Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“You’re welcome to say that while tearing my clothes off on my bed,” Finn politely suggests.
The next thing he grabs isn’t the flowers.
It’s my shirt, tugging me into the bungalow, before the door slaps shut at my back.
Damn, it feels great to be home.
I guess it was serendipity that brought me back to the isle this weekend, because that evening when we head out to the Fair, I learn that Brooke’s Kissing Booth is open for business—mercifully lacking its once-suggested star: Finn. In his place, a friendly (and tragically ditzy) bartender pal of Finn’s I’ve gotten to know named Chase. The lines are staggeringly long—much longer than Chase expected them to be, and it shows. “Can you guys help me out?” he begs, taking half a minute’s break when he sees us passing by. “Like, maybe just for five or ten?”
“Not a chance,” says Finn with a smirk, shielding me.
“I guess there’s worse things to be subjected to,” Chase reasons, out of breath, before returning to his hell—which I don’t imagine is quite as hellish as he makes it out to be. Ninety percent of the line are men, and not one of them is a set of lips I’d imagine any reasonable love-starved person turning down.
And according to Finn, Chase is plenty love-starved.
Not anymore, I suppose.
Walking around the Fair is surreal. No hiding. No need to disguise myself. No creepy eyes poking out of shadows. It’s just me and my boyfriend Finn enjoying our time at the Fair. As far as Dreamwood Isle goes, there is a spot to sate any variety of tastes—whether beach bumming all day, lounging within cabanas by the pool, clubbing late into the night, kicking back with pals at the Easy Breezy, shopping and dining at the boardwalk, perusing the Rivington Art Gallery—but nothing quite compares to the dreamy feeling of strolling under the sun, the clouds, or the stars at night, to the whimsical music of the Hopewell Fair, surrounded by laughter and life.
And being assaulted by adoring adopted sisters. “You came back early!” cries Heather, overjoyed to see me, arms flung around my neck in a hug. “Sorry, I’ve been cramped up in an office all day and haven’t showered … I probably smell like corndogs.”
“Big bro River!” comes Brooke out of nowhere, also tackling me in a suspiciously similar ambush style. Exactly half a second later, she’s all business: “I don’t know if you got my email, but the latest campaign is killing it. Like, the engagement is up over two hundred percent, you amassed nearly nine thousand followers from our last post alone—it was a really good one, to be fair, great idea—which I think we should use as leverage for a—Oh, I’m doing it again,” she realizes, clamming up. “Sorry. I talk shop too much.”
Truth is, I enjoy all the shoptalk with Brooke, and I adore having Heather in my life regardless of what matter of Fair food she smells like. Two loving sisters is more than the zero loving sisters I had before meeting Finn, and I’ll count that as a win.
Also, after our whole end-of-summer scandal and the stunningly effective way Brooke handled it, I sorta worked something out with my agent, and unbeknownst to Brooke, she is about to be offered an official position on my team. It won’t pull away from her duties here at the Hopewell Fair, but might kick open about a dozen other doors for her in terms of broadening her career even further.
She’s gonna die. I can’t wait to tell her.
Speaking of siblings, I was surprised the other night by a call from my brother Mason. First time in over a year. I’ll admit, the conversation was a bit stiff and awkward. We’ve been on opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to so much in our lives: how we each handled growing up with an alcoholic mom, how we managed with a deadbeat dad, the direction our lives took when I pursued acting—a path my brother first sneered at, thinking I was irresponsible for wanting a life in the arts instead of a more “practical” job. Even after my breakout role in the first Wingless Angels, it still didn’t seem enough to convince him that his point was wrong; he doubled down and said I was just lucky, like my talent and hard work is a fluke.
We’re not perfect yet. We may never be. But when my brother choked at the end of our chat and finally managed to get the words out: “I miss you, Riv.” I suddenly caught myself fighting off tears when I, after a fortifying breath, said, “How about we grab dinner next time I’m in town?” I heard the smile on his lips when he said he’d like that.
So I guess I’ve got my brother back, too.