LEIGH

I should have known.

The second my spidey-senses started tingling, an inkling that there was some outside force disturbing my balance, I should have known it was something big. Like the idiot that I am, I dismissed it. Convinced myself it would pass. In Evermere, everything passes.

Until the next big thing happens. My life is just that—surviving a crisis and anticipating the next one. Rinse, repeat, and pray you'll do better next time. Better yet, learn to be proactive instead of reactive.

So, when my cousin Chloe gets all bright-eyed, gasps like the world is going to end, and tells me she'll 'be right back', I should have known there was more to it.

We don't get much traction at Breeze Records at the start of the summer—or at all, really, but most clients show up mid-July—so whatever caught her eye and distracted her from doing inventory was bound to be important.

I didn't expect that distraction to be Lottie fucking Fitzpatrick, international pop superstar and Chloe's favorite artist.

I've spent years listening to Chloe wax poetic about Lottie. I understand the appeal—the music is good and I'd be lying if I said I didn't actively flock to it by default—but people like her don't belong in places like this. She's above a small town in Cape Cod.

And yet, here she is, standing right in front of me.

I feel grossly underdressed in her presence. My hoodie has an ice cream stain on it, my shorts are a size too big and make me look like an elementary school kid, and sweat drips down the side of my neck. My hair is all frizzy and wet from the humidity. It's not the ideal look to meet a pop star.

Lottie Fitzpatrick. Her clothes are plain, but I know they likely cost more than my paycheck; even while wearing a cotton t-shirt and flared pants, she looks classy. Filthy rich. Her face is bare of make-up and it's the first time I've properly noticed her freckles, as they tend to airbrush the hell out of her face in professional photographs. Her curls spring up in different directions, perfectly framing a heart-shaped face and her high cheekbones, and it's all so . . . effortless.

She looks at me with inquisitive, kind eyes—a shade between hazel and chocolate—and there's something warm oozing down the pit of my stomach.

I wish I knew what she's doing in the middle of nowhere, Massachusetts. I love this place because it's my home, but it's definitely not hers, and I'm protective of the things I love. Her being here will cause a ruckus and distract people from my efforts to collect funds for the camp.

Even if her presence makes people stop by to check what about Evermere is so special that made Lottie Fitzpatrick visit it, it would just be temporary interest. They'd quickly find out there's nothing of note for visitors compared to other places in Cape Cod and wouldn't stay or help out. I don't want to get my hopes up.

I know it sounds bleak, like I don't believe in Evermere or the camp enough, but I know my limits and know what to expect after years of running the camp. My mom says I'm being pessimistic; I'd call myself a realist instead.

I can't do that to the kids. I can't promise them a future I can't guarantee, not again. I won't be able to deal with their disappointed faces after another opportunity slips away from my fingers or another investor backs out. Lottie being here would make them think someone like her could ever care about this, and then I'd have to explain to them she has bigger fish to fry.

"I was just telling Lottie about open mic night," Chloe reveals. Sure enough, one of my pamphlets is in Lottie's hand. All of it looks out of place, especially her. "She's coming. I think it'll be great."

"Absolutely not."

Chloe grimaces. "Leigh, don't be like that. It's open mic night; it says on the pamphlet every voice is welcome. Lottie has a voice. Right, Lot?"

"Please don't call me that," Lottie mutters. A gigantic blond man looms in the distance, keeping a close eye on us. I've seen him in candid photos of Lottie, always protecting her. "I'd love to help out. I'm here on a break and have loads of free time, so—"

"So you couldn't resist jumping at the chance to turn this into your charity case."

Chloe gasps—louder this time. "Leigh!"

"I like singing," Lottie reminds me. Her tone is gentle; responding like that when I'm not being particularly nice just comes across as condescending to me. "I want to help. I can look into what you do at the camp just so you don't think I'm going in blind."

"I appreciate it, but no. This is my camp." I yank the flyer out of her hands. Her lips curl into a scowl and, even then, she's still so unfairly gorgeous. "Every voice is welcome, but these are amateurs. These are indie musicians. Hell, most of the people who will show up are the most tone-deaf human beings you'll ever encounter in your life. I can't have you show up there and steal the thunder from the fundraiser. As soon as people find out you'll be there, they'll come flocking in."

She raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. Seriously, is there nothing about her that isn't perfect? "Is that not what you want? People showing up and donating money?"

"Yes, but because they want to help the camp. Not because they want to watch an exclusive Lottie Fitzpatrick show in the middle of nowhere, Massachusetts. Don't turn us into your personal project. This thing actually matters."

Lottie's face hardens. "I see."

"We'll be leaving now," Mr. Hard Ass Bodyguard informs. His hand is on her shoulder, but she doesn't budge. Her eyes gaze deep into mine, defiant, like she knows something I don't. "Lot."

"Yeah. Okay." She clenches her fingers around the strap of her tote bag. "For the record, I think giving kids a safe space to connect with music is admirable. I think it's very—"

"What, noble? Like I'm doing this for the kudos, or something?"

I almost add she's the one thriving under the hot, blinding light of the spotlight, fueled by applause and admiration, but I've been mean enough. I don't know where all this anger comes from; I don't know Lottie.

After this exchange, I doubt I ever will.

"I was going to say kind. Even just by looking at the picture on the flyer and hearing you talk about it, it's clear you've poured your heart and soul into . . . how did you put it . . . something that matters. Well, here's the thing about me." She takes a step forward. Even though she's not that much taller than me—the boots she's wearing give her an advantage—she doesn't strike me as the kind of person people look down at. "I don't think of you as a charity case. I don't even know you. I do, however, know how to recognize something important when I see it."

"Lottie," Luca warns. She shrugs off his hand.

"I don't care if you assume anything about my character or my motivations, but I won't stand here and let you forbid me from doing something I love. I love music. I love performing. If me being here helps people show up and donate to help you, then so be it. I'm not writing you a check, but I can if you ask."

"Ask," Chloe chimes in. "Leigh, don't be stupid."

I scoff. "You want me to get on my knees now? Bet you're used to everyone begging you for a second of attention. You throw your money at people and—"

"I'm doing the open mic night whether you want to or not. You don't own the place, so good luck keeping me out. I'll help you count the money, if you want. No need for you to get on your knees." She has the nerve to wink at me. Wink, complete with a brain-melting smile. "Let's face it, you need all the help you can get. You're not exactly welcoming. See you on Friday!"

She all but skips out of the store, Luca in tow, and another girl rushes after them, tripping over her feet on her way out.

Once the bell by the door chimes, signaling we're all alone, Chloe turns to me, fuming. She almost looks like my mom when she places her hands on her hips, despite being younger and shorter than me.

"Leigh, what the fuck? What did you just do?"

I huff, brushing my sweaty hair away from my face. "I'm not in the mood for a lecture. Save the patronizing speech for someone who wants to hear it."

She blows a raspberry. "You've been super stressed out about the camp all year, worrying how you'll find the money to keep it alive for one more summer, and when the perfect solution falls right into your lap, you go and screw it up."

"I didn't screw it up. You heard her. She's showing up. I won't be surprised if we have a full house—all because they want a free Lottie Fitzpatrick concert. Who cares about the camp when there's a pop star willing to exploit a small town?"

"What? Leigh, oh my—what?" She presses her hands to her cheeks, staring at me in utter disbelief. "Do you hear the words coming out of your mouth? That's Lottie motherfucking Fitzpatrick. She donates to charities. She volunteers. She signs petitions. She uses her platform. Don't tell me this is a matter of not wanting to 'compromise your integrity', whatever that means. It sounds like your pride is getting in the way. You were so mean to her."

"She'll live. She's heard worse."

"And that somehow makes it okay? She's going to help whether you want it or not, so might as well make the most of it. That's money the camp needs and money you don't have."

"It's pocket change for her. She's showing up to make it all about herself, donating so she can feel good about herself. It's not because she cares."

"Does it fucking matter?"

"Does it?"

She grabs me by the shoulders. "Dude. Yes? Whatever her reasons are, she's literally offering to help you. It's money you need. You said it yourself; this is middle of nowhere, Massachusetts. What would she have to gain by helping you out? How would she look good if no one cares about this place? Is it so hard to accept she might be doing this because it's the right thing to do? Or, fuck, because she immediately clocked how much you care about it and how much it means to you and the kids? She sounded pretty genuine to me. If she was faking it, so what? You'll get your money and you'll never have to see her again."

"She's Lottie Fitzpatrick. She's everywhere you look. Billboards, social media, the radio. Can't get away from her."

"Live with it, then. Don't shoot yourself in the foot because your ego can't handle the thought of someone with good intentions waltzing right into your life."

Chloe does have a point. I'll never admit this to her face and she knows that; she walks away, returns to the counter, and starts scrolling on her phone. It's a clear sign she doesn't want to continue this conversation.

For both our sakes, it might be for the best. I'm not good around people when I'm feeling so emotionally drained.

I shouldn't stick around. I should head back home, dive back into paperwork and look into ways of funding the camp out of my own pocket, but that sounds depressing. Even for me.

I have nothing else to do and the bureaucratic work won't go anywhere, so I could maybe slip out of my sweaty clothes, put on a bikini, and lazily lounge at the beach.

I could do that. If I were able to not feel like self-immolating out of guilt for not being productive and doing my job, maybe I would.

"What time do you get off?" I ask Chloe.

"Three," she replies, without looking up from her phone. "I have plans."

"With who?"

"Not you."

"Why don't you go hang out with your new BFF?"

"Pettiness isn't a good look on you."

I'd beg to differ. Outside of my immediate family and the kids, I love terrorizing people who annoy me.

That's not to say I'm annoyed by Lottie—I don't know her and I'm not stupid enough to become enemies with a global pop sensation—but I've seen her kind. They come in, treat Evermere like the golden child for a while as they drain it dry, milk it for what it's worth, and then abandon it once it stops being profitable.

It would be a lot easier if she were a boring old man. Everything else aside—the determination in her eyes, the unwillingness to step back—I don't know how to handle gorgeous women.

She literally fell into my arms, beautiful, kind, and I all but pushed her down a cliff.

She'll make it out. She'll be rescued not even halfway down her fall; I'll be the one scrambling to recover.

I should talk to her. Apologize.

Problem is—I have no idea how to do that.

☀︎༄.° 

oh leigh. what would we do without your lack of social skills (not that lottie is much better)