1. Cat

Running is for rich people.It's a pastime used by office bros and yoga moms to bring purpose to their mornings, since the rest of their day is taken up with meetings and lunches and sitting in comfortable swivel chairs.

I haven't sat in a swivel chair in my entire life—never had the opportunity or the need.

I also don't need to run intentionally to keep up my cardiovascular health, because I spend my days in continuous motion like an Energizer bunny with a to-do list five feet long. My job consists of legitimate manual labor at our BB—from cleaning rooms to washing up after guests are done eating and Uncle Otto is finished blowing through the kitchen like a leathery tan tornado who makes breakfast.

The man is in his fifties. He's been cooking at Keene Bed Breakfast for thirty years and still hasn't mastered the concept of rinsing dishes as you go. The amount of dried batter I've had to scrape off mixing bowls could make enough pancakes to build a castle.

My batter-scraping muscles have been honed through cleaning three other houses on the island, too—one of which is almost always empty and pays better than the other two houses combined, thanks to the prestigious owners being Sunset Harbor's most famous family, the bougie Belacourts. Their money is older than the island. It's grown with the help of a massive real estate portfolio and a chain of elite resorts, vainly named The Belacourt Resort, they started a few generations back. We have one—the original, I think—in Sunset Harbor. It's small and posh, but aside from the odd wedding or event I've attended there, I avoid all things Belacourt. Their reality TV show, hotels, social media, ads?.?.?.

It's not easy, but I do my best.

Sometimes Belacourt news is so prevalent in the island gossip it's impossible to ignore, like last year when the only Belacourt son officially made billionaire status in his own right. Noah Belacourt, billionaire bonehead. He's a year older and a thousand million dollars richer than me.

So, obviously, I hate him.

No, that's not fair. I hate his sister. He gets second-hand dislike for being related to her. Thankfully, the Belacourts my age never stay in the family house. When they're around, they stick to the resort.

I stick to my family BB. Cleaning, cooking, and on the side, I manage Otto's calendar and errands, which isn't strenuous. He doesn't have too much of a life here on our little Floridian island of Sunset Harbor.

Everything Otto needs—mostly grocery shopping or moving guest bookings from our website to the ancient reservations book he insists on using—can be achieved at home or on a bike. A necessity when the small island where I was born and raised doesn't allow cars.

Yeah, you heard that right. No cars. We have golf carts at the BB for guest use, so I take one of those when they're available. Most of the time, my trusty yellow bicycle and white basket serves me well. Hear that? Even more cardio.

Which is why, right now, it makes zero sense why running on the beach has absolutely winded me. I am dead. Gasping for air, legs on fire, lungs screaming to get back on my bike and out of this foot-grasping sand.

But I can't yet, because I'm the idiot who wore my mom's red scarf today, rolled up and tied around my blonde ponytail. The wind stole it right from my hair and is threatening to dump it in the ocean.

The actual ocean. If I don't reach my scarf in time, it will be lost forever. Since my parents both died more than ten years ago and didn't leave much behind, it's fair to say losing the scarf is not an option.

I pump my legs harder, watching the thin, silky red material land on the wet sand in front of the receding surf. Twenty feet away. Fifteen. Twelve.

So close. If I'm fast enough, I can reach it before it's taken by the wa?—

Nope, the wind picks it up again. It dances through the air, over the clear blue water like someone is out there with a mega vacuum and sucking it out to sea.

No.

Panic edges into my body. My legs go shaky. I don't have time to kick off my shoes, so I run into the water with them on, following the dash of red in the wide blue expanse.

The mid-morning sunlight glares into my eyes. A wave crashes over my knees, slowing me, but I keep my gaze glued to the red scarf while it floats on the top of the water.

Until it starts to sink.

I scream, jumping into the next wave and swimming hard against the wall of tepid water. I never was a super strong swimmer—the ocean and I have a love-hate relationship since it killed my parents—but I can hold my own under normal, calm circumstances. Like swimming pools. In this moment, though, something possesses my body, propelling me forward at a speed I didn't realize I was capable of. Maybe this is one of those high energy moments you see in a TikTok but don't know whether to believe, like a mom lifting a car to save her baby.

Adrenaline can do crazy things in moments of need.

Like how it makes me swim into the deeper blue where my scarf is slowly sinking. I swipe through the water, screaming with victory when my hand connects with silk.

Another wave crashes, filling my mouth with the bitter, salty sea and drowning out my triumph. But I don't care because I have the scarf! Coughing, I kick to stay above water and lift the scarf, just to make sure I'm not celebrating a silky strand of seaweed. My body relaxes in relief.

Until a hand comes out of nowhere and grabs my arm. "I've got you!" a man yells.

Another wave crashes over my head, pushing water up my nose and making me cough again.

The man pulls me against his chest—his very naked, very firm chest. I can feel his skin pressing into my bare shoulder.

I shake off the water and glare into the sunlight, but it's impossible to see. My eyes sting, and I don't know if it's from the saltwater or my non-waterproof mascara. "I'm fine!"

His grip slackens, but he doesn't release me. His strong arm is slung across my chest, holding me steady. "You screamed."

That's true. I kick harder, trying to get away from him, but he holds fast. "It was .?.?.?uh .?.?.?for something else. You can let go!"

He releases me, swimming backward. I think the waves dislodged one of my contacts. I can't see through my stinging eyes anyway, so I start swimming away.

"Are you trying to go ashore?" he calls. If I'm not mistaken, I detect a hint of amusement in his voice.

Freak, my eyes burn. Am I going the wrong way? I wipe at my eyes, but that doesn't help. They sting so badly. "Yes."

"This way." He gestures, but he's blurry. "Do you need help?"

Not from him. I don't recognize him through the blur of missing contacts and saltwater. I know everyone who lives on this island, and I can't place him, which means he's probably a guest at the ritzy Belacourt Resort just down the road.

If there is one thing I don't do, it's bother the rich kids.

Or rich men, based on his hard, well-defined chest.

Ugh. I wipe my eyes and squint until I find the tan blob that resembles the beach. Yep, both contacts are definitely gone now. I swim in what is probably the right direction, lifting my hand every rotation to check I still have the scarf. The sand shifts like sludge beneath my sneakers when I make it to shore. I wish I didn't have an audience, but Richie Rich's attention is keeping me from collapsing into a puddle right there in the surf.

I swam in the ocean. That'll need to be unpacked when I'm alone later.

"Ma'am," the guy calls behind me, much closer than I realized. "Are you okay?"

Great. He probably just noticed my shoes and the jean shorts that definitely aren't meant for swimming. The do-gooder probably wants to make sure the crazy lady screaming in the ocean isn't an escapee from the nearest mainland mental health facility and in need of an escort home.

"I'm fine, thanks." I tug down my blue tank and keep walking. I'm not fine, but I can't afford to think about the fact that I was just swimming in the ocean.

If this guy knew the whole scarf story, he wouldn't think I'm crazy. Not that I care. I consider myself mostly stable.

"That didn't seem fine." His voice is still way too close.

He's following me?

I whirl on him and immediately regret it. He's not expecting my swift change in direction and can't stop before colliding with me. He puts his arms around me mid-air as we fling to the ground, shifting us into a roll and taking the brunt of the fall. We roll to a stop on the white sugar sand with me laying on top of him.

On top of Richie Rich.

His chest is firm underneath me. His lungs are having a party, moving in and out so quickly it's like I'm on a tiny trampoline. But his heart, man. It's beating wildly beneath my ear, and if he wasn't a posh snob, I would probably enjoy it.

Then, because this day can't possibly get any worse, I lift my head, dazed and dizzy. With him this close, I don't need my contacts to see. Two inches from his face, I can tell exactly who I practically mauled, and it's worse than Richie Rich. It's worse than a Belacourt Resort patron or president of the yacht club or my third-grade teacher who smelled like Greek yogurt and frowned all the time.

It's Noah Buttmunch Belacourt.

Yes, immature name calling on my part. I know. I coined Buttmunch Belacourt at least twelve years ago and the karmic rhythm of it stuck in my head.

He's one of the heirs to the Belacourt fortune, son of the hotel chain moguls, and older brother to the girl who made eighth grade my own special level of torture.

Remember? He's the guy who just made billionaire status thanks to his software company—among other things—according to Forbes.

But it gets worse.

He's the man whose parents' house I have to go clean right now.

My expression must display the feelings coursing through me because Noah frowns. His deep brown eyes bore into me, and his hair looks dark, messier than usual, dripping with seawater. Recognition flashes over his face, and his hands tighten on my back. Probably some caveman impulse.

"Sorry," I say, unsure of what else to do. I can't let myself think about how it feels with my legs all tangled in his. He is the enemy. His legs do not feel great.

Fine, I'm lying. He feels fantastic. I'm getting all sorts of tingles I haven't felt since Dax Miller winked at me last year.

I try to push up, but we're at an awkward angle, and he's not letting go of me.

"A little help?" I ask.

Noah seems to shake off his stupor and releases me. I push against his damp chest, untangling our legs and pulling my knees forward until I'm sitting up. As soon as I realize I'm straddling him, I scramble to my feet.

He jumps right up like he's an action star or a CrossFitter. Water drips from his dark hair onto his bare chest. I would assume he'd already been swimming when I got here, but he's in running shorts and socks. He must have kicked off his shoes at some point before diving in to save my life.

If he had known it was me out there screaming, would he have just kept running by? His sister would have, for sure. Thank the stars she isn't here.

"So, that was weird," I say, taking a few steps back. The farther away I move, the blurrier he gets, which is helpful. "But I'm really late for work now, and I have to go change."

"Can I help you?" he asks, his voice deep. "Give you a lift?"

Oh, nice. So his voice has only gotten hotter in the last few years, too. That's cool and irrelevant.

"In what?" I ask. If he has some special pass to drive a real car on the island, I'm going to call my friend Jane in the mayor's office and revolt. No one deserves special privileges just because they have a fat bank account.

He hitches a thumb behind him. "I have a golf cart up at?—"

"I'm good." I keep backing away. I have to get out of these sodden jean shorts anyway. Like I could ever show up at home in a cart with Belacourt Resort emblazoned on the side. Otto would flip.

Noah just stands there, watching me back away like a nervous child. I give an awkward wave and climb up the sandy slope to where I dropped my bike when my scarf decided to take a cruise. I'm late to cleaning my client's house—Noah's parents' house—but since they aren't scheduled to be in residence right now, it probably doesn't matter. I really just keep the dust from settling too long between their visits, anyway.

Work was a good excuse to get me the heck off the beach, though.

I pick up my bike and put Mom's scarf in the basket, shifting my water bottle to sit on top of it so it doesn't fly away again. Swinging my leg over the bike seat, I position myself and glance back at the beach.

Noah still stands there, watching me.

Weird.

I kick off, riding down the slope toward Keene Bed Breakfast. My shorts stick to my legs, wet and uncomfortable. That's got nothing on the tingling still sweeping through my body.

A few minutes ago, I was lying on Noah Belacourt. Actually lying on the guy.

And his reaction was to stare at me like I was crazy.

After the months of insults I endured from his sister's judgmental sharp tongue in middle school, I can only imagine the laughs this little episode is going to supply the Belacourt siblings. My face burns. I pedal harder, like I can ride away from the embarrassment.

Yet I can't get the image of a blurry Noah on the beach out of my head. He's probably standing there now, texting all the details of our run-in to all three of his sisters. I knew them before they all went off to their fancy boarding school and, fool that I was, I thought they were cool to begin with. I spent exactly six weeks being best friends with the middle sister, Olive, at the start of eighth grade until she showed up on the ferry one day on the way to school and wouldn't sit by me anymore. She wasn't just done being my friend—she wanted to be Enemy Numero Uno. It hardly mattered that the day before we'd walked through the town square eating ice cream cones and talking about boys. From that moment on, her only goal was to make me feel like a snail on the bottom of her yacht.

That's in the past. Most of the Belacourt family live in New York now and aren't seen around the island much anymore. I only know this because their stupid ads for the upcoming reality show Bela-babes Take Manhattan are everywhere. TikTok. Instagram. In between The Office Superfan episodes. Just everywhere.

I ride to the front steps of my pale yellow house and lean my bike against the stilts. The white porch wraps all the way around the front and side, and the white shutters make our BB look like a dreamy beach house. I was born in this house. We lived here with Uncle Otto since he ran the BB with my mom and dad. After my parents died, nothing changed, except that Uncle Otto became my guardian and couldn't take off for surfing trips whenever he wanted to anymore.

My sneakers squelch with each step as I dart inside and up to my room, my stomach starting to churn. Now that I'm away from the beach, safe in my room, anxiety is taking over my body. I swam in the ocean. I don't do that. I can't do that. But something about the idea of losing Mom's scarf had me jumping in the water before I could think twice about it, and now that I'm safe at home, fresh realization washes over me like a tidal wave.

I don't have time to sit in these feelings, because I need to get to work. I hang Mom's scarf over the end of my bed—I'll have to figure out the best way to clean it later—and shut the bathroom door. I wheel around to turn on the shower and freeze when I catch my reflection in the mirror. I lean close to the sink to see better.

Oh. My. Gosh.

I'm not just wet and droopy; I'm a drowned rat. My hair is plastered to my head and my face is streaked with black mascara. It's smudged around my eyes and lining my cheeks.

Noah stared at me because I looked like a terrified raccoon. And not the cute kind.

Great. Absolutely fantastic.

Well, I learned two things today. First: Noah Belacourt is here, hanging out in places besides his private beach. It's a handy bit of info that will help me avoid him, because second: I can never face him again.