I'm right about the illusion of time slowing down during the days Hunter is gone. It doesn't help that the weather clouded over the first evening he was away and thunderstorms rolled in during the night. The storms continued all day yesterday, stretching on for hours into early this morning.

The thunder out here is the loudest I've ever experienced. We don't often get storms in Los Angeles, and when we do, a few rumbles and some rain are usually it. Last night's storm made me understand why they're called electrical storms, with thunderclaps intense enough to make the cottage walls shake, raindrops pelting furiously against the roof, and lightning forks reflecting off of the lake's surface and illuminating the night sky. It was either the crashing thunder or lightning flashes lighting up my bedroom that woke me from a dream-filled sleep and caused me to bolt upright in bed at least twice.

My first thought each time was that something had exploded. Unexpected thunder appears to have the same effect on me as other loud noises now do, even though I calmed down faster than I did when I heard the car backfire in L.A.

Two nights of broken slumber layered on top of my other sleeping issues caught up with me this morning. When Mom peeked her head into my room to ask if I wanted to join her on a quick trip into town to get a few things from a store, I mumbled an answer about not being able to pry my eyelids open and buried my face in the pillow, not yet ready to get up and face the day. I must have drifted off again while she got ready, because she's nowhere to be found when I get out of bed. The Jeep is gone, too.

The clear sky and sunshine I glimpse through the living room window reveal that better weather has returned. Even so, now that I've splashed water on my face, brushed my teeth, and exchanged my pajamas for black yoga pants and a T-shirt, I'm still in no hurry to do much of anything. Instead, I take my guitar out of its case, check its tuning, sit down on the sofa and begin to play for the first time since the night before my ill-fated last tour rehearsal back in L.A. It's the longest I've gone without picking up a guitar since my first music lessons, years ago.

I start with the songs I could play in my sleep after performing them night after night on tour and in rehearsals. I stick to strumming the chords on my guitar at first, but habit takes over and I'm soon belting out the familiar verses.

Singing some of my oldest songs from my debut album normally brings up happy memories for me and all of my music career firsts, taking me back to when that part of my life felt shiny and new. Everything was still an adventure waiting to happen. Today something falls flat, so I switch it up and strum a melody no one but me has heard. It's a new song I was writing before everything happened at my show and with Bowie and the tour. I haven't worked on it in weeks.

The chords and the lyrics come back to me after a few tries. On my fourth time through, I sing the verses with the kind of confidence I have for the songs on my existing albums and wish I had my phone to record myself. After running through it two more times, I reach into the guitar case for my notebook. I scribble a couple of reminder notes and then position my fingers over the strings again to move on to another song.

"Wow. You sound like the singers on the radio. Better, actually."

My head snaps up at Hunter's voice and I stop playing, mid-strum. His voice came from what sounded like behind and to the side of me, which would put him at the sliding door in the kitchen that opens out to the veranda. I turn my head in that direction.

It's the first time I've noticed the glass door is cracked open a couple of inches, with the screen behind it closed. Mom must have opened it before she left to let fresh air inside, which means it's been that way the whole time I've been playing.

"Hi." I hope I don't sound as startled as I feel. "I didn't realize the door was open or that anyone could hear me."

I don't know how Hunter got up the stairs and around the veranda without Alfie or me hearing his footsteps, but he's here and now my mind has gone from relaxed to all over the place. I mostly want to know how long he's been standing there, listening to me play and sing.

"Sorry if I scared you," he says. "I heard the guitar and you singing while I was walking up to your camp and didn't want to interrupt you until you finished the song."

"I wouldn't say you scared me, exactly. I just didn't expect you to be back today." I set the guitar on the sofa, then get to my feet and walk to the sliding door to unlock the screen.

According to his note, he should still be in town until tomorrow. Not that I mind, but if I had known there was a chance of him being back today, I might have thought twice about taking out my guitar and singing as though no one could hear me.

"Town was boring, so we decided to come back early." Hunter steps inside the cottage and shuts the screen door behind him. Alfie finally springs into action, trotting over to greet him. Some guard dog he is. I guess he's decided to go full vacation mode out here, too.

"Want some coffee?" I ask. "I was just about to make some."

"I was hoping you'd keep playing and singing. Whatever song that was, it sounded great."

I sneak a glance at him while his attention is focused on Alfie, searching his face for any sign that he recognized my singing voice and has put the pieces together. He's hiding it well if he did.

"Thanks." I busy myself with getting the coffee maker set up, even though Hunter hasn't answered if he wants coffee or not. My back is turned to him, but I hear his footsteps this time when he walks across the room to join me at the counter.

"That's a really nice-looking guitar," he comments.

"It is," I agree. "I love its tone, and the neck is perfect for the size of my hands." The guitar was custom-designed for me, but I don't tell him this.

"You play it well. But wow, your voice." He sounds awestruck. "Have you ever thought about auditioning for one of those shows like The Voice or American Idol?"

"Ah, no. I haven't." Because I have a record deal and songs on the radio, I finish in my head. Hunter's question is a compliment, but I need to change the subject.

I go with the first thing I think of. "Thank you for the letter."

His face brightens. "You got it, then."

"I did," I confirm. "The chipmunks didn't eat it for breakfast. I didn't get to do much of what you suggested because of all the rain. I was hoping to see the meteor shower at least."

"We'll watch it," he assures me. "We can probably see it tonight if you'd like to, since I think the clear skies are sticking around."

"It's a da-- a plan, then." I try to play it cool, as though I didn't almost let the word "date" slip out. Someone is getting ahead of herself based entirely on a letter and an active imagination, and that someone is me.

"It definitely is."

It could be my brain playing tricks on me, but Hunter's voice sounded softer than normal when he said that. I also don't miss his thoughtful expression, or that he's studying me now and not trying to hide it.

"What?" I hope he can't tell how self-conscious I suddenly am.

"I was just thinking that you're full of surprises today."

I don't know if he means the guitar playing and singing, or if he caught that I almost called our meteor shower plans a date, or both, or something else.

"The coffee is ready." I open the cupboard with the mugs and take two from the shelf, then put them down on the counter. Hunter's arm brushes against mine as he reaches for them.

"I can pour," he offers.

Hunter maneuvers around me, but in a way that puts him directly in my personal space and results in his arm brushing against mine again. It's feeling a lot like the tadpole-catching incident right now. I'm all too aware of how close he is, and that butterflies are spontaneously taking up residence in my stomach. I'm also certain he's doing this on purpose and my brain draws a blank at what to say or do next.

The fact is, I'm horrible at flirting. I can hold my own on a stage in front of tens of thousands of people. I can put on the charm when I'm being interviewed for a magazine or TV show. But when it comes to a boy I'm crushing on, I become tongue-tied. I don't know if it's just who I am, or if it's because I haven't had much practice after being pulled out of a regular school and spending most of my days around adults.

Some help or inspiration please, I plead with the universe. I'm counting on divine intervention to keep me from stumbling over my words or clamming up.

"Sugar?" Hunter inquires. It takes me a full five seconds to realize he's asking if I take sugar in my coffee.

"Just oat milk," I say.

"Oat milk?" he asks. "That's a thing?"

"It's a thing." I open the fridge to find the carton. "There's normal milk, too, if you take that in your coffee."

"Nah, I'll try the oat milk. I'm up for an adventure."

"You, up for a food adventure?" I stir the oat milk into my coffee. "I wouldn't have guessed, since you're so unadventurous with roasting marshmallows."

"There's a difference between adventurous and sacrilege."

"We'll agree to disagree." I pass him the carton and am thankful I don't drop it when his fingers touch mine. "Other than the meteor shower, what's going on today?"

"I'm just hanging out and probably swimming in a bit," he says. "You should join me if you want to. It's supposed to hit thirty degrees later, so the lake will be warm."

"Thirty degrees?" I realize right after I ask that he means Celsius, because we're in Canada.

"It translates to 'still hot outside and you should come swimming' in Fahrenheit."

"Noted, and I will." I take a sip from my mug, trying to be casual now that I have plans to spend almost the entire day with Hunter.

Tires crunch on the driveway outside as I swallow the coffee. Mom is back from the store. She bustles through the door a couple of minutes later, loaded down with canvas grocery bags.

Hunter puts his mug on the counter and hurries over to her. "Let me help with those," he volunteers, taking a couple of the bags from her. "Do you have others you need brought inside?"

If Mom is surprised to see him here, she doesn't let on. I find this pretty remarkable, considering the strict rules she used to have about needing to be home when Bowie came over. I wonder if I'll hear about it later. In my defense, Hunter appeared on his own.

"Thank you, Hunter," Mom says. "No, this is it. What are you two up to today?"

"Swimming later," he replies before I can.

"How's the lake for that?" she asks.

I'm fairly certain Mom means the temperature of the water and how clean it is, but Hunter interprets this as a safety question.

"It's good between my camp and over here," he tells her. "There's sand covering most of the pebbles on the bottom and no leeches or anything. The lake seems pretty calm today, too. No undertow. But don't worry, I'll make sure Deni is safe. I used to swim competitively and I took a lifeguard course last summer."

Of course he's an expert swimmer and certified as a lifeguard. This boy, I swear.

"Well then, I'm confident she's in good hands." Mom fights back a laugh as she says this. I'm not sure if it's because I'm a strong swimmer and even went to surf camp as a kid—something Hunter isn't aware of yet—or because she's entertained by Hunter's assurances of my safety. "If you'll both excuse me for a minute, I need to make a quick phone call."

It's debatable if she really does need to make a phone call or if she's making herself scarce on purpose. Once she shuts her bedroom door, I pounce.

"Lifeguard, huh?" I pretend I'm about to swat his shoulder. "And a competitive swimmer, and a Scout? Are you trying to impress my mom?"

He catches my wrist before I can pull my arm away. "I was a Scout," he corrects me. "I stopped before high school."

"You know what I meant. Is there anything you don't do?"

"Sing," he answers immediately. "Or play the guitar, really. That's all you, and I look forward to being serenaded soon."

It's honestly difficult to tell if he's joking or serious about being serenaded. This, combined with the loose hold he still has on my wrist, makes my heart start to tap dance.

"In your dreams, Scout." I try to sound nonchalant. I'm not convinced I succeed.

"Finally, a nickname. We're making progress, even if I can't convince you to write me a song."

"Write you a song?" I sputter. "Someone's becoming a diva. What happened to just being serenaded?"

"If you insist. Come by around one o'clock to serenade me, and then we'll go swimming. Until then, I should go help my dad stack some firewood. I said I'd do it before hitting the lake today."

There's a twinkle in Hunter's eyes as he lets go of my wrist. He gives me a cheerful wave and opens the door to let himself out before I can think up a good comeback.