, and Scott Avery is looking at me like I’m a poem he’s trying to memorize.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “About the coffee. And the seagulls. And...everything.”
“It’s fine. I like my morning walks with a side of chaos.”
“This seems like a lot even for you.”
“Excuse me, I’m very normal.”
“You were having therapy with a seagull named Sigmund.”
“Everyone needs a confidant.”
His mouth twitches. His hands are still on my arms. We’re still standing too close.
“Jessica—”
“There you are!”
We spring apart like teenagers caught by parents.
Michelle is jogging toward us down the beach, ponytail bouncing, looking far too energetic for this early hour.
Behind her is Grayson and—oh no—the entire book club.
Hazel, Amber, Jo, and Grandma Hensley bringing up the rear.
It’s a rom-com intervention parade, and we’re the main attraction.
“We saw you from the boardwalk,” Michelle announces, slightly breathless. “Thought we’d join your morning walk.”
“All of you?” I ask weakly. “At sunrise?”
“It’s a romantic time of day,” Grandma Hensley says, gesturing widely at the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon. “Also, I have twenty dollars on you two getting together before Labor Day, and I need to assess the situation.”
I’m going to die. Again. This is now the second death-by-embarrassment I’ve scheduled for today.
“We’re not—” Scott starts.
“Together,” I finish. “We’re just...walking. Separately. On the same beach. With seagulls.”
