“Well, yeah.”

“Dare I ask if you were jealous?”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“We’re not in America right now,” he points out.

I shrug.

I want him to tell me that he likes me, not Pippa. Instead, he says, “I went after you too.”

“The pharmacist told me.” I nod.

“And now you’re here.”

“And now you’re here.” I sit up and turn my body toward him so I can look at him properly. My butt hits something on the sand, and I pluck it from underneath me. It’s the black canvas bag that was sitting by the fire earlier this evening. I pick it up. My fingers are shaking. My breath catches in my throat.

“Of course.”

“Weird reaction to a bag.” He frowns. “I’m going to need some context.”

“I read some of your story.” I pass him the backpack, feeling myself blushing. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. It was—”

“Terrible?”

“—exhilarating,” I finish at the same time.

He studies me a little warily, drumming his long fingers on his knee.

“It needs some work, but the bones are there, I think. It’s why I’m here, actually. In Europe. To write a novel.”

“You can’t write a novel in America?” My question comes out like an accusation. It sounds like he is going to be here for a while, and I’m flying back in less than twenty-four hours. Nice work, fate.

“Technically, I can.” He drops the backpack by his side. “But I needed to get away. Home’s been intense the last couple decades.”

“You’re nineteen,” I point out.

“Good math.” He winks. “I’ve had a pretty rough start.”

So he has one of those families. One that doesn’t have cute Christmas traditions and go surfing together. Where Mom and Dad don’t slow dance in the middle of the kitchen. Nothing like mine.

I rub my thumb over my chin. “Define rough start.”

“I will. When we have more time and run out of fun things to talk about. Let’s leave our troubles at the door tonight.” He tucks away another lock of wet hair from my forehead, and it’s the most romantic and heartbreaking thing anyone has ever done to me. More than when Sean took me to prom and then to the Ritz-Carlton after. The night I lost my virginity and the little interest I still had in boys.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Okay.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Joe warns. “I’ll go get your dress. Beige, right?”

He stands up and kicks the sand off his jeans. Some of it gets into my eyes, but I’m too stunned to care. “You noticed me? I mean, before?”

He tousles his hair, flashing his earth-shattering grin. “I was about to come over when you were by the fire. My friends told me not to bother. That I was imagining you. I may or may not have thought I saw you at least a dozen times the last couple weeks. Active imagination.” He knocks on the side of his head.

Satisfaction floods me. I did the exact same thing. Imagined him in thick crowds.