I huffed, resisting the impulse to roll my eyes. “You know I’ve never gotten involved with a summer boy,” I said, shimmying out of the way of the grimy dishcloth she swatted at me.

Despite what Lucy thought, I wasn’t crushing on tall, blond, and gorgeous sitting in the corner table. Sure, he was aesthetic. And mysterious. And new to Oar’s Rest, the sleepy little Maine seaside village that spilled over with tourists during the summer and turned into a ghost town the rest of the year.

Nestled on the coast, Oar’s Rest attracted all kinds of people, but mostly the artistic kind. The kind of girls who tucked flowers into their hair and rode shiny new bicycles. The kind of boys who had paint and cigarette stains on their fingertips, battling for flesh. Writers who secreted themselves away from the real world and then slipped away from their rented houses and emerged in the fall with a bestseller.

Mystery Boy thanked me when I delivered his coffee, returning his attention to the sketchbook.

Lucy was waiting for me when I returned to the counter.

“Don’t even say it,” I warned.

“I wasn’t going to say anything!” She threw up her hands. She let a beat pass. “Did you see his face? Go say something!”

I pursed my lips, eyeing him from across the room. “What? That’s so weird. I’m not going to do that. He could have a girlfriend. And anyway, I hate when guys walk in and start to creep on me. It goes both ways. I’m not going to hit on him out of the blue.”

“It’s not that weird. Someone has to make the first move.”

“Lucy,” I said, lifting an eyebrow, “the cardinal rule of every beach town is that locals do not get involved with tourists. They always leave.”

“I can’t even remember the last time you went on a date,” said Lucy. “And those girls and guys were cute.”

I picked up a mug that didn’t even need cleaning and began to rewash it just to have something to do. When I was nervous, I had the telltale habit of wringing the bottom of my shirt, and the last thing I wanted was for Lucy to know she’d hit a nerve.

She was right. I hadn’t been serious about anyone in a few years because I’d been dating Elodie Hawkins on the sly. El had graduated a year ahead of me and gone off to art school in California. Going out of state wasn’t enough—she seemed to want to get as far from Maine as she could without crossing an ocean.