Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
I should look away. Look down and run for cover.
But I’m just exhausted and hungover enough to not give a shit. I look up.
And I lock eyes with a familiar pair of baby blues that make my stomach plummet.
Ohhhh Godddddd.
A cold rush fills me, burning heat hot on its heels. My face goes up in flames. Knees wobble.
“Riley Dixon!” Mom gasps behind me. “As I live and breathe! What are you doing working the ferry?”
But that’s the thing. I’m not breathing. I can’t seem to get air past the moon that’s lodged itself in my throat. His eyes search mine, gorgeous and kind and . . . a little sad?
My left knee buckles. I reach for the railing but I’m too late. I stumble sideways, letting out a yelp as the ground rises up to meet me with harrowing speed.
Squeezing my eyes shut in a futile attempt to save my pride, I’m bracing for impact when there’s a firm tug on my arm.
I’m yanked right into the very broad, very naked chest of none other than the boy—man—who took my heart and my virginity, and then ran like the lying, cheating, son of a bitch he is.
Captain Dockmaster Pornstar is none other than Riley freaking Dixon.
The first guy I ever loved.
The last guy I should’ve trusted.
two
Riley
Old Flames and Felonies
My heart fucking loses it.
Goes apeshit inside my chest as I hold the girl too close for a beat too long. Her arms are trapped between us. Bare skin against bare skin.
“Jesus Christ, Lu.” I search her face. “You okay?”
The way she winces makes my chest hurt.
My mind races.
What finally brought her back to Bald Head?
How the hell is she even more beautiful than I remember?
My blood burns white-hot at the familiar shape of her full mouth. The feel of her tits pressed against my chest, her thin shirt the only thing between us.
And how good she smells? The coconut body wash—she must still use the same kind—takes me right back to eighteen.
I’m hit by a ferocious need for nicotine. The cigarettes and dip and Nicorette I don’t have—quit last year—burn a hole in my back pocket. If I begged, I wonder if Woody would sell me a pack of Camels. I may have made him swear to turn me away anytime I asked, but I am Baity’s biggest customer. And landlord. And investor.
“I’m fine.” Lu’s tone is flat, icy, and I feel it like a slap across the face.
Only what I deserve.
Still feels all kinds of wrong to drop her arm and step away. People are staring, I know it, my crew included. I silently curse. I can already hear the island’s rumor mill buzzing. It’s the end of the summer, and people are bored with the usual gossip—Mrs. Underwood’s divorce, Abel’s “herb” garden, the sixty-year-old swingers in Beachview Lane units A and B.
To them, Lu is fresh meat. She can do what she wants, but I ain’t gonna be the reason people talk shit about her. We managed to keep our relationship under wraps ten years ago. I’m not about to let the cat out of the bag now, even if the secret we kept doesn’t matter anymore.
So I step away. I tell myself I’m gonna stay away. Even if she does look kinda frail. Thin. And her face, it’s drawn.
Anger forms a fist and punches me square in the gut. Who hurt her?
You did.
I run a hand over my stubble. “You sure, Lu? I can have someone help—”
“It’s Louise.” Her nostrils flare.
I blink, confused. She’d strongly preferred that people call her Lu. She began that summer as Louise, the name her family liked to use. But she ended it as Lu, a shorter version of the sweet nickname, Lulu, her granny called her.
“New hair, new name. New me,” Lu proudly told me at the time. “Lu just feels right. It will also look super cute on the cover of my cookbook. The Beach, Barbecue, Blow Jobs, and Me: A Summer Love Story by Lu Wade.”
She was kidding about the title, but not about the name. So that’s who she was to me. Lu. Brown eyed and brown haired.
Who, then, is this blonde Louise?
I have exactly zero right to ask that question. But that don’t mean I’m not dying to know the answer.
The ache in my chest intensifies when I wonder if I have anything to do with the way she looks. Realistically, I know she probably hasn’t thought about me in years. But a flush of shame creeps up my neck nonetheless. How I ended things, the web of lies I spun . . .
“Please, let us help y’all. With luggage, or, yeah, an extra hand? Or if you need a ride? I can—we can—here, I’ll get someone . . .”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Tuck giving me a weird look. I get it. I’m babbling like an idiot. I need to get out of the way already and get back to work. We’re short staffed today. I just—