Summoned via walkie-talkie to his parents’ bedroom the day before camp officially opened, fifteen-year-old Rory Haven knew what was coming, and not only did he hate this yearly ritual, but he resented it to the tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet.

He knew exactly what would happen.

His mother would tell her children to take a seat on the edge of her bed, and then, glowering at them, she would look each Haven triplet in the eye for a little too long, her stare searing in the vaguely terrifying, X-ray-vision sort of way that mothers around the world had perfected since the beginning of time. And when she was assured that her trí ciarde—or “three friends,” in her native Gaelic—were sufficiently focused, she would intone in her low Killarney burr:

There’ll be no fraternizin’ with the guests.

Not for Rory.

Not for Ian.

Not for Tierney.

Not a lot.

Not a little.

Not at all.

Am I clear, mo thrí chairde?

This dictate was no problem for Rory’s sister, Tierney, who was a little overweight, wore thick glasses, and spoke with a slight speech impediment. She was most likely to be found by the far side of the lake reading—a.k.a. hiding—from the campers whose parents paid a mint for their children to attend the exclusive summer camp. Tierney would nod emphatically, relieved to have an ironclad reason not to mix it up with the summer guests who so intimidated her.

On the other hand, Rory’s brother, Ian, with a sparkle in his emerald eyes that generally disarmed their mother, would smile at her, copying her thick brogue with a teasing wink. “Ah sure, go on, mam. Don’t get yer Irish up. No fraternizin’. Okay, then.”

Ian imitating their mother’s accent wouldn’t offend her. Most of the time, it just made her grin. But that wouldn’t be the case today.

“Ian. Ah, Ian. You test me, son,” she’d say, leaning down until her nose just about touched Ian’s. She would grimace at him because Colleen Kelley Haven knew her children well, and she knew Ian’d be most likely to break this rule, as he had last year to disastrous results. Her brogue would be stronger for her consternation when she spoke again, the words firing at her son like so many tiny pieces of short-range shrapnel. “If ye disobey me, Ian McAllister Haven, I’ll redden yer arse with a wooden spoon until ye’re screamin’ loud enough for t’whole camp to hear.” She’d pause to let this threat sink in. “Don’t think I won’t. I’m not havin’ another situation like last year, now.” And then, because she loved Ian, she’d soften her voice just a touch, her eyes beseeching his. “Tell me you understand, son.”

If Rory shot his brother a sidelong glance at that point, he’d see Ian’s smile fade as his lips tightened into an angry line, his eyes flattening to a flinty green as he lowered his head in submission. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

She’d nod crisply, as satisfied as possible, before turning to Rory.

“And you? Are you gonna be good like your sister or trouble like your brother?”

She’d wait for his answer, nailing him with a hawklike gaze as he stared back at her.

Unlike Ian, Rory was a rule-follower by nature. But unlike Tierney, he was also a people-person, excited by ideas and places far beyond their tiny world of Summerhaven.

He and his siblings lived a quiet life in Center Sandwich, New Hampshire, from September to May, where the population decreased to 123 people, only 19 of whom were under the age of 18. Heck, in their elementary school, which included kids from two neighboring villages, there were only 67 kids enrolled in the whole of grades K-6!

As a year-round resident of a summer resort area, meeting new people with fresh ideas and different experiences to share was difficult.

Except…

Except every summer, several hundred kids from affluent families in Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and all over New England came to spend a few weeks at the highly respected Summerhaven Camp for Children. Some of these campers were third-generation attendees, their grandparents proudly delivering them to a cabin that had been their own “summer haven” fifty years before. Hundreds of rich kids arrived in stylish hoards to “rough it” and “build character,” bringing with them their flip-top phones, books, magazines, city ways, and slang.

And among them was one beautiful brunette with whom Rory had experienced a totally one-sided, from-a-distance love affair last summer: Brittany Manion, who was from Boston and the heiress to a hotel corporation that rivaled Marriott and Hilton.

Rory didn’t care about her pedigree. Not even a little bit. He liked the way her brown eyes softened when she looked his way, the way her sweet pink lips would tilt up in a tentative smile before he forced himself to look away. He liked the way she’d wake up early to read her book on the dock, her dark hair like polished mahogany as the sun rose. He liked the way she filled out a bikini, her teenage breasts fuller than those of her friends. He liked the way her hips swelled like a woman’s when so many fourteen-year-old girls still looked like boys. And he especially liked her laugh—low and soft—like she wasn’t sure laughing was allowed but wasn’t able to contain it.

He’d watched her endlessly last year, keeping his distance during the day while he dreamed about her every night. She was everything he wanted that he couldn’t have: temptation at his fingertips—this beautiful, sophisticated girl just beyond arm’s reach. And maybe, mixed with his teenage devotion to her, Rory hated her just a little bit too…because it hurt so much that he couldn’t have her.

Alas. “Fraternizin’” was strictly forbidden. And Ian’s shenanigans last year had only made their parents more exacting in the triplets’ compliance.

Since Rory’s great-grandfather, Truman Haven, had started the Summerhaven Camp for Children in the 1930s, every generation of Haven children had worked at the camp throughout their childhoods and adolescences, earning money and valuable work experience before leaving Center Sandwich for college.

It was well-established: Haven children weren’t the guests. Haven children were, at best, management and, at worst, “the help.” And with this much-despised annual ritual on the edge of her bed, Colleen Kelley Haven was reminding her three children of their place, station, rank, and responsibility.

Yes, indeed. He knew exactly what to expect of this annual summons.

“Hurry up, now,” intoned their mother’s voice over the walkie-talkie clipped to Rory’s belt buckle. “I’ve loads of things to do today.”

Rory huffed softly as he followed Ian and Tierney up the steps of the main administrative building, centrally located in the heart of Summerhaven.

On the first floor was the office where he and his parents worked year-round accepting camper applications and managing the large employee roster. For an exclusive camp the size of Summerhaven, there were grounds keepers who worked year-round in addition to tradesmen hired to fix and update camp buildings in the off-season, plus a veritable army of camp staff who were hired seasonally to run the kitchen, two dining rooms, cabin housekeeping, and laundry. Lastly, there were about twenty counsellors hired to both keep an eye on the campers and coordinate recreational and educational activities.

The office was buzzing with activity today, the day before camp officially opened, and Rory gave a lackluster wave to his father, who was on the phone, as he bypassed at the office and headed up the stairs to the Haven family apartments. Over the massive administrative building, there was a kitchen, living room, dining room, library, TV room, and three full-sized bedrooms—a huge apartment that Havens had called home for generations.

At the top of the stairs, Tierney opened the apartment door and beelined through the entry hall and living room to their parents’ bedroom, ready to assure their mother than she had zero interest in making friends with the bevy of rich kids who’d be descending on them early tomorrow morning.

Following her, Ian looked at Rory over his shoulder, winking at him like he knew a secret, and Rory groaned inwardly. He knew that look, and it meant the kind of mischief that would have the wooden spoon in their mother’s hand faster than you could say “Red arse.”

Rory held back for a moment, watching his siblings disappear into their parents’ bedroom and trying to think of a way to tell his mother that Center Sandwich was too small for him. That he loved his family—and he even loved Summerhaven—but that making friends didn’t have to mean making trouble. He just wanted to spread his wings a little. He just wanted to know what went on in Brittany Manion’s head and find out if she thought about him half as much as he thought about her. Was that really so wrong?

“Rory? Rory Kavanagh Haven, are you comin’, or am I meant to come’n get you, son?”

His leaden feet moved forward, step by step over the Persian runner that covered the creaky pine floor of the hallway.

“I’m coming, Mom,” he answered heavily, another wasted summer lying before him, pining for things he wanted and wishing for someone he could never have.