“It’s a disaster,” she tells me in a hushed tone. “Maria’s making her pastries for dessert, but we’re out of butter. I can’t believe we don’t have spare!” She looks so upset, you think we were talking about world famine instead of profiteroles, but I leap on the chance to escape.

“I can run out and get some.” I offer quickly.

“But you’re enjoying the party...” Mom is reluctant.

“I’ll be back in no time.” Before she can disagree, I kiss her on the cheek and slip out of the room, leaving the small-talk and stifling laughter behind.

Freedom.

I pile in my car and back out of the driveway so fast I send gravel flying, turning at the end of the leafy street and heading into town. It’s a gorgeous evening as I cruise along the winding coastal road that leads to Beachwood Bay, the ocean glittering blue under the clear skies. I pass the harbor, boats bobbing on the tide, and find a spot to park on Main Street. The town feels emptier now, but there are still some tourists browsing the quaint stores, kids buying ice-cream, their legs sandy from the beach.

I feel a pang in my chest, the same one I always do when summer comes to an end. Beachwood Bay is my escape: a chance to leave Charleston and my parents’ stuffy social scene behind. No obligations, no rules, just two months to work with grandpa on the ranch; go sailing with Jace, hang out and feel free. Time has slipped by so fast I can’t believe it, and now summer is over for another year. The house is already packed up, and tomorrow we’ll be heading back home—back to reality. To the life I can’t wait to leave behind.

I grab butter from the grocery store, and then take my time on the way back, strolling the long route around that takes me past Mrs. Olson’s diner. It’s empty, and the sign outside reads ‘closed’, but I can’t help pausing to glance through the window, searching for a familiar figure.

There she is.

Wiping down the countertop at the back of the diner, her dark head bent away from me. She’s wearing her usual uniform of an apron over cut-off shorts and chunky black boots, her hair tipped with blue this week. Even cleaning up, there’s a grace to her movements that mesmerizes me. I watch her, my errand and the party suddenly fading right away.

Brittany Ray.

We’ve never spoken, not so much as a word, but I know who she is. Everyone in this town knows. She’s only sixteen, and the things they say about her... but I don’t believe them, not for a second. Brit doesn’t even seem to care. She just strides around town with her tough-girl outfits and that dark, piercing stare, like nothing can touch her.

She doesn’t realize how beautiful she is.

Brit looks up from the counter, and I leap back, embarrassed, but she doesn’t see me out here in the fading dusk light. She says something to the person at the back of the diner, and then pulls of her apron, grabbing a scuffed satchel and heading for the front door.

I quickly take a few steps up the street, and pull out my phone, like I’m looking at a message.

The door rings, and Brit steps out onto the street.

“Hey Brit!” A voice calls, and she turns. It’s a couple of local guys, toting six-packs and snacks. “You coming to the party?”

Brit shrugs. “Maybe.”

“You gotta,” the other guy urges. “Last blowout of the year. It’ll be crazy. Down at the beach, past the breakers.”

“Cool,” Brit nods. “I’ll swing by later.”

She turns back and sees me watching. Brit looks startled, and I quickly drag my gaze away and start walking, back towards my truck. I feel like an idiot, but at the same time, I sense the burn of her gaze still echoing through me, her dark eyes full of secrets.

I’ve wanted her all summer long.

She’s always been here, around town, but somehow, this year, everything changed. I took one look at that glaring, wounded stare, and suddenly, she was the only thing I could see. Other girls just faded into the background. I didn’t want them. I didn’t care about anyone but her. I found myself looking for her in every crowd, suggesting Sunday breakfast at the diner just to catch a glimpse of her, imagining what it would be like to touch that soft dark hair, taste those perfect pink lips...

Maybe it would be different if I thought I didn’t stand a chance, but now I know, this weird connection between us runs both ways. Last week, I was working in the harbor cleaning up our boat when I caught her watching me from the shore. I didn’t let her know I saw her, I acted like nothing had changed, but I felt her eyes roving over my body; caught the look of desire on her face.

It took my breath away.

Any other girl, I would have strolled right on over and asked her out. Taken her for a stroll on the beach, never thought twice about kissing her. Hell, if I’m honest, I would have sealed the deal too, shown her everything I already know about making a woman moan with pleasure—and let her teach me so much more.

But Brit isn’t any other girl. She’s like a blazing neon sign on a dark night: ‘Warning: Danger. Keep out.’ Even now, heading back to the house, I see her face dancing in my memory, and the beautiful burn of those dark eyes, calling to me.

I shake it off. Even if I wanted to, summer is as good as over. Come tomorrow, I’ll be miles away, and Brit will be nothing but a memory—if she was ever anything more.

Back at the house, the party is still underway. I suffer through drinks, and dinner, and more mindless small-talk that even another secret vodka can’t improve, all the while deflecting questions about college, pretending like when it comes to my future, I have any say at all.