Page 9 of These Summer Storms

A heavy rumble of thunder.

“Five miles,” he said.

She didn’t look at the car this time. “You should go before…”Before I make a bad decision.

“You’re right.” He didn’t move.

They were so still, hanging like the salty humidity around them. Was he going to kiss her? Was she going to kiss him? Surely not. That wasn’t the kind of thing Alice Storm did, right in public, in Wickford, Rhode Island, in full view of a thousand insects and the driver of a Kia Sedona, rideshare timer counting down on the dash.

And still…she was tempted. One kiss. One out-of-character decision. One stolen moment. One last reprieve, a mad scramble to avoid the unavoidable.

Another rumble, this one in his chest, lost in a much louder one above, a wicked crack, breaking everything apart: the sky, rain suddenly everywhere, all around them, in heavy sheets; the darkness, a flash of lightning so bright and close that they should have felt the heat of it; and then, her name shouted from what seemed like inches away.

“Alice!”

She turned.

The bright light hadn’t been lightning. It had been a camera flash. “Alice!” the photographer shouted again, compact, wrinkled, unshaven, as though he’d been waiting for the train for hours. And maybe he had?

Another shout. Another man running from the far side of the street, where the three cars had been sitting, dark. Watching. Waiting for something worth photographing.

How had they known she would be there?

How hadshenot knowntheywould be there? There were two stories this week, after all. One Storm gone, the other returned.

“Alice! Were you and your father still estranged? Why didn’t you come with your brother and sisters? Are they speaking to you? Are you welcome at home?”

Years of training kicked in.Head down. Stay on course.But there was no course. Benny and his Honda had bailed on her, and she was aloneunder this streetlight in the rain, outside a closed train station, surrounded by the enemy.

Unmoored.

“Please.” She held up a hand, knowing it was futile. “Don’t—”

Before she could finish—what had she been going to say, even?—she was in motion, pushed behind the not-a-Boy-Scout (but-honestly-kind-of-a-Boy-Scout?), her view blocked by his wide shoulders, plastered with rain-soaked white cotton.

“Get back,” he said, his tone unyielding.

They didn’t get back. Of course they didn’t. Pictures of Franklin Storm’s daughter today were worth this decent man’s annual salary, and the paparazzi knew it.

More flashes as the rain poured, and Alice felt just slightly like she was drowning. “Who’s your boyfriend?”

“Is it serious?”

“Goddammit.” The man who was decidedlynother boyfriend sure sounded serious. “Get in the car.”

A lifeboat.

She turned to get her bags, and he grabbed her hand, strong and sure. “No.” The word stopped her in her tracks. “Get in the car, Alice.”

He said her name like he’d been saying it for a lifetime, and she obeyed him instantly, unsurprised to find the driver already opening the rear door. Behind her, she heard Long Legs growl, “I said, getback.”

Another rumble of thunder, covering up whatever happened to cause a sharp shout and a high-pitched “What the fuck?!” as she climbed inside the car, the driver looking past her as he said, “Those assholes deserved that.”

Once inside, Alice ducked her head and waited as her unexpected rescuers shoved bags into the trunk and joined her. The driver turned around, excitement in his eyes. “Guessin’ you don’t wanna head where the app is sending me.”

“Not yet,” came the terse reply from her companion, whose name she still didn’t know. She should ask him. But maybe if she didn’t, he wouldn’t ask her, either. Or anything else. Anything likeWhy are paparazzi waiting for you in this sleepy Rhode Island town in the middle ofthe night? Why aren’t you speaking to your family? Come to think of it, who is your family?“Think you can lose them?”

A big smile—this driver was going to get free beers forever on this story. “Dumbasses are from New York City. They know nothin’ about Rhode Island.”