“It does matter.”
My arms are tired from carrying the box, my back is starting to twinge, and I’d give anything to take off my heels. Worst of all, though, is how tired my soul is from constantly trying to prove myself.
“I’m going to head home,” I say. “I give up.”
Hunter tucks the heavy box under his arm like it’s a newspaper and loosely grips my wrist, tugging me back toward his apartment. If I had the energy, I’d chastise him for attempted kidnapping.
“Come in and have a drink at least.” His voice is soft, like he’s concerned about me. He probably thinks my last few threads of mental health have finally snapped. And he might not be wrong.
I don’t fight him because I have no energy left. He leads me back down the corridor and into his apartment.
“Okay, so we can put that there.” His tone has shifted. It’s not as acidic as normal. It’s like he might have realized he’s pushed me too far. “Sit here on the couch, so you can see the TV.”
I frown. I’m not here to Netflix and chill. We have plans to make. But I don’t object when he guides me to my designated spot on the couch. A moment later, he’s pressing a cold glass of lemonade into my hands.
“I thought we could start with the house. Does that sound good?” The tone of his voice is the kind used by people who work with the elderly—patient, but wary.
I shrug and take a sip of lemonade. Maybe the sugar will help my mood. Who am I kidding? Nothing’s going to help my mood.
Hunter takes the seat next to me and points the remote at the screen affixed to the wall. “Everything looks better on a big screen.”
The screen comes to life with images of the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen. Rising out of a bed of white hydrangeas, with twin gables, a sprawling wraparound porch, dormers, and a rounded turret, it’s more Kennedy Compound than cozy beach house. But the authentic gray shingles and clean white window frames make it feel ... friendly.
I glance at Hunter. Is this an elaborate trick? He can’t really have secured this house. There’s no way. Then I remember his caveat about the location. I narrow my eyes in suspicion.
“Thisis available?” I ask.
“Yeah. I didn’t want to risk losing it, so I already paid the deposit.”
“For this house,” I say, jabbing my finger toward the screen. “Not the guest house to this house, butthishouse.”
“Yes,” he says. “This is the house.”
“What’s the catch?” I ask. “Because I didn’t see it on the market. I mean, maybe I wasn’t looking in the right price category, because that must cost about a hundred thousand dollars for the weekend. I mean, can we even afford it?”
Hunter shrugs. “I’ve got it figured out.”
“You said it wasn’t on the Cape. So where is it? Maine? Canada?” There’s no way he managed to secure this house on short notice anywhere near Cape Cod. It’s just not possible. There has to be a ginormous catch.
He sighs and pushes his hands through his hair. “Don’t lose it,” he warns.
I brace myself, sending up a small prayer that the house is located somewhere Cape-adjacent.
“I won’t lose it. Where is it?”
“The Vineyard.”
I spring to my feet like someone’s jabbed a red-hot poker up my ass. “This house.” I pause and then go over to the screen and put my finger on the beautiful image on the screen. “This house right here is on Martha’s Vineyard.”
He nods, panicked, his eyes wide, like he’s waiting for me to punch him in the face.
“And it’s available for the weekend we need it, and it comes within budget?”
He nods again.
My mind starts to race. What were the other criteria? It had to be on the Cape, but the Vineyard is even better. It had to be big enough ... Well, this place looks like it could accommodate a marching band. And it had to be on the beach. That’s got to be the catch.
“How far away from the beach is it?”
