1
🌊🔥☀️ THE SUMMER WE BROKE PLAYLIST ☀️🔥🌊
☀️ The Way I Loved You — Taylor Swift
☀️ About You — The 1975
☀️ I Wanna Be Yours — Arctic Monkeys
☀️ Teenage Dream — Katy Perry
☀️ You Get Me So High — The Neighbourhood
☀️ Talk Too Much — COIN
☀️ I Miss You, I’m Sorry — Gracie Abrams
☀️ Good Looking — Suki Waterhouse
☀️ 505 — Arctic Monkeys
☀️ She’s So High — Tal Bachman
☀️ Steal My Girl — One Direction
☀️ Still Into You — Paramore
☀️ Just the Girl — The Click Five
☀️ Heartbreak Girl — 5 Seconds of Summer
## Chapter 1
**Cora**
The problem with Noah Calloway is that I used to love him.
Okay, fine. Maybe “used to” is a bit of a stretch, and perhaps "love" is a heavy, loaded word for what was essentially three years of pining like a Victorian poet with a fever. But the real, underlying problem is that Noah Calloway exists at all. If he didn't exist, I wouldn't currently be sitting on a flimsy beach chair, straining every nerve in my body to pretend he isn't sitting three feet away from me. And I definitely wouldn't be losing a humiliating, one-sided physical altercation with a jar of pickles.
“Need some help with that?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, letting out a breath that is eighty percent frustration and twenty percent despair. Of course. Of course it’s him. I don’t even bother looking up; I just keep twisting, my knuckles turning white as I try to torque the stubborn lid.
“I’d honestly rather die,” I grit out.
The lid doesn't budge. It doesn't even make that satisfying *pop* sound. It just sits there, mocking me.
Noah sits down in the empty chair beside me. The movement is effortless, fluid, and entirely too close. Suddenly, the air around me is saturated with the scent of his sunscreen and the sharp, clean smell of saltwater. He’s close enough to be a genuine nuisance, and close enough that my heart does that stupid, involuntary stutter it always does when he’s in my orbit.
“You’ve been fighting with that jar for at least five minutes, Cora. Give it up.”
“I’ve got it,” I insist, my voice tight.
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You absolutely don’t.”
I glare at the jar with enough intensity to melt the glass. The lid remains firmly sealed. The jar wins. It always wins. Noah holds out one hand, palm up, expectant and infuriatingly patient. I stare at his hand. It’s calloused, large, and steady—the hand of a man who spends his days pulling people out of burning buildings and his weekends making me feel like an idiot.
Then I look at him, then back at the jar, and finally back at his hand.
“No.”
His mouth twitches, just a fraction of a smile. “You’d rather starve to death on a public beach than let me help you?”
“I’d rather struggle and retain my dignity.”
“That is, quite literally, one of your defining personality traits. It’s not the flex you think it is.”
Rude. Accurate, but incredibly rude.
I finally shove the jar toward him with a disgruntled huff. He takes it, his fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second, and he pops the lid off with a single, easy twist of his wrist. He hands it back to me.
I hate him. I really, truly do.
“Show-off,” I mumble, snatching the jar back.
He shrugs, looking entirely unbothered. “I literally just opened a jar. It’s a basic life skill.”
“Show-off,” I repeat, just to annoy him.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and for one horrible, traitorous second, I’m sixteen again. I remember exactly why I spent those formative years embarrassing myself over this man. Noah doesn't smile often—he’s usually too busy being stoic and heroic—but when that rare, crooked grin breaks through? It’s game over.
Fortunately, I am no longer that girl. Mostly. Probably. Maybe. Whatever. The point is, I learned my lesson. I learned it years ago, back when I was seventeen, hopelessly stupid, and trailed behind Noah like a lovesick retriever. Back when the entire town knew I had a crush on him, and back when he never, not once, did a single thing to acknowledge it.
Now, I’m twenty-four. I’m wiser. I’m mature. I’m completely, totally over him. So over him it’s not even funny. The hottest man in Sweetwater Cove could be sitting right here, and—
Nope. I am not finishing that thought. I stab a pickle with a plastic fork, my movements fueled by an entirely disproportionate amount of aggression.
Noah is watching me, his gaze focused. “You okay?”
“Fantastic,” I say, popping the pickle into my mouth and chewing it with loud, vengeful crunches.
“You look like you’re ready to start a fight.”
“I am.”
“At me?”
I take another bite. *Crunch.* “Maybe.”
“What did I do?”
The look of genuine, baffled confusion on his face almost makes me break character and laugh. Almost. That’s the Noah Calloway experience: the man hasn't got the faintest clue what he does to people. He never has. It’s actually kind of impressive how oblivious he manages to be at his age.
“Nothing,” I say, keeping my tone clipped.
“Cora.”
“Noah.”
He lets out a long, weary sigh. I offer him a smile that is saccharine and deeply insincere. His eyes narrow, and I narrow mine right back. It’s a standoff, a silent war of attrition, and I fully intend to be the last one standing.
Suddenly, a voice screams from further down the beach. “CORA!”
I whip my head around. Saylor is standing by the dunes, waving both of her arms like she’s flagging down a rescue plane. Beside her, Beau is heaving a massive cooler onto the sand, and behind them, Rhett is already wandering toward us, shirtless despite the fact that it is barely ten in the morning.
Noah follows my gaze, his expression relaxing slightly. “Saved by the group.”
“I wasn’t aware I was in need of saving,” I snap.
“Trust me, you were.”
I roll my eyes and stand up, my chair sinking deeper into the soft sand with the weight of my irritation. Noah stands too, and because the universe is committed to making my life as difficult as possible, he’s wearing a fitted gray t-shirt that stretches perfectly across his chest and shoulders. He’s a firefighter. Of course he is. Because being annoyingly capable wasn't enough; he had to go become a local hero, too. Life is patently unfair.
I start trekking toward the others, and Noah falls into step beside me, his long, easy strides matching my own.
“How’s the job going?” he asks.
The question is so mundane, so unexpected, that I actually blink. “Good. Why?”
“Just asking. You like it?”
I glance sideways at him, instantly suspicious. “Why are you suddenly giving me an interview? Did something happen?”
His eyebrows arch. “I’m making conversation, Cora. It’s a human behavior.”
“That feels suspicious.”
“It’s really not.”
“Okay,” I say, unconvinced.
He lets out a sudden, sharp laugh—a deep, resonant sound that does dangerous, stupid things to my heart. It’s a good thing I’m over him. I am so thoroughly over him it’s practically a medical miracle.
Saylor reaches us first, immediately linking her arm through mine as if she can tell I’m hovering on the edge of a breakdown. “You’re late.”
“We’re not late, Say. It’s a beach day.”
“You are late,” she insists.
“We are literally on time. Noah, tell her.”
Noah looks at me, then at Saylor, and his loyalty shifts in the blink of an eye. “Late.”
“Traitor,” I hiss.
Saylor grins triumphantly. Beau wraps a protective arm around her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. The sight makes a strange, warm ache settle in my chest—they’re disgustingly, nauseatingly happy. It’s honestly impressive. And maybe, if I’m being generous, a little bit adorable.
“You know,” Rhett says, appearing out of the thin air like a chaotic spirit. “You two argue like an old married couple. It’s disturbing.”
I freeze. Noah freezes. Saylor starts choking on her lemonade, a panicked, sputtering noise. Beau closes his eyes, bracing himself, because he knows exactly what’s about to happen.
“What?” I snap, my voice hitting a high, brittle note.
Rhett looks between me and Noah, unfazed. “I said you argue like you’ve been married for forty years.”
I point a shaky finger at his chest. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No. Period.”
“Why are you so defensive?”
“Because,” I say, my voice dangerous.
His face lights up with sheer, unadulterated mischief. “Oh my god. Look at you.”
“I am going to end you, Rhett.”
“Noah, help me out here,” Rhett says, looking at him.
Noah immediately turns on his heel and starts walking away toward the water.
*Coward.* Absolute, spineless coward.
Rhett points at his retreating back. “Interesting.”
I pick up the half-eaten pickle from my tray and flick it at his head with lethal precision. Unfortunately, he’s a professional idiot and catches it in his hand.
⸻
Hours later, after we’ve played enough volleyball to break a sweat, gone for a boat ride, and baked in the sun until our skin feels tight, I find myself standing ankle-deep in the surf. The waves are rushing in, pulling the sand out from under my feet, and the beach is a vibrant tapestry of people, music, and the kind of hazy, golden afternoon that Sweetwater Cove specializes in.
“Hey.”
I look up. He’s back. Apparently, this man has decided that my personal space is a public utility today. He stands a few feet away, hands buried in his pockets, his hair whipped into a chaotic, windblown mess. His expression is unreadable, that mask of stoic calm he wears to hide everything else.
“What do you want, Noah?”
His eyebrows arch, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “What kind of greeting is that?”
“The kind you earned by being an irritating presence all day.”
“I opened a jar for you,” he points out, his voice dropping into that low, even register.
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my mouth. “Fair point.”
He looks satisfied with that, a tiny, subtle victory playing out in the set of his mouth. But then, the teasing vanishes. Something in his eyes darkens, the playfulness stripped away. The ocean rushes around our ankles, the sound of the world swirling behind us, but for a moment, the beach feels like it’s frozen in time.
Noah looks out at the horizon, his jaw tight. “You’ve been avoiding me all day.”
My stomach drops—not a graceful, butterflies-in-the-stomach drop, but a heavy, sinking feeling that makes my knees feel weak. The worst part is that he’s right. I haven't just been avoiding him; I’ve been running from him. And the fact that he noticed? That he cares enough to call me out on it?
It might be the end of me.
