“Well,” Cole announces when he’s finished unpacking, “the cabins are even shittier than I remembered.” I laugh, because they really are terrible, and he smiles at me. “The neighbors are great, though.”

“I’m sure your house is a lot nicer.”

He shrugs. “It’s okay. Nothing fancy.” I’m suddenly trying to imagine what Willa’s house might look like—at the exact same time, I’m trying not to imagine what Cole’s bedroom might look like.

I feel my face flush.

“Do you wanna see it?” he asks. And I just stare at him. “My house. Do you wanna see where I live?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.” And I feel my pulse start to race.

Cole grins at me. “Come on. We’ve got some time before dinner.”

He leads me across the field and around behind the farmhouse. Then he starts down the lawn. I think maybe we’re headed toward the beach, but then Cole veers to the right, toward the tree line of the thick woods that run along the edge of the property.

“Through here,” he says over his shoulder. “It’s not far, but it’s a little bit of a climb.”

I duck into the woods, and it’s instantly dark and shady. A worn footpath leads away from the farmhouse and deeper into the trees. And then it starts to rise. It’s steep and rocky, and I’m wearing flip-flops. Once or twice Cole reaches back, without a word, to give me a hand.

A few minutes later, just as I’m starting to think I’m an idiot and he’s lured me into the forest to murder me, we come to a clearing behind a big old two-story house. It’s square with wooden siding and a welcoming back porch. Overflowing tubs of pink and purple flowers sit along the railing, and a couple of cats lounge on weathered wicker furniture.

“Is this it?” I ask him, and he nods.

“Home sweet home. When my mom and dad started the theatre at Whisper Cove, back before I was born, they bought this place so they could be right next door. They were both putting in long days and nights back then.” He stops to lean down and scratch a gray cat that’s circling his feet. “Not that much has changed. My dad still spends more time in his office than he does here.”

Suddenly I’m thinking about those initials in my mother’s notebook again.

B. C.

And I’m worried about coming face-to-face with Brody Culver.