The air is different in the Outer Banks, but then, everything is. The houses are all elevated on slats of wood to prevent destruction by flooding. The main road spanning southward from Sea Level is wide and flat and lonely. Nothing is more than two or three stories, tops. It’s a far cry from the suburbs of New York City and the summer I am supposed to be spending handselling books, consuming my weight in frozen yogurt, babysitting the Sullivan triplets, and glaring jealously at Instagram selfies of Shannon posted from the top of the Eiffel Tower.

It wasn’t a dream summer plan, but it was mine, wrecked the instant my mom swept into our apartment and announced I had a week to pack an entire summer’s worth of stuff. I wasn’t happy about it—any of it—but I’m not eighteen yet and I can’t exactly show up at my dad’s house for the first time in years, begging to be babysat. Instead, I spent a week moping in front of crappy TV, said goodbye to my friends, packed my duffel bag with clothing meant for moping, and we were off.

It’s a little humiliating staying in the guest suite of my mom’s boss’s huge beach house, but at least it has a small second bedroom for me with an incredible view of the Atlantic. Declan Killary, CEO of Decker Industries, either did something very right in a past life, or does a lot of terrible shit in this one.

It only takes half an hour for us to get settled before we’re summoned to the kitchen—or at least my mother is. I tag along because what on earth else am I supposed to do?

Plus, I’m hungry.

Thankfully, Mr. Killary is generous with the contents of his fridge, basically telling me to go to town before turning to my mom for the rundown of his schedule for the night. You’d think it’d be pretty chill, given he’s at his vacation house, but by the time I tune out in favor of celery and peanut butter, he’s already been advised of three conference calls, given a set of renovation plans to review for his Dallas office, and told he has a date at 10:00 p.m. at a wine bar in Kill Devil Hills. I pretend not to hear the last part. It’s gotta be embarrassing for a seventeen-year-old to overhear that your secretary makes your romantic social plans, but if he’s noticed I’m still in the room, there’s no indication.

I concentrate extra hard on picking up as much peanut butter as possible.