So I always packed everything I needed into a carry-on, and as a consequence, my carry-on weighed a ton. How was I going to lug it down a rickety, narrow flight of metal steps while wearing stacked heels (because of course I had on my most fashionable pair of winter boots, as it had been snowing when I’d left New York)?
Then, as I stood at the top of the stairs, squinting in the sudden blast of heat and bright sunlight, cursing my impulse to bring a thousand promotional bookmarks for the next installment in the Kitty Katz series (which I hadn’t even written yet, so the bookmarks simply said Don’t Fur-get: KK#27, Coming Soon!), a miracle happened.
“Here, let me help you with that.”
Dark Knight tugged my suitcase from my hand.
“Oh, no!” I was shocked. “You don’t—”
But before I could stop him, Dark Knight was moving quickly down the steps with my suitcase dangling from one hand as lightly as if it contained only catnip.
“Thank you so much.” I hurried down the stairs to join him on the tarmac, where painted yellow lines directed us toward the tiny arrivals terminal. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, it’s not every day I get to meet a celebrity.”
“I’m not a celebrity.” Blushing, I took the suitcase from him, yanking on the handle to extend it so I could move it from the path of the passengers disembarking behind us. “I’m just—”
“I know.” He jerked what appeared to be a fishing pole and also the case for a ukulele from a luggage cart onto which airport personnel had begun unloading bags that had been gate-checked. “You’re just Jo Wright, author of the Kitty Katz series, and you’re here for the Little Bridge Book Festival.”
“Yes.” I knew he’d been eavesdropping. Well, it had worked out well for me. I nodded at the pole in his hand. “And you’re here for a little fishing?”
“Among other things. I’m Garrett, by the way.”
“Hi, Garrett.”
Garrett and I fell into step with the other passengers along the pathway leading to the arrivals terminal, me wheeling my suitcase behind me. Everywhere I looked, I saw palm trees, and even—yes, there it was, past the private jets parked at the far end of the tarmac—the ocean, smooth and blue and stretching as far as I could see.
I didn’t feel like walking into it anymore, though, Virginia Woolf style. Things were starting to look up. Not because of Garrett—although he was pretty easy on the eyes, despite the goatee and the flip-flops.
No. It was because after the cold, stale air of the plane—not to mention the icy winds of Manhattan—the heat and humidity of Little Bridge was a welcome change. I could feel my hair beginning to rise up at the roots in delighted surprise. This was it: the tropical breeze Rosie had mentioned, the one that had inspired that author of hers to write two whole chapters in a day.
And even though the sun was glaring and I was starting to sweat already beneath my leather jacket, that tropical breeze caressing my face, and the scent of seaweed and brine coming from the ocean felt almost …
Well, as if I were coming home.
Which was ridiculous, of course. I’m a born-and-bred New Yorker, used to the darkened bowels of the subway and the frigid wind whistling between the skyscrapers. The tropics and I were not friends.
As if he were reading my mind, Garrett asked, “First time?”
I had to raise my voice to be heard over the sound of all the airplane propellers that were spinning around us.
“In Little Bridge? Yes. But I’ve been to Florida before. I’ve been coming down here a lot recently, looking at senior living communities.”
Garrett raised his eyebrows. “Little soon for that, don’t you think?”
I laughed. “For my dad. He hasn’t been handling winters back home too well lately. I’ve got to find him a new place before—”
My voice died in my throat. Not because I was envisioning my father’s imminent passing, but because we’d arrived at the doorway to the arrivals terminal, just inside of which stood a small, dark-haired woman holding up a whiteboard with my name on it.
Except mine wasn’t the only name on it.
I’d been expecting to see the name Bernadette Zhang, a fellow author and friend of mine who’d texted long ago that she’d also been invited to the festival. We’d promised to spend every free moment we had in Little Bridge together, drinking, taking in the sun, and having highly un-literary discussions about other authors we both disliked.
But instead I saw an entirely different name below mine.
WILL PRICE
No. It couldn’t be.
“Hey,” Garrett said, because I was standing frozen in front of him, blocking the entrance to the terminal. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I shook myself. “Sure. Sorry. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Yeah, I know.” I was suddenly way, way too hot in my leather jacket. “I’m probably going to have to kill someone, is all.”
Garrett glanced in the direction I was staring, but of course didn’t see what I was seeing. “Anyone in particular?”
I shook my head. “Not in the immediate vicinity.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” He laughed.
I wasn’t feeling so amused, though. Rosie had promised—promised—me that Will Price wasn’t going to be at the festival. Sworn on her soul that she’d checked and double-checked with the festival staff.
I’d even scoured the website myself before writing to commit to the event. But there’d been nothing: no sign of Will Price anywhere on the Little Bridge Island Book Festival page. Zilch.
So what had happened?
Behind me, I heard Garrett murmur, “Um, well, I checked a bag, so, uh, I better go see if I can find it. I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah,” I murmured back. “Sure. See you later.”
I knew I was being rude—the guy had carried my suitcase for me, after all, and been sweet about Lauren and her friends and my ponytail swatting him—but I had bigger problems to worry about. What was I going to do about having to share a car with Will Price? Was I actually going to have to talk to him? What was I going to say?
Honestly, this was really just too much to ask. It was one thing to have to be at a festival with him. But ride in a car with him? No.
Should I just turn around? Maybe I could find the departures terminal and buy a ticket back to New York.
But then I’d lose my ten grand, and I really needed that money. Who knew when Dad was going to fall down again and I was going to get saddled with another gigantic hospital bill?
Oh, whiskers, as Kitty would say. I was just going to have to suck it up.
Once again deeply regretting many of my life decisions, especially the one to come to Little Bridge, I wheeled my suitcase toward the woman with the whiteboard. I had to dart and weave between dozens of tourists, all wearing winter coats like me, and all crowded into the tiny arrivals terminal, either trying to rent a car from the single car rental agency or grab their bags from the single loudly cranking baggage carousel.
“Hi.” I’d reached the woman holding up the whiteboard. I pointed to my name. “That’s me.”
“Oh, Ms. Wright!” The woman’s face broke into a rapturous smile. “Welcome to Little Bridge! I’m Molly Hartwell, the children’s librarian. Thank you so much for coming.”