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Chapter One

Maggie

PAST ( Summer before Senior Year)

" D oes anyone know how to get finger paint out of hair? Asking for a kid who decided blue was definitely her color…everywhere."

I look up from my spot at the picnic table to see Liam approaching, his messy hair tousled by the ocean breeze, and a look of mild panic in his eyes. There’s a streak of blue on his cheek and a smear down his board shorts, presumably from trying to wrangle the four-year-old paint-covered demon.

"Ocean," Laney and I answer in unison.

Liam grins, narrowly dodging a camper on a tricycle who nearly takes him out. "Crap, yeah. Kind of a no-brainer."

We don’t correct him—because it is a no-brainer. Especially for the swim and surf instructor. Laney and I are just run-of-the-mill counselors. The bottom feeders of the Welsford Country Club's Lil' Shoreline Explorers summer program. Liam is only filling in today for a sick counselor, leaving Jeremy—his helper, great at entertaining but awful at problem-solving—to fend for himself. A match made in mayhem.

"Welp. Guess I'm off for an impromptu mid-morning dip." Liam mock-salutes us and jogs toward the clubhouse.

"Five bucks says he’s back in three minutes because now everyone’s got blue hair," Laney says.

I laugh. "No bet. "

I turn back to watch our campers zoom around on plasma cars against the backdrop of the endless ocean, weaving through an intricate chalk road network they spent half an hour designing. And now it’s like a tiny, lawless version of Fast and Furious: Tricycle Drift.

It's one of those suffocating summer afternoons where the heat presses down, stifling and thick to the point that even the laws of physics seem to be sweating it out. These kids don’t tap out, though. An hour of swimming, three games of tag, lunch, crafts—and they’re still going. Anyone who says preschoolers aren’t hardcore has never spent time with a four-year-old during a heatwave.

There's a slight breeze, at least. Enough to carry the smell of salt, sunscreen, and the faintest whiff of trust-fund entitlement. Also, the sickly sweetness of tipped-over juice boxes abandoned on picnic tables and Adirondack chairs.

Shoot. I was supposed to get the kids to put those in the refundable bins after lunch.

"So, do you know anyone in Sandy Haven?" Laney asks, leaning back on her elbows along the weathered table surface. "Or are you doing this thing cold turkey?"

"Cold turkey." I grab two empty juice boxes, tossing them into the fanciest recycling bin I’ve ever seen. "I was planning to attach myself to you like a leech until Christmas," I joke. "Or until I make more friends. Whichever comes first."

Laney chuckles. "Cling away. I love leeches… They're kinda cute, right?"

"I think they feed off human blood."

She laughs again, her dark curls bouncing around her face. "Okay, yeah. You're gonna need to make more friends, stat."

My mom and I moved to Sandy Haven just over a week ago from Allerston Lake, a blah town about half an hour from here. It isn't an awful place. I was happy there and had lots of great friends, who I still plan to see as much as I can. But it’s nothing like Sandy Haven.

Our biggest waterfront attraction was a murky lake fringed by scraggly trees and beer-can-littered beaches. Here? It’s like someone cranked the color saturation slider up to eleven. Overflowing hanging baskets, vintage wooden signs, and pastel-painted cedar shingled buildings lit in twinkling string lights in the evenings—think ‘coastal chic meets Pinterest board of a person who owns too many scented candles.'

And I hit the summer job jackpot. Cool coworkers, ocean views, a weekend beach bonfire invite already lined up. Not too shabby.

I jump up. "Slow down, Harry!"

He’s barreling toward Finn, but to no one’s surprise, Finn lights up. "Hey! How ‘bout we race!"

This is about to go downhill fast. Laney and I exchange a look, then push to our feet to prep for the next activity.

Then her fingers dig into my arm. "Oh my God," she hisses. "Don’t look now—but Xavier Rockwell is heading this way."

I can't help it. I look.

A guy who could easily headline a Jenny Han adaptation strides toward the clubhouse, casually scrolling on his phone. Tall, sun-kissed, effortlessly cool. His brown hair catches the light, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. If teenage heartbreak had a poster boy, this dude would be on every lamppost in America.

"I’m gonna need more context," I murmur.

Laney’s still locked onto him. "Are you kidding me? Xavier Rockwell. As in the Rockwells. As in Barron Rockwell."

Okay, that name I know. "The gazillionaire?"

"Yeah. Real estate tycoon. Owns a bunch of luxury resorts," Laney says, her words tumbling out in a muted rush. "Xavier's his son. They live in this insane mansion up on the cliffs. I've heard it's like a legit castle."

I frown. "Wait. Barron Rockwell’s, like, eighty—and he has a kid our age?"

"And a five-year-old . " Her eyes still haven't strayed from the guy who seems to be getting exponentially hotter the closer he gets. "Finn is Xavier's little brother."

My gaze flicks to adorable Finn, mop of brown curls still damp from a water gun fight earlier, tiny terror energy at full capacity.

"Finn is Barron Rockwell's kid?" My jaw goes slack. "God, how old is their mom?"

"Way younger than Barron. Jacee was a model—still models sometimes, I think. She married Barron when she was like, twenty-two and he was in his mid- sixties." Laney’s voice drops lower as Xavier gets closer. "Word is she's always off partying on fancy tropical islands and stuff. Town gossip says she’s got a couple of younger guys on the side, but who knows."

I raise an eyebrow. "Sounds like a soap opera."

His mother being a model explains the dude's ridiculous good looks, though.

"You have no idea. And Xavier’s parties?" She whistles low. " Legendary. Like, off the charts. He checks all the boxes: on the football team, plays hockey, gets mentioned in gossip magazines and stuff because he's a Rockwell—and, well, totally gorgeous…”

"So, basically, he’s a walking CW show."

"Yup. Pretty much every girl in town is obsessed with him."

Of course.

Still, as Xavier steps into the clubhouse, leaning to see out of the wide-open windows of the Kid's Club front office, I get it. He’s the kind of guy who turns heads just by entering a room. Or clubhouse, in this case. And there's a cool indifference about him that makes it obvious it's been this way his entire life.

"So, he's here for Finn?"

"No idea," Laney exhales. "But I can't go over there, Maggs. My hair's a mess!" She glances down at her standard-issue navy Welsford polo, tugging it away from her body. "God! There's a golf ball-sized mystery stain right above my left boob!" Her voice pitches higher, cracking slightly, glancing over at Xavier then back at me. "Will you go? Please? I mean… only if you—"

I shrug. "Sure."

It’s not like I look any more put together than Laney right now, but I couldn't care less what kind of impression I make on a guy like Xavier Rockwell. Especially now that I know his background. That doesn't mean I'm above boosting Laney's rep in front of him, if she's crushing on the guy, though.

"Sure, it's annoying to have two guys fighting over you again, Laney," I shout, backing away from my new friend, "but you need to let them both down easy."

Her eyes bulge and her cheeks flush. She whips around to face the other way. "OhmyGod, you are so dead," she gasps.

"Just tell them to stop leaving so many voicemails," I call even louder, still backing away, thoroughly enjoying myself. "I mean—God. Stalkers much?"

Laney makes this soft noise that sounds a lot like mewling as she pretends to be fascinated with the grain pattern of the picnic table.

I giggle, swivelling on one heel, then swing my arms as I make my way over to the clubhouse. Xavier glances up as I approach, raking a hand through his thick waves.

Lifting a hand in greeting, I get one of those effortless guy chin thrusts in response. Then I skip up onto the covered veranda and duck into the front office.

"Hey there," I chime, lifting my arms to twist my hair into a messy bun.

Xavier’s liquid-gold eyes track the movement, lingering for a second, like he’s trying to decide what to make of the bubblegum pink color I dyed it a couple of weeks ago.

"Hi," he says in a voice that is both confident and totally chill. The kind of voice that probably makes customer service agents waive cancellation fees. And is it possible for a smile to be lazy?

He peers past me, out the wall of open windows. "Uh, is your friend okay?"

I stifle a laugh. He must've seen her freaking out a second ago.

I glance back just in time to see her whip around, face in her hands. Probably red as a tomato right now.

Well, actually she was overcome with a fit of vapors at the mere sight of your approach, Xavier Rockwell.

I shrug. "She's fine. Just… Boy trouble."

He nods, slipping his hands into the pockets of his navy board shorts. "I'm here to pick up my brother."

Then, as if I don’t already know exactly who he is—who his entire family is—he adds, "Finn. Rockwell."

So far, he hasn't acted at all like the douche canoe I expected him to be. Which is… weird, given everything I now know about his background. Still, it's been maybe two minutes. Give him time .

"Sure, hang on." I shuffle through the desk clutter—papers, glue sticks, a half-empty pack of toddler pull-ups—searching for the sign-out binder.

"I think you have your t-shirt on inside out."

I pause, glancing down at my Welsford-issued staff polo. "Yeah, that’s on purpose. It looks marginally less hideous this way." I point to the seam along one of the arms. "Because of the contrasting green stitching," I explain.

He squints his gorgeous eyes a little. "Oh," he says. "Sorry." Clearly still baffled.

"Don't be. I didn't choose this polyester monstrosity."

I finally locate the pick-up binder, flipping to Finn's name. But when I check the authorized pick-up list, Xavier’s name isn’t there. "Shoot," I say, looking up. "You’re not listed… I'm really sorry, but I can't let him go with you."

His expression barely changes, but something shifts in his posture. "Pick-up form?" His thumb drags along his lower lip. "I’m his brother."

I explain the club’s strict security policies—high-profile families, safety first, no exceptions—but Xavier just arches both brows.

"Are you serious right now?"

'Not as serious as these parents are about safety' I want to say. Between the cameras and literal security guard watching the kids' area, the Welsford is basically a baby Fort Knox. I don't pass on my opinion about this, though, given that his family is presumably among those who demand this level of service.

I give him my best apologetic smile instead. "I'm really sorry. You can maybe ask your mother to add you to the list next time she’s in?"

"I’m not going to ask my—" He exhales sharply. "Jesus. This is ridiculous." He rakes a tanned hand through his hair, and it flops right back over his forehead. "So who is on this exclusive list?"

Ah. There's the douche-bag entitled attitude I was waiting for.

"His nanny, Leslie," I say, knowing she’s picked him up all week.

"She quit last night."

I can't tell if he's messing with me. I study him for a second and he just stares back, with zero change in his expression.

My gaze drops to the binder again. "Okay… Well, there's your mom, and also, uh, Denise Semble?"

He leans in closer to peer at the permission form, like he doesn't trust I'm capable of correctly identifying three names on a list. His tanned neck hovers just below my face, chestnut waves brushing his collar—and I'm annoyed that despite being an ass, he still smells really, really good. Bonfire and subtle cologne.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Weird that his dad's not listed.

Xavier leans to the side to peer out the window again, overlooking the Kid's Club area.

I give him my best placating smile. "So, maybe call your mom and—"

"She's out of town."

Okay then.

I hesitate, remembering what Laney said about his mother’s lavish jet-setting. Maybe those rumors are true.

"Ok. Well, you could try calling this Denise woman?" I suggest. "Is she family, or—"

"No."

"Oh, so another nanny?"

How many people does it take to raise one preschooler?

"P.A.," he says.

I frown. "Uh… sorry?"

He doesn't answer, glancing around distractedly like he's looking for someone else he can approach, who might give him a more favorable response than I just did.

"What does P.A. mean?" I ask again.

"Personal assistant."

My jaw drops. "Finnhas a personal assistant? "

And there goes all the professionalism I swore in the job interview I would maintain at all times with kids' family members. But could anybody blame me right now for gawking ?

He gives me a weird look. "My mother's assistant."

"Oh." Still. Weird.

"Look, can you just let me sign Finn out? I'm taking him go-karting and a few people are waiting, so…"

"Sorry, I really can't."

Xavier's jaw clenches, his easy-going demeanor thoroughly evaporated. "You realize this is total bullshit, right?"

I inhale through my nose, trying to stay calm. "Look, I get it. But rules are rules. I can't just—"

"You can't what? Make an exception? For someone picking up his own brother? " His voice drips with sarcasm.

"Unfortunately, no." I gesture at the binder. "If your name's not on this list, I can't let Finn leave with you. It's for the kids' protection."

Xavier runs a hand through his hair again, messing it up even more. "Protection? From what? Their own families?"

"Hey, I don't make the rules," I snap. "I just follow them. Like everyone else here."

He scoffs. "Right. Because everyone just blindly follows rules without question."

"When it comes to kids' safety? Yeah. Actually, they do."

"Yo, Xave!" A voice cuts through the tension. A guy leans out of a nearby jeep. "Stop chatting up the ladies, bro! Let’s bounce!"

I refrain from rolling my eyes.

Xavier ignores him, stepping closer instead. "I really don’t think anyone’s going to accuse you of endangering Finn by letting him leave with his own brother."

My cheeks burn with frustration. "Are you seriously asking me to risk my job for you?"

He scoffs, like it's a ridiculous insinuation. "It's not like anyone's going to care. Or like anyone would even know you—"

"I would know." My voice is firm now. "And I’m not about to compromise my integrity for some rich kid who thinks rules don’t apply to him. "

His hazel eyes flash. "What the hell does money have to do with me being pissed that I can't pick my brother up from a summer playgroup? "

"It has to do with you thinking the world revolves around you and—"

"Look," he cuts me off. "Can you get a manager? This is bullshit."

"Are you serious right now?"

"Yes. Can you please call a manager."

I unhook the walkie talkie from my belt.

Crap.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

Xavier's entitled attitude hits me like a punch to the gut. Suddenly, I’m not at the Kid’s Club anymore—I’m back at that stupid art show two years ago, standing beside my dystopian floating city diorama, heart pounding. Months of work, every penny I’d saved poured into supplies—because the prize was a coveted spot in a prestigious summer art program with an artist I idolized.Nothing was going to stop me from getting that scholarship, dammit.

Then:

“What’s that supposed to be?” A girl in a crisp uniform sneered. “Some kind of trailer park?”

Laughter. Designer shoes squeaking on polished floors.

“It’s a post-apocalyptic cityscape,” I muttered, cheeks burning.

“So… trailer trash art,” her boyfriend scoffed.

And later, that same guy, the one who mocked my work— won. With his skilled but totally basic watercolor landscape. His grandparents' names gleamed on the donor wall behind him as he accepted the scholarship.

Now, looking at Xavier’s frustrated face as we wait for the manager I paged, that same anger flares hot in my chest. Just like them, he expects the world to bend to his will. To be able to push people like me aside in order to get his way. And it'll probably work—because I have something to lose, and he doesn't. I need this job. He just needs an attitude transplant.

He leans back against the desk, scrolling through his phone, totally unbothered. Dude’s like a truffle-stuffed olive at a dill pickle convention. Probably smug in his confidence that everything will get smoothed over as soon as a manager shows up and realizes who she's dealing with. It makes me want to ruffle his feathers. I refuse to feel demeaned in front of a guy my own age just because he's got money and an all-you-can-eat-buffet-sized ego.

"I was hoping you'd be wearing lobster-print khakis," I say conversationally, cocking a hip against the windowsill.

Xavier glances up from his phone. "What?"

"I was hoping you'd be wearing pants with little embroidered lobsters on them," I repeat.

"What the—" His forehead furrows. "What?"

"New England prep school guys in movies are always wearing lobster pants. And pastel polos with cable-knit sweaters tied around their shoulders," I explain. "I just figured when I moved here, seeing it in person would be one of the perks."

His eyebrows arch up, hovering somewhere between his hairline and the worn wooden rafters. "I can't tell if you're joking right now."

"I would never joke about lobster pants."

It's true. Seeing them in the wild is on my bucket list. Way down the list, but still. And just my luck, the first millionaire I meet—sorry, billionaire —is wearing boring, plain old navy shorts and a frayed Blind Melon T-shirt.

Xavier stares me down for a good three seconds. "Well, my lobster pants are at the dry cleaners right now so… sorry to disappoint."

"Don't feel bad." I shrug. "The entitled temper tantrum was a solid consolation prize."

His jaw tics. "Seriously? What is your problem?"

And… it appears Xavier Rockwell's feathers are ruffled.

Mission accomplished .

I lift a brow and sink into the desk chair, swiveling to face the dusty monitor. My fingers tap across the keyboard, like I’m inputting vital data—when in reality, I’m typing out the lyrics to You’re So Vain into a blank Google Doc.

"Are you seriously ignoring me right now?"

The computer fan whirs. A bead of sweat rolls down my neck—this AC unit is losing a valiant battle against the summer heat. I hum under my breath, "Working."

"Real professional," Xavier scoffs.

I lean in, squinting at the screen like I’m decoding nuclear launch codes. The chair creaks.

He exhales sharply through his nose.

Stew in your privilege, Rockwell.

A few minutes later, Bree strides in, all business in her crisp manager’s polo and khaki shorts. "Alright… what seems to be the problem?" Her gaze lands on Xavier, and the way she halts in her tracks is eye-roll inducing. "Xavier… Rockwell," she practically stammers. " Oh —h-hi!"

This is the most flustered I’ve ever seen straight-laced, no-nonsense Bree Crawford.

Xavier explains the situation, his irritation evident in his clipped tone. And Bree's eyes keep darting between us, clearly torn.

"I see," she says, biting her lip. "I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, Xavier… but we have strict pick-up policies. Even for… well, especially for families like yours."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Families like his? Puh-lease.

Bree continues, "I wish we could make an exception, but I'm sure you understand. The childrens' safety and parents' peace of mind are our top priorities."

I swear she’s quoting the Kids Club policy handbook verbatim.

Xavier’s jaw tightens, but he nods.

Bree turns to me. "Maggie, did you offer to call someone on Finn’s approved list?"

Before I can answer, Xavier cuts in. "No, but shedidgive me some fantastic fashion advice, so we’re all good."

A sharp, white- hot prickle runs up the back of my neck, and I force myself to exhale slowly. I literally suggested he call his mother.

Bree’s eyes dart between us, scrambling to smooth things over.

"Again, I’m so sorry, Xavier. We’ll make sure your mother adds you to the list next time she's in. For now, would you like us to call someone else from the list?"

"It’s fine." He’s already dialing, stepping away to make the call.

Bree gives me a look that clearly says we’ll be talking later.

I rein myself in from glaring at Xavier. Thanks for that, Richie Rich.

I busy myself tidying the desk as Xavier leans against the opposite wall, scrolling through his phone again. Bree finishes up something on the computer, and then the two of us wait for him to say something.

When he doesn't, Bree eventually clears her throat. "Uh, so… did you reach your mother, or—"

He looks up, expression unreadable. "Denise is on her way."

I huff out a quiet laugh. "Mommy’s P.A. saves the day."

I freeze. Did I just say that out loud?

Xavier and Bree both snap their heads toward me.

"I—I’m so sorry…" I blurt. "I didn’t mean… It just rhymed and—"

Xavier laughs. Not a scoff. Not a smirk. An actual laugh.

"Man…" he mutters, shaking his head. But that’s it.

When I see the look on Bree's face, my throat suddenly goes really dry and it takes three attempts before I can swallow.

Xavier goes back to scrolling on his phone.

Bree goes back to searching for God knows what on the computer.

I cave to my puny self-preservation instincts and keep my trap firmly shut.

Once Denise—the infamous P.A.—finally arrives and signs Finn out, Bree pulls me aside to the staff kitchen for a talk. She’s practically vibrating with nerves over how I interacted with a member of the Rockwell family.

She tries to be kind, but there’s an unmistakable edge to her voice as she explains, in hushed tones, the gravity of pissing off a Rockwell. Her words paint a picture of a family whose influence stretches far beyond what I could've imagined. Their patronage funds club events, pays for building upgrades, and is single-handedly covering the new state-of-the-art indoor pool complex going up next spring. If Xavier takes my "disrespect and mockery" (Bree’s words, not mine) to his father, it will not be good.

This whole situation feels ridiculously blown out of proportion. Not that I blame Bree. More like, the age-old hierarchical order of the world. So, I apologize profusely, assure her it won't happen again, and promise to treat everyone with the utmost respect. But I can see in her eyes— it's not enough.

The word probation drops like a bomb.

Two weeks.

Two weeks of walking on eggshells, knowing one wrong move could cost me a job I actually like and need. Bree seems genuinely sorry, but her hands are tied. One more complaint, and I’m done. And while I’m confident I can keep my cool, the whole thing is humiliating.

As Bree walks away, my mind reels. I’ve worked summer and after-school jobs for years and never once had a complaint, let alone a probation warning. I am not the kind of girl who gets written up.

And I'm in shock right now. No, I'm outraged that some seventeen-year old diamond-encrusted diva waffle can have this much influence, without having ever done a thing to earn it. Bree even emphasized I made the right call about not bending the rules to let Xavier sign his brother out—it’s the way I lost my patience with him… my stupid lame little rhyme—that’s the reason for the probation. Basically, my refusal to stroke Xavier Rockwell’s ego.

I hated that jerk from the art show for jackhammering my pride and taking something we both knew I deserved more than he did.

I hate Xavier Rockwell even more.