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Chapter 1

Rule: Never date a guy you just met. He could just as likely be a sociopath as a nice guy.

“Hey,” I said, sliding my beach tote off my shoulder and onto the checkered tile floor of the coffee shop. “I thought you were off at four.”

Kamala, my best friend, sighed from behind the register. “Lewis called in sick, so Meg asked if I would stay.”

“Your mean boss asked you to stay and you said, ‘Screw Wren, of course I can stay.’ ”

“Shh!” She looked over her shoulder toward the back hall, then flicked something off the counter at me. “I know, I’m messing up your perfectly planned afternoon.”

Her ammunition hit my shoulder, then landed on the ground. “What was that?” I squinted at the floor. “A piece of muffin?”

“Chocolate chip.” The coffee shop where Kamala worked also sold baked goods, displayed behind lit glass.

I picked up the chocolate chip and tossed it in the trash. “When are you off?”

“Six.”

“Six? You don’t want to go to the beach anymore?” There went my afternoon plans.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not like you were going to get in the water anyway, Ocean Hater.”

“I put my feet in! Do you know how many predators live in the ocean?”

“Not your predators, Wren.”

“You’re the one who showed me that video of the whale swallowing a kayaker.”

“She was just in the way of real food. It spit her out.”

“It spit her out? That’s your swim-­in-­the-­ocean pitch? I’m good, thanks.” I tugged out my ponytail holder and redid my messy bun in the reflection of a framed photo of a surfboard hanging on the wall. “What about that great white that ate that man six months ago right here on our beach? It’s still out there with the taste of human blood in its mouth.”

“You’re more likely to get struck by lightning than attacked by a shark.”

“And you don’t see me walking around with a metal rod, do you?”

Kamala shook her head. “The beach will still exist in a couple hours, you know. We can go watch the sunset, bury our feet in the sand. It will be so romantic,” she teased. “It’s been a while since you’ve had that in your life.”

“It has been a while since I’ve had sand all over my feet.”

She ignored my sarcasm. “How long ago was Phillip, anyway? Last year? Not that he ever made it to boyfriend status. It’s your stupid list of rules. Nobody will ever measure up.”

“Then I guess I’ll die alone.” I smirked and walked to my favorite table, tucked around the corner from the register, out of the way. This little nook of the café had tall wood bookshelves filled with knickknacks, potted plants, and a dozen or so self-­help books (most about cultivating a positive attitude through yoga or bird-­watching or self-­hypnosis). If I was hanging out here for a couple of hours, I could read while Kamala helped customers. Reading was one of the things I had planned for the beach anyway. It wasn’t that I couldn’t go with the flow of a new schedule . . . okay, it sort of was. I liked my life planned. It ran better that way.

The bell on the door dinged and two guys, who I could just make out through the broad-­leafed plant on the counter, walked in. I slunk into a chair. One of the guys was holding his phone as if he was taking a selfie. But then he started talking.

“Today is the moment of truth, Asher. Here, in this cheesy beach-­themed coffee shop”—he pointed his phone at a big seashell plastered to the wall—“I will be proven right and you will be sad you ever made an official bet with me.”

The guy without the phone—Asher, apparently—gave a good-­natured smile as the phone was pointed at him, and approached the counter.

I had not been planning on staying, so I was wearing leggings and a sweatshirt over my swimsuit. I slouched deeper into the chair and pretended to look through my bag as the two guys ordered coffee.

“You didn’t have to come,” Asher said. He was a lanky white guy wearing glasses and a beanie. He produced a twenty-­dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to Kamala.

“But then how would I record your humiliation for future generations?” Phone Guy was taller and wore a Star Wars T-shirt and Docs. And he was still recording. “Besides, you think this little girl is going to save you from internet predators?” He nodded toward Kamala.

“Little woman,” she corrected in her sassy yet disarming way. “And I won’t.” She handed him the receipt with a pile of change sitting on top. “We don’t even have a panic button here.”

Phone Guy finally lowered his phone. “You shouldn’t volunteer that information to strangers.”

“I’m trusting,” Kamala said. She really was. But she was also a good judge of character. I was her best friend, after all.

“Oh, kind of like you, Asher,” Phone Guy said. “You share everything with everyone.”

Asher pushed his glasses up his nose and smiled like it was a compliment. He slid the change off the receipt and into the tip jar.

“Do you have a question for my friend?” Phone Guy said to Kamala. “He will tell you anything. Want to know his shoe size?”

He pointed to Asher, who said, “Twelve.”

“Height?”

“Six one,” Asher said.

Phone Guy lowered his brow like he didn’t quite believe him, but continued with, “Favorite childhood trauma?”

Asher opened his mouth like he was actually going to answer when his friend saved him with, “Never mind. Everyone knows you had a perfect childhood anyway.”

Kamala held up a Sharpie and a coffee cup. “Um . . . how about just a name.”

“Dale,” Phone Guy said.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Asher said. “I pay, you take the credit.”

Dale, not humoring his joke with a response, pointed at the small wooden box on the counter. “What’s that?”

“It’s a suggestion box,” Kamala said. She hated that suggestion box; most of the time full of pickup lines or rude comments.

“Old-­school feedback,” Asher said with a nod. “Nice.” He ripped a piece of paper off the pad beside the box, wrote something down, then dropped the paper in the slot on top. Then he looked around the café. I ducked my head. His eyes didn’t even pause on me. Saved by the overgrown counter plant. He pointed toward the only booth, next to the window where someone had painted a summery scene—the ocean, a colorful umbrella, flip-­flops, a striped towel.

How long has that been there? It was barely the first week of summer. Had Kamala painted it?

The guys walked to the booth and sat. The hissing of the cappuccino machine muffled the conversation across the room. I dug my car keys out of my bag, thinking maybe I’d leave after all.

“So?” Kamala asked, shifting to the side counter and leaning over it so she could talk quietly. “Sunset on the beach with your bestie? I mean, I meet all your very specific criteria for love, right?” She placed a hand under her chin like she was putting her face on display. Kamala was gorgeous. She was Indian, with thick, straight black hair, dark intense eyes, a regal nose, and full lips. “Now that I think about it, I probably don’t. I haven’t read your rules lately.”

And she wouldn’t read them. Ever again. She’d already made fun of them enough, and that was before I added my post-­Phillip criteria: must know a guy for six months before I consider dating him, must know for a fact that he gets along with at least one family member, and he must have one or more friends he’s known and kept since elementary school. I didn’t think those were unfair additions. They were common sense, really—the reasons Phillip definitely wasn’t boyfriend material. “Of course you meet the criteria. You’re my one and only.”

Kamala curled her lip. “That’s really . . .”

“Sweet?” I asked with a smirk.

“Pathetic.” The machine stopped hissing and Kamala tightened a lid on the cup. “Dale!” she called out like there were more than just two other people in the café.

Dale stood and walked over. He gave Kamala a lazy smile as he picked up the two drinks.

“Thanks,” he said, and carried them back to the table.

Now that it was quiet again, I could hear them.

“What time did she say she’d be here?” Dale asked. “Because I am so ready to win this bet and watch you make a fool of yourself at my birthday party.”

“You will not win this bet. She’s coming.” Asher looked at his phone. “Any minute now.”

“You said four, right? It’s after four. I still haven’t decided what would embarrass you more. Streaking butt naked around the yard three times with the whole school watching or performing that dance you learned in the third grade.”