Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Deb Dooley and her team of volunteers from the tourism office wrote up a practical event schedule for our two-day competition. The more labor-intensive events are taking place in the morning when it isn’t too hot. Once the sun starts scorching us around noon, we’ll be switching to water events. The teams arrived at nine, and I’ve been told we’re done by one thirty. We also get an hour for lunch.
“All right,” Gen says while the tourism people discuss some last-minute details among themselves. She lowers her voice. “Are we still doing a fish?”
“We must,” insists Zale, who became my all-time favorite person within three seconds of meeting him. “We agreed to be ambitious.”
“I know, but it’ll be tough,” Gen argues. “Especially the scales. How are we going to make them look all detailed?”
“Oh, my sweet talentless flower,” Zale chirps, “leave the artistic endeavors to the designers. You and Cassie are the muscle. The pail bearers. Mac and I will handle our fish friend.”
Gen rolls her eyes. “Did you just call me talentless?”
“’Fraid so.” He flashes his bright white teeth, which he informed me he had professionally whitened just for this occasion. In the twenty or so minutes I’ve known Zale, I’ve become privy to his beauty routine, his family history, and the reasons he broke up with his last three boyfriends, two of whom were named Brian. With his tall, lanky frame, dazzling smile, and wild Afro held back by a navy bandana, Zale is larger than life. His exuberance is downright contagious.
A crowd has already gathered at the boardwalk. Deb and her army of volunteers roped off the sandcastle-building area from the public, and I smile when I catch sight of my dad and sisters. The girls insisted on showing up for the “opening ceremonies” to cheer me on.
“Go, Cassie!” Roxy shouts when Dad hoists her onto his shoulders.
I look over and wave, then scan the beach for Tate’s team. I didn’t see where Deb placed them. On the other side of Hartley and Sons are the mechanics. Beyond them is the team from the bakery—Nia’s friend Chandra catches my eye and waves. I finally spot Tate’s team about fifty feet away. They’re huddled together, talking strategy. Last night I kept bugging Tate to tell me what they planned on building, to which he declared he would drown himself before sharing trade secrets with the enemy. And I thought I was overdramatic.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the twentieth annual Avalon Beach Games are about to commence!”
Damn, where did Deb get a microphone? And did she say twentieth?
“Twenty years they’ve been doing this shit?” Zale says. He’s not from the Bay, only moved here this summer after Mackenzie’s headhunter poached him from a golf resort in California. “Damn. You southern peeps have too much time on your hands.”
Gen snickers.
“My name is Debra Dooley, and I’ll be your host for this year’s competition.” Deb is bouncing around with excitement. “I’m the president of Avalon Bay’s Tourism Board, and that means I love this town! I love it hard, folks!”
I smother a grin.
“The Bay is home not only to some very extraordinary people, but to the greatest, most unique businesses on the eastern seaboard! And we have a group of brave and beautiful participants for this summer’s Games, including a team from the newly renovated Beacon Hotel, which is reopening at the end of the month.”
“Whooo!” Genevieve shouts, jumping up and down. Since she’s in tiny shorts and a black string bikini, her antics draw the eyes of nearly every male on the beach. My eyes aren’t idle, either. She has great boobs. Perfectly proportioned.
“I know what you’re doing,” her fiancé warns from beside us.
“What?” she says innocently.
“You want to distract all the dudes into thinking about your tits instead of their sandcastles. Well, it ain’t gonna work, Fred,” he declares, using that completely random nickname he has for her that they both refuse to explain.
“Too late,” his teammate Spencer says. “All I’m thinking about is her rack now.”
Evan glowers at him. “That’s the mother of my future children, asshole.”
“The mother of your future children has a great rack.”
“Our first event requires all four team members,” Deb says into her mic. “The rules are simple—just build something! Anything! It could be a castle, it could be a flower, it could a self-portrait! You’re allowed to use your hands and any of the tools provided. Shovels, pails, spatulas. Go nuts, everyone! You can also take advantage of any natural objects you find on the beach. Driftwood, shells, seaweed, and rocks are all fair game. What isn’t allowed is anything man-made. If we see any food coloring or cement—”
“Who the fuck brought their own cement?” I hear Cooper mutter, and our respective teams shudder with laughter.
“—you will be disqualified.” Deb claps her hands. “All right, everybody, get those sculpting hands ready! You have ninety minutes to wow the judges with the most impressive sand structure ever made. May I remind you that last year’s winners, the beautiful ladies from the Soapery—”