Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Deanna was too much like me. Sure, she always looked perfect, and she never showed effort, but she always stuck out like a sore thumb. She was the only girl in glasses at the beach. The only girl in black at the park. The only girl reading at the pool party.
She read Star Wars novels, too. She loved video games, too. She sat on the sidelines, too.
Then, she got older, and she learned how to fake it—or maybe how to remove herself from the situations where she didn’t belong—and I stopped noticing.
No, I stopped looking.
The signs of her oddball nature are obvious. She’s wearing a black cover-up in a room full of white and turquoise, and she stands with confidence and poise completely out of place in the pretend laid-back atmosphere.
Maybe that’s it. She doesn’t look like she belongs here, but she doesn’t look like she gives a shit, either.
More like she’s ready to make the world belong to her.
She looks fucking gorgeous.
No. Not just gorgeous.
Sexy.
Is that sheer black thing designed to drive me insane or is it a lucky side effect?
The thin fabric flows over her chest, stomach, hips, ends mid-thigh. It’s just sheer enough I see the outline of her bikini, the shape of her chest, waist, hips.
Thankfully, the barista saves me from my dirty thoughts. From Deanna’s, too, it looks like.
She finally manages to pull her eyes from my tattooed arm to order an English Breakfast for herself and an iced tea for Grandma. Then she goes right back to staring.
She’s obsessed.
It should annoy me. It does sometimes, with other women. I’m the same person I was before the makeover. Why am I suddenly interesting, now that I wear snug jeans and rock an arm of art?
When I put the art on paper, no one cared.
Now that it’s on a bicep, it’s fascinating.
Not that I can fault her. The work is beautiful. A mix of classic tattoo scenes—an octopus wrapped around a ship, a sparrow surrounding a heart, a rose wrapped in thorns—only with a pop art style instead of a traditional one.
And, well, I love her stare. I love the intensity of her green eyes, the focus in her posture.
She wants me.
And I want her to want me.
The realization is strange, absurd, but I can’t deny the desire thrumming in my veins.
“Sir?” The barista clears her throat and taps her seafoam apron. “Did you want anything else?”
“An English Breakfast,” I say.
Deanna laughs as I pay. “What a copycat.”
No. I want to taste what’s on your lips.
What is wrong with me? I’m not here to flirt. I’m here to get her to admit love is real.
“You invented English Breakfast?” I ask.
“I perfected it.” Her raspberry lips press into a coy smile. Her eyes brighten. Tough-as-nails, soft-as-silk Deanna Huntington.
Silk isn’t soft. Silk is slick. Silk is sexy.
Don’t pretend it’s about softness when it’s about something else entirely.
Deanna is sexy.
I’m not denying that.
And I’m not giving in to it.
This isn’t fate or destiny or anything big and beautiful.
It’s the two of us, settling our wager.
I wait for the drinks and join Deanna at her seat, in the corner.
“Shouldn’t we get back?” I ask.
“After we fix the tea.” She looks out the big wide window and watches a teenage couple stroll down the street. They’re exactly the stereotype of a California couple.
Two tan, toned blondes in board shorts and Hurley tank tops. They’re even wearing matching blue checkered Vans. (Started in Anaheim. Fern is obsessed with their new HQ and the checkered lining painting around the top of the building.)
“Five minutes to brew it. Then we add milk.” She surveys the table. “Almond milk work for you?”
“Sure.”
“Are you always easygoing?” Her intense eyes find mine.
“I want to see your idea of perfection.”
“So, under normal circumstances, you’d throw the almond milk in the barista’s face and say, ‘I told you oat milk, dammit.’”
“Damn. And I thought I suppressed that TikTok,” I say.
Her laugh is easy, comfortable. Like she’s here because she wants to be here, not because she’s trying to keep me from Lexi. “I can’t imagine that.”
“Me neither.”
“Do you think Ida will mind waiting a few extra minutes? If I tell her it’s for this.” Deanna smiles, reaches into her bag, and pulls out a chocolate bar. “She got me into it.”
Dark chocolate and tea. Grandma’s favorite afternoon snack. A wave of nostalgia hits me all at once.
This is home.
The drink, the place, the people.
I hate that it’s home, but it’s home nonetheless.
“Aren’t you worried it will melt at the beach?” I ask.
“No. I’ve tested the process extensively.” She smiles. “With the sun, it will melt on the sand. I keep it in the cooler. Out of the sun, chocolate melts just below body temperature.” She undoes the paper wrapper. Then the foil. “That’s why it melts on your tongue.”
Deanna Huntington melting on my tongue. The vision forms in my head immediately. Deanna, in only those boots, again, splayed over my bed, legs wrapped around my cheeks as I lick her to orgasm.