Lena Fletcher stormed into Holden's only bookstore like a tornado with anger management issues.

I'd meant to read a good book while I was waiting for her—something classic and arduously wordy—but instead I'd found Alissa's stash of fashion magazines behind the register. Alissa hadn't indicated that she was going to show up to work that day, seeing as she was still on an emotional hiatus, so I had taken it upon myself to rummage through some of the junk she kept stashed in her workspace. She had four packs of bubblegum, two bars of chocolate, and about a hundred different issues of Seventeen Magazine. The chocolate bars had only lasted me about five minutes, and now I had moved on to the bubblegum.

Upon hearing Lena stomp in, I glanced up over the top of my magazine. Lena's face was scrunched up like she'd just been forced to smell Jesse's armpit, which may have very well been what happened.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Jesse dyed my pants purple."

I shifted my magazine a few inches lower and saw that Lena's skinny jeans were, indeed, purple.

I managed to keep a straight face for all of two seconds before I began laughing.

"Don't laugh!"

"I-I'm so s-sorry!" I told her between gasps.

Lena folded her freckled arms over her chest and narrowed her pretty hazel eyes at me until my belly laughs had subsided to simple chuckles. I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye and sighed.

"I'm so glad I'm an only child," I told her.

"Well, some of us aren't so lucky."

"Couldn't you have worn another pair of pants?" I asked her.

"He stole them all! Every. Last. Pair."

I started to laugh again.

Lena shot me a look so frightening that I immediately grabbed my magazine and hid my face behind it. I found myself staring at a ridiculous article about how to pick out a shade of lip-gloss that will match every outfit you ever plan on wearing. I sighed and flipped to the next page, hoping for an article with a little more intellectual worth. Unfortunately, all I found were tips on how to avoid those dreaded gladiator-sandal suntans. 

Right, because I totally had that problem.

I set the magazine back down on the cashier's desk and looked over to where Lena appeared to be taking her frustrations out on some un-alphabetized nonfiction books.

"I'm so going to get him back," Lena mumbled, more to herself than to me.

"How?" I asked.

"I don't know. I'm terrible at this. Jesse's always been the evil mastermind when it comes to practical jokes."

"Well," I said, picking up the magazine again, "Let's brainstorm."

"Okay," Lena agreed.

Both of us were silent for several minutes. The only sound in the shop was the constant hum of the air conditioning and the faint rumble of the waves crashing against the shore outside. I flipped the page of my magazine and sighed, then sat upright.

"What is it?" Lena asked.

I didn't say a word. I simply set the magazine down on the cashier's desk so Lena could see the title of the article I had just stumbled upon. Her eyebrows knit together.

"One hundred and one pranks to pull," she read aloud. "Your guide to a summer filled with unexpected water balloons, fake facial hair, and embarrassing stories that you'll end up telling your grandkids."

"So?" I asked her.

A mischievous, slightly frightening grin spread across Lena's face.

"This is perfect," she cackled.

Lena grabbed the magazine in one hand and my wrist in the other. We plopped down on the floor between two aisles of shelves, which I had to admit hurt quite a bit since my rear end was still bruised from my unfortunate accident the day before. 

Stupid Blake Hamilton and his stupid car horn, sneaking up on innocent girls.

Hidden between the bookshelves, Lena and I started running through the list of Seventeen Magazine's pranks, stopping at one that sounded particularly hilarious.

"How about number fourteen?" Lena suggested.

"We can't afford that much cottage cheese," I told her.

"You're probably right. What about number thirty-seven?"

I shook my head. "Too time-consuming."

"Forty-nine?"

"Too illegal."

"Fifty-one?"

"Too much pretending to be French."

Lena let out a long, loud, overdramatic sigh. "You aren't helping here, Waverly!" 

"Well, sorry!" I cried exasperatedly. "I've never pranked anyone before. I'm an only child; we're a civilized breed. And, speaking of which, care to tell me why Jesse dyed your pants purple in the first place?"

"Because he's an asshole," Lena said immediately. Then, after a moment of consideration, she added reluctantly, "And because I may have swapped out his regular man-scented aftershave with some of my perfume."

Finally, the truth came out.

I cackled. Lena ignored me and grabbed the magazine, her eyes ablaze as she skimmed the list of possible pranks. I glanced up at the pink-rimmed clock mounted on the wall across the store and sighed. It was already noon. Which meant that, in three short hours, I'd be at the Holden Public Pool with none other than Blake Hamilton.

"What's wrong?" Lena asked. "You look troubled."

"No I don't," I replied a little too quickly.

"Um, yeah, you do," Lena insisted, one eyebrow arching skeptically.

"I just remembered that I need to... find a bikini?" The way I said it made it sound a little more like a question than a statement. But it was true—I wasn't about to wear Rachel's neon pink bikini again. And I wasn't exactly excited about swimsuit shopping.

"Alissa has some!"

"She what?"

Lena scrambled up and ducked behind the cashier's desk. I sat there for a minute before deciding it was time for me to get up off the floor. I used a shelf to pull myself up, wincing as I felt the effects of having a bruised butt. I tried to walk normally, not waddle, to where Lena was riffling through cabinets.

"Alissa practically lives here," she muttered.

"I can't just steal one of her bathing suits, Lena."

There was no way it'd fit.

"She won't know! She's addicted to shopping and tanning during our lunch breaks. Trust me—she won't miss one of these. What color do you want?"

"Not pink," I said immediately.

"Well, that knocks out about eighty percent of the options. How do you feel about lime green?"

I gave Lena a pointed look and she put her palms up in defense.

"Sorry, sorry. Just kidding."

"Do you have anything, you know, neutral?"

"Depends," Lena said over her shoulder, "do you consider lace a neutral?"

I groaned.

"Lena, I don't think this is going to—"

"Perfect!" Lena cried, interrupting me mid-sentence. Sheshoved a navy blue and white striped bikini at me.

"I'll look like a sailor," I protested half-heartedly.

"A cute sailor!" she insisted.

Lena ushered me into the bookstore bathroom, where I stood perfectly still for a moment, staring at myself in the little mirror over the sink. Tangled mess of hair, T-shirt just a few shades paler than my skin, shorts several sizes too big. I looked like a mess.

And once I had the bikini on, I still looked like a mess.

Just, a nautical one.

"Come out here and let me see!" Lena demanded through the bathroom door.

"Lena, I look stupid."

"I'm going to break the door down, Waverly."

I had only known Lena for a few days, but I already knew her well enough to know that she wasn't joking. She would totally break down the door. So, taking a deep breath and sucking in my stomach, I grabbed the door handle.

Lena didn't say anything for a moment.

"Well?" I finally spluttered, becoming totally impatient to hear what wise words of wisdom my fashion guru had to share.

"You need a tan," she observed.

"I know," I groaned, folding my arms over my chest, "but other than that?"

"It's perfect!"

"You think?"

"Totally."

"Are your sure Alissa won't mind?"

"I'm sure. Honestly, she keeps so much stuff here, she won't notice anything's gone. And like I said—she shops. A lot."

"Must be nice to have that kind of spending money. Why does she even work here, anyway? Is this a college apps thing?"

"She needs this job."

I blinked at Lena.

"She needs it?" I repeated. Bullshit. I'd seen her house.

"Well," Lena scrunched up her nose, "Alissa doesn't need this job. Her dad is loaded. But she really, really wants to be able to say she has a job, you know? She likes being able to say that she's not just mooching off her dad."

"What does her dad do?" I asked curiously.

"He owns Hastings Yachts. It's a boat rental service," Lena said.

Well, that explained the giant house with the perfectly manicured front lawn. Although Alissa had never quite screamed class to me, I should've guessed she'd be from a wealthy family. She had that haughty attitude about her. But I still had to give her some credit for actually having, and wanting, a job. I'm pretty sure if I were an heiress, I'd spend all my time lounging around and spend all of my dad's money on books. At least Alissa had a job.

"I didn't know that," I replied truthfully.

"You learn something new every day." Lena shrugged. Then she turned to me, a little crease between her eyebrows. "I know Alissa seems like this big, dramatic, raging dumpster of emotions, but... she can't help it. If you met her mom, you'd understand. She's been remarried seven times. So, Alissa doesn't really know what a real, working relationship is..."

"Which is why she can't choose between Ethan and Blake?" I finished.

Lena nodded.

"Precisely."

I wasn't sure what to think. Alissa was a terrible person, but I guess she had her reasons. Did that mean I forgave her for being so awful? Absolutely not. But at least now I didn't have to look at her and wonder, what's shoved up her ass.

I had some answers.

"Would you look at that," Lena said suddenly, "it's already lunchtime!"

Downtown Holden was empty, as always, when Lena and I emerged from the bookstore to go on her lunch break. I'd worked up quite the appetite riffling through Alissa's magazines and trying on my new bikini, and so when we sat down for lunch at a small sandwich shop down the street, I ordered enough food to feed a small village.

Lena and I feasted until we were full, then trudged back to the bookstore and sunk down onto the carpet between the stacks.

"I'm never eating again," I moaned, clutching my stomach.

"Liar," Lena said, then let out a loud belch.

We both started laughing so hard that we barely heard the front door swing open. Lena abruptly stopped laughing, but I continued writhing on the floor and bawling with laughter, clutching my too-full stomach.

"You okay there?"

I choked on my own laughter at the sound of the deep, teasing voice above me. When I was finally able to stop coughing long enough to open my eyes, I found myself staring up at none other than Blake Hamilton. He was standing in the doorway with an amused sparkle in his eyes and his hands shoved into the pockets of his dark jeans as he gazed down at Lena and me in a heap on the floor. I guess today's weather was what he and Lena might consider chilly, which was why they were both wearing pants. Not that Lena had been given a choice.

"I'm fine," I croaked.

Lena grunted as she rolled over and pushed herself up onto her feet. She grabbed the hem of her purple pants, which I now realized were about the same color as Alissa Hastings' giant house, and hiked them up on her hips, then turned towards the cashier's desk.

"So what brings you here, Blake?" she asked over her shoulder.

Blake kept his eyes on me for a moment longer before tilting his head up, a single lock of his dark hair falling across his forehead and brushing against one of his dark eyebrows as a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Chloe's sending me on her errands," he told Lena.

"Bummer," Lena grimaced sympathetically.

Blake shrugged. "S'okay." 

"What does she need?" Lena asked.

"You wouldn't happen to have a book called The Billionaire's Promise, would you?" Blake asked, face bright red.

Romance novels. Nice errands.

"Let me check," Lena said, holding up a finger before darting into the stacks.

Blake glanced back down at me and I suddenly remembered that I was still sprawled out on the floor. I half expected him to say something courteous like let me help you up and offer me his hand, but instead he just casually stepped over my legs and walked up to the cashier's desk, his hands still deep inside the pockets of his jeans.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the embodiment of chivalry.

Blake Hamilton.

I grumbled a few colorful curse words under my breath, then rolled over onto my stomach and tried to push myself up from the floor. Unfortunately, standing up with a bruised ass is much easier said than done. I must have started making strange noises as I tried to get to my feet because Blake turned around and arched an eyebrow at me.

"You okay there?" he asked for the second time that day.

"Fine," I snapped, "I just have a little injury."

The corner of Blake's full lips twitched upwards.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, feigning ignorance.

I shot him my best I'm going to cut off your balls glare. But apparently it's impossible to look threatening when you can't even stand by yourself, because Blake Hamilton just started laughing at me. I ignored him and looked down at my legs, focusing on how to get my feet underneath me without moving my butt. But my efforts were interrupted when a large hand appeared right in front of my face.

I looked up to see Blake smiling at me.

And I swear to God, my heart turned into jelly.

"Come on, Waverly," Blake said, nodding towards his outstretched hand when I didn't move for a few seconds. I realized that my mouth was hanging open, so I immediately clenched my jaw and grabbed Blake's hand so he could help me to my feet. It wasn't warm, and it wasn't even all that soft, but I still liked the feel of his skin against mine.

I felt my cheeks flushing bright red as I realized that I had been staring at his hand.

God, could I be any more socially awkward? It's like a fundamental rule of life: don't stare at attractive boys hands. You just end up looking like a creeper.

I glanced up at Blake, praying he hadn't noticed me staring at his hand. Luckily, his eyes weren't even on me. They were on our hands, which were still clasped together even though I was already firmly on my feet.

"Jesse dyed Lena's pants purple!" I blurted.

And here came the nervous outbursts.

Why did I always do this around Blake?

"He dyed her what?" Blake repeated, releasing my hand and looking up at me like I had just told him I assassinated the prime minister of Lithuania. If they even had a prime minister.

"Pants. He dyed her pants purple."

Blake raised an eyebrow and ran his fingers through his already disheveled hair. I suddenly found myself wondering how soft his hair was, and what it would be like to reach out and—

Lena interrupted my daydreams.

"Found it!" 

Lena appeared at my side, a book in her hand, and shoved it at Blake's chest. She then circled to the other side of the cashier's desk and took a deep breath, preparing herself for an epic battle against the ancient, piece-of-junk register.

"Thanks," Blake told her.

It was silent for a moment as Lena's fingers danced across the buttons.

"Wow, your pants really are purple," Blake observed.

Lena narrowed her eyes at him.

"Did you have anything to do with this?"

"Nope," Blake replied quickly, "this was all Jesse."

Lena growled under her breath and returned her attention to the register.

"I'm still up for number fifty-one," she mumbled.

"I already told you," I snapped, "I'm not wearing a beret and I'm not carrying around a baguette. It's stereotypical and downright offensive to the French."

We were referring to Seventeen Magazine's list of one hundred and one pranks. But Blake didn't know that. His eyes darted between Lena and me before he let out a long sigh.

"I'm not going to ask," he said.

Lena handed him his receipt and replied, "Smart boy."

"Thanks," he told her again, slipping his wallet back into the pocket of his dark jeans. Then he turned to me and asked, "You ready?"

I blinked at him.

"For what?"

Blake huffed impatiently.

"It's almost three. Do you want a ride or not?"

I glanced up at the clock across the bookstore to see that he was right. I felt my stomach roll over as I realized that now I'd have to stuff myself into a bikini and go to swimming lessons with Blake. And I had just eaten so much food. Gross.

"Where are you going?" Lena asked me, her hazel eyes narrowing.

She was suspicious again.

"I, um, have to, um—"

"Rachel wanted me to take her home," Blake interrupted, clearly noticing that I was not very good at coming up with bogus excuses. He, on the other hand, was a brilliant liar: "She had some art gallery thing she wanted to take her to."

"Oh! Sounds cool," Lena chirped, grinning at me.

"Right," I nodded, "art gallery... thing."

"Come on," Blake said, seeming to decide that if we stayed any longer I'd end up blurting out where we were actually headed and ruin everything. "We're going to be late."

He started towards the door.

"I'll call you later, Lena!" I said over my shoulder.

"Wait!" Lena shouted after me, tossing something through the air. I caught it before I realized it was my new bikini. Which I'd have to put on in just ten minutes or so.

"Thanks," I forced out.

I think I managed to get a smile onto my face, but it probably looked more like a grimace.

Blake was out of the bookstore in a flash, and I trailed right behind him. Neither of us spoke as we hurried down the block, me carrying my striped bikini and him carrying Chloe's romance novel. I only spoke up when I spotted his father's silver sedan parked at the end of the block, and I suddenly realized that Blake really meant it. 

He was really going to keep up with these swim lessons.

"Listen, Blake—" I began.

"Don't even try," he told me, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he pulled his car keys out of his pocket.

"But Blake," I whined, "I just ate!"

"Then you can start in the kiddie pool again," he told me.

"Blake—"

"Look, Waverly, I'm doing you a favor here," he snapped, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and spinning around to face me. His skin seemed to glow golden in the sunshine, and even though it was already boiling hot outside, I felt my cheeks heat up a little bit more. 

"I know, it's just..." I trailed off.

How was I supposed to put this into words?

I couldn't exactly say, I don't want to go swimming with you right now because I think I have a monumentally embarrassing crush on you and I just ate like five pounds worth of sandwiches and I'm really not in the mood to show off my pale, bloated body in this stupid bikini that makes me look like a sailor on crack because your rebound girl is probably like ten times hotter than I could ever hope to be.

"Are you going to finish that sentence?" Blake asked.

"No," I grumbled.

"Good. Then let's go."

I glared at his broad back as we walked up to his car.

Were all