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 in my room, in my bed, in nothing but her boots.
The room here, at Grandma’s house.
Then the one in New York.
I see her there. All over the apartment. On the leather couch, reading a book. Sitting on the windowsill, staring at the city as she brainstorms. Taking a business call in the kitchen.
Naked in the shower.
Naked in every inch of the place.
“Unless you’re going to hire someone,” she says. “A professional.”
“When was it the best?” I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t dive into these waters, but I can’t linger on the other topic, either. “With who?”
“No. I’m not telling you that one.”
“That’s not our deal.”
“Our deal is love, not sex. But if you want info, you have to give info. Your best. Ever.”
That’s the thing.
I don’t have a best, either. Most of my sex is good. Very good. But it never feels like the movies, like an erotic romance, like a love song.
Physically, it satisfies.
Emotionally, not so much.
Because I’ve never been in love. Because my heart has always been devoted to Lexi.
Only, right now, my body argues for me.
It would feel different with Deanna.
It would feel fucking fantastic.
She leans closer.
My heartbeat picks up.
My blood rushes south.
My brain knows she’s not about to whisper let’s dive into the ocean, take off our swimsuits, and fuck right there on the beach, but my body is far too tuned in to the proximity.
She smells good, like oranges and sunshine. No. Not sunshine. Sunscreen. All this time in New York, and I’m still a California boy, deep down. Still turned on by the scents of sunscreen and chlorine.
“Do we need to talk somewhere more private?” She nods to a mom reading a paperback while her young daughter plays on an iPad.
“The waves are loud.” The words barely form on my tongue. I don’t want to move. I want to stay close to her. And I want to drag her to the car and dive between her legs.
“Too many people,” I say.
“The secret beach.” Lexi’s secret beach. Where she invited me, earlier today.
Already, the scene feels fuzzy. I can’t imagine the bubbly blonde. I can’t see the two of us together.
“It’s not that secret,” Deanna says.
“We’ll have to swim until no one can hear.”
She lets out a loud laugh. “Are you daring me?”
“Do you see everything as a dare? Or a bet?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
Instantly, my head finishes the sentence. I dare you to strip naked and run into the waves with me. I dare you to take me home and have your way with me. I dare you to kiss me.
That feels more intimate than any other mental image.
And, for the first time in a long time, I want it in a way I haven’t wanted anything. Not even Lexi.
There’s something wrong with me.
Really wrong with me.
And, right now, I’m ready to run straight to it.
Chapter Seventeen
River
Deanna laughs as a candy-coated pop song spills from the stereo. We’re in Grandma’s car, melting from the heat of the sun, with a twenty-minute drive on our hands.
Twenty minutes until the cold water of the Pacific.
I need it now. I need something to keep my senses.
I pull out of the parking lot and onto PCH. It’s a straight shot for most of the way, only there’s traffic. Not July or August traffic, but enough to notice the rows of two-story houses lining the road.
Deanna doesn’t look out the window. She doesn’t notice the bright blue sky, the puffy clouds, the signs for the massive outdoor mall Fashion Island.
She stays here, with me. “Is this music your choice? Or Ida’s?”
“Grandma’s.”
“I’m not sure which seems less likely: you or Ida loving girly pop.”
“Her,” I say.
Deanna nods. “She’s tough.”
“Tough people have soft sides.”
She blushes, and my entire body buzzes.
The air conditioning isn’t working fast enough. I turn it up, and it whirs so loudly it blocks out the music, but it doesn’t help.
Deanna’s blush is far too sexy. “You know I live and die by seventies folk-rock. But I don’t know what sort of music you like.”
She doesn’t. No one does, really. I don’t blast jams. I don’t even listen to my favorites. Not often.
Not because I don’t love them—I do.
I just hate the places my head goes.
“Let me guess. Video game soundtracks.” She laughs at herself. “Or John Williams. The Star Wars score, of course. And Jurassic Park.”
“No.”
“Oh, I know.” She laughs again and her eyes light up. Suddenly, she notices the brightness filling the car and finds her sunglasses in her purse. “Those guys with guitars who sing about their broken hearts.”
“All music by men?” I ask.
“No. The ones who are sensitive,” she says. “Like, uh, what’s his name…Ed Sheeran.”
Now I’m the one laughing. “You think I’m that obvious?”
“We’re all obvious sometimes.”
That’s true. But it’s also not true. Sure, I might guess Deanna loves fancy dark chocolate. I might even guess she loves the beach—she is from California after all. But I’d never guess her love of Fleetwood Mac or her need to prove herself worthy of her dad’s power and influence or her softness. “Is that it?” I reach for something to steady me. “You had a crush on Ed Sheeran?”