CHAPTER ONE
I live smack-dab in the middle of Nowhere, Colorado. Most people know it as Gray Jay, the cutest little summer destination this side of the Continental Divide. Our town is literally named after the gray and black bird that steals everything from picnic lunches to dog kibble. Our economy: tourism. Human population: four-hundred.
We have eight billion trees, no shopping malls, no Starbucks, and only two bars of cell phone service (and that’s on a good day).
But what’s the worst thing about Gray Jay? The total and complete lack of dating options. I grew up with every guy close to my age, and all the good ones have been claimed since the third grade. The only time there’s new blood in our town is May through September, peak tourist season—the months in which Gray Jay makes a living. But you don’t want to get involved with those boys—no. They’re summer boys, off limits. They’ll steal your heart and leave you pining for the rest of the year. Trust me—I know.
But some of us Gray Jay girls still like to browse the summer buffet. Specifically, a someone by the name of Paige, my best friend.
“He’s a good kisser,” Paige says, leaning against the counter, smacking her gum like a valley girl from the eighties.
Her hair is dark, nearly black thanks to the Cherokee genes on her mom’s side, and it’s pulled back in a sleek ponytail. I’d kill for her hair.
“Not as good as Bryce but better than Noah,” she continues.
“Mmmhmm,” I say absently, browsing through our online reservations. My mom owns Campfire Cabins and RV. As the name implies, it’s a campground that also rents out cabins. I usually work the front desk during the summer because Uncle Mark runs the property, and Mom’s often in her studio, creating small sculptures she sells at one of the local coffee shops.
It’s a bright and sunny Tuesday afternoon in late May, one of our slowest days for check-ins, and we only have two spots filling up today. The first is Greg and Hallie Hendrick and their Greyhound, Bark. They’ll be staying in Cabin Four, the closest to the creek. Greg likes to fish, so I made sure he could cast a line right from the back porch.
The second is the Tillman family—David, Sarah, and their four children, two dogs, two cats, and a guinea pig. Somehow, they’ve packed themselves into a thirty-six-foot travel trailer.
When I talked to Sarah a week ago, she said they are “full-timers”—people who live in their RV and travel the country, going wherever they please, whenever they please—and they decided to spend the summer here, in Gray Jay. I have no idea why they would want to do that, but I booked them a secluded spot close to the playground, one with a little elbow room. I figured with that many kids and animals, they’ll need it.
“Lacey? Are you listening?” Paige asks as I look to see which campers are scheduled to check out, hoping there’s not a cabin opening up.
Dang it—Cabin Three. Patty, the woman who handles our housekeeping, has Tuesdays off, which means I have to clean the cabin when the couple leaves so it will be ready for more guests.
“Trev is a good kisser,” I say, eyes on the screen. “Better than Noah. Not as good as Bryce.”
I have no idea who these boys are, except Trev is a new summer boy, and Noah and Bryce are from past years.
Paige sighs like I’ve disappointed her somehow. I look up, meeting her dark brown gaze. Feeling guilty, I turn away from the computer, giving her my full attention. “How long is he here?”
“He was a weekend boy.”
Weekend boys are even worse than summer boys.
She blows a bright pink bubble, and it snaps with a pop. “But he said his family stays at Upper Ridge several times a summer, so he’ll probably be back.”
Upper Ridge, also known as the bane of our existence, is another private campground. The sites are crammed together, sardine-style, but they’re cheaper. Luckily, we have something they don’t—free showers, weekend bonfires with s’mores, and children’s activities that I usually get stuck hosting. Honestly, we’re both booked all summer, so I don’t know why we can’t get along.
Paige narrows her eyes, studying me. I squirm, not liking the look. Finally, she says, “You need a summer boy.”
“Not again, thank you very much.”
“Come on—they’re fun. You’re just looking at it the wrong way. The best part is they leave, and you get to pick another. It’s like renting puppies. All the fun, none of the responsibility.”
I laugh, incredulous, shaking my head. “You don’t even realize how horrible you are.”
She levels me with a stare. “Now listen. Almost no one ends up with one of the first guys they date. What if Mr. Forever comes along, and you haven’t dated your mandatory three duds before you meet him? Then Mr. Forever will end up with someone else.”
“You know what worries me?” I turn back to the computer, remembering I need to print more campground maps. “I think you’re serious.”
“I am serious.”
I realize I’m out of paper just before I click the “print” button. Instead of digging a new pack from the file cabinet, I turn back to Paige. “Mandatory three? Did you make that number up?”
“Yes,” she says, not even hesitating.
“I worry about you.”
The front door opens, letting in the sounds of birds singing in the trees and a diesel engine idling somewhere in the campground. Paige waves, mouthing a goodbye as she heads out the door, letting me tend to the couple who lingers near the entrance.
“Come on in,” I say, smiling as I pull up our check-in screen on the computer. “Are you the Hendricks?”
The forty-something woman pushes her designer sunglasses back, wearing them like a headband in her lush, short brown hair. She has on a loose, lightweight sweater that looks like it cost a fortune, paired with leggings that also look like they cost a fortune. It’s an easy, light, I’m-on-vacation kind of outfit—worthless if you’re planning on doing anything other than meandering the paved trails and snapping pictures on your phone (which is now a glorified camera because you likely don’t have enough service to post said pictures to any of your social media accounts).
I almost sigh, wishing I made enough to buy an outfit like that—wishing I had somewhere to wear an outfit like that.
“Actually, we’re the Tillmans,” the man next to Designer Woman says. He has a five o’clock shadow and the kind of prized genes that must have been passed down from gladiators. Together, they look like they could model for those advertisements you see when you walk into a sporting goods store. You know the ones—where the couple stands in front of a tent, smiling at each other over steaming mugs of coffee—
Hold up. The Tillmans? As in four kids and a mobile animal farm?
“Oh,” I stammer, shocked.
After talking to Sarah Tillman on the phone, I had an image of a rounded, matronly woman in my head. One who wears baggy jean shorts, stark-white sneakers, and massive, floppy sun hats.
“The Tillmans—of course.” I smile wider to hide my surprise. “I have the perfect spot all picked out for you. It’s a little tricky to back into because of the landscaping, but it’s the largest space, and you’ll have lots of privacy.”
“That’s fine,” Mr. Tillman says like he navigates his thirty-six-foot camper into tight spaces all the time. Which, since they’re full-timers, I suppose he does.
He smiles like he’s genuinely pleased to be in the middle of nowhere for the summer and scans the local attraction brochures on the counter.
Mrs. Tillman zeroes in on one of my mother’s sculptures—an abstract piece that’s called Wind. “This is beautiful,” she says.
“Thanks.” I tap away at my computer, completing the short and simple check-in process. “It’s my mom’s.”
“She has good taste.”
“She does,” I agree, my smile becoming more genuine, “but that’s one of her pieces. She’s a sculptor.”
Mrs. Tillman’s eyes widen with surprise. She’s just about to answer when the door opens, and six-foot-two-inches of teenage male perfection leans into the office. “Apparently McKenna fed Candy half a bag of Skittles on the drive, and she just threw up in the back seat.”
I gape at the sandy-haired boy, my fingers frozen on the keyboard.
“McKenna or Candy?” Mrs. Tillman asks, less concerned than I would be if that statement were directed at me.
“Candy. Now Caleb says he’s going to be sick if I don’t let him out.”
Mrs. Tillman sighs. “Please get Candy out of the car before she has another accident.” She turns back to me. “What spot are we in?”
As soon as she says it, the boy turns his gaze on me and finally notices me sitting here staring at him. My mouth goes dry, and no words come out.
Just because I don’t want a summer boy doesn’t mean I’m immune to them. It’s the whole look-but-don’t-touch philosophy.
What did Mrs. Tillman just ask me?
Mr. Tillman clears his throat, amused. My cheeks flame as my brain jolts back to life. “Twenty-nine.”
Mrs. Tillman turns back to the boy in the door. “Walk Candy to the site. Take Caleb with you—do not let him talk you into getting his bike from the rack. We’ll take them down when we’re settled in.”
A smile toys at the boy’s lips, his eyes still on me. “Do you have a map of the campground?”
My gaze strays to the empty stand on the counter, and my cheeks get hotter. Unable to look at him, I say, “I just ran out. Let me print you one real quick.”
“No worries.” A lazy smile finally stretches across his face. “Why don’t you show me the way?”