"Tara," I say simply, not offering my hand.
"Jason Abernathy." He extends his anyway, forcing me either to be rude or to take it. His palm is soft. Manicured. Nothing like the sensation of Cameron's rough, calloused fingers when he touches my cheek. "What brings you to our little island paradise, Tara?"
"Summer job at the Patriot Hotel."
"Tara's a server," Chloe volunteers. "The best I've seen."
"Ah, the famous café. My mother used to take me there when I was small." His smile turns nostalgic. "Family tradition."
Just then, a gorgeous, silky-looking blonde inserts herself under Jason's arm. "Here you are!"
"You're late," he tells her. "No matter. Excuse us ladies. And I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again, Tara," he says, winking at me before he turns away.
The rest of the night passes slowly. Too many vapid people to meet.
By the time Chloe drives me home, it must be past midnight.
"How did you like your first official night out with the locals in Nantucket?" She asks as she slows the car near my cabin.
"Nice," I say. "Thank you for inviting me,” I say, getting out of the car.
"My pleasure. We'll do it again. Sweet dreams," she calls out before driving away.
But alone now, in the parking lot, I look up at the full moon. It suddenly feels ominous. As if something dreadful is about to happen. I tell myself I'm being superstitious.
On a picture-perfect evening like tonight, what can it be?
CHAPTER 11
TARA
As I walk to my cabin in the darkness, I hear my phone buzz. It's a text message from Zaza, responding to the message I left earlier about my encounter with Cameron.
No words. Just a giant chili pepper emoji surrounded by exploding hearts.
I slide the key into my cabin lock, already thinking about tomorrow's shift. The breakfast rush starts at seven. I must be up by six to shower and press my uniform. Mr. Johnson expects perfection from his summer staff.
The door swings open, and I freeze. Mr. Johnson sits in my small chair near the window alcove, his white tennis shirt wrinkled, his usually perfect hair disheveled. The room reeks of strong liquor.
"Mr. Johnson?" I step back. "Is everything okay?"
He looks up with bloodshot eyes and a smile that makes my skin crawl.
"No problem at all," he says, his words slightly slurred. "Just wanted to make sure you got home safely from your little party."
I remain by the door, every instinct screaming danger. "That's very thoughtful. But I've worked all day; I'm exhausted."
"Not too exhausted to join me for a drink."
The flask in his hand gleams silver in the lamplight.
"Sir, I need to get to bed. I'm working your breakfast shift tomorrow."
"One drink won't hurt." His tone shifts, less friendly, more demanding. "Come on, Tara. You're a pretty girl. I chose you during the interview for that reason. Don't be antisocial."
My fingers wrap around the door handle behind me. "I must ask you to leave. I'm exhausted."
"Not until we drink." He stands unsteadily, swaying slightly. "You'll regret being unfriendly by morning."
