He hadn’t had a book out in three years.
“Everything I’ve written since then is awful, trite bullshit. Or some knockoff of a classic, done worse, mind you. I can barely even look at my laptop, let alone open it. I guess I thought a change of scene to someplace wild and completely different would shake me out of my funk—well, my agent did. I’m not exactly here of my own volition . . .”
“How’s that going?”
“Super. So far, all this trip has done is make me strongly consider switching my profession to sheep farming.”
“The sheep are pretty cute.”
That won a smile from him, and it was just as warm and inviting as I anticipated. “Right? I went over to the Westman Islands and I was standing in a field near this cliff, high above the ocean, contemplating my place in the world, and one waddled over to me and booped me on the leg with its nose.”
“Sounds life-changing.”
“Oh, it was. Didn’t cure my writer’s block, but I felt much less inclined to hurl myself into the sea, so there’s that. Anyway, I’ve told you my story, Stella Moore. Now it’s your turn.”
I wondered if I should tell him. What the four of us do on our expeditions is something that we keep to ourselves—after all, treasure hunting has its dangers—but there was something about Huck Sullivan that made me want to spill my soul. Maybe it was because I’d read his books and that made me feel like I knew the kind of man he was . . . someone brave and trustworthy and authentic. Someone who had just been totally vulnerable with me.
Someone who would find my focus compelling instead of thinking I was a stupid dreamer.
I don’t know why, but I didn’t want to hold back the way I normally did.
I wanted to tell him.
Because the Huck Sullivan I knew from reading every word he’d ever written was going to eat this up. I hoped. And not just because I’d been fantasizing about him since book two, The Einstein Endeavor.
I took a breath and tried not to think about the number of times I’d pictured an innocent book signing event ending with us entangled in the back room of Barnes & Noble. I hoped the flush in my cheeks could pass for being alcohol related instead of a lustful fantasy fulfillment. “Believe it or not, I am also searching for something.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”
I pressed my lips together for a moment, preparing to be laughed at.
“I’m hunting for a treasure.”
Understanding flashed in his eyes, an instant of lightning in the glacial pool, and it was as if my body forgot how to breathe. I had to force myself to take in air. He rotated toward me on his stool; in the process, his knee glanced my thigh and practically turned me into molten lava. “And how’s that going?” he asked, his voice low and full of intrigue. “Are you also contemplating a life of sheep farming . . . or have you found it?”
I took a slow sip of my beer, a smile playing on my lips as I lowered the bottle between us. I waved him toward me until our faces were only a whisper apart and made my voice quiet. “So far the only thing I’ve found is you.”
Excerpted from HEART MARKS THE SPOT by Libby Hubscher, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2025
