Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
I put my lips on his neck and inhale. “God, I missed you.”
“Same,” he says in a low voice. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick.”
“You’re not so bad,” I stammer as my throat tightens again. “Better late than never.” I take one more deep breath of his scent—sunshine and spicy aftershave. Then I make myself take a step back.
Luke gives me a shameless full-body onceover. “You’re right. This is a beautiful beach.”
“Isn’t it?” Annika giggles, reminding me that we aren’t alone.
Although alone sounds really good right now.
“Why don’t you give Luke a tour?” she chirps.
The girl is a genius. “Can I show you around?”
“I’m all yours,” he says. And then he does something I’ve never seen Luke Bailey do before. He blushes. It’s adorable.
“Go on, you two. I have some badminton to win here.”
“As if,” her brother snarks.
I clear my throat. “Want the tour?”
It’s a Sun Shelf
Luke
“Sure,” I say in a hoarse voice. This is obviously a great party but I feel so raw right now. Showing people that I care doesn’t come easily to me. I feel like my skin is peeled back, exposing things that have never seen the light of day.
Besides, it’s been way too long since I was alone with Keaton.
“Then right this way,” he says, gesturing inland, where I assume the house awaits.
I follow him up the path from the beach, and discover that the party is twice as large as I’d assumed. The beach path gives way to a manicured lawn and then a palatial pool area.
“Are those chairs in the pool?” I ask, trying to make sense of the layout.
Keaton chuckles. “That part of the pool is just four inches deep. The realtor called it a ‘sun shelf,’ whatever the fuck that is. But on a hot day it’s totally the place to be.”
Honestly, it looks like heaven. Barefoot guests are draped all over the six cushioned chaise lounges in the water. Drinks in hand, they are living the dream.
But it’s crowded here. Various partygoers stop Keaton and slap him on the back. “K3!” an older man says. “How’s college?”
“Great, Mr. Brown,” he says, giving the man the politest of brushoffs. He keeps moving. “I’d introduce you to everyone here,” he says quickly. “But I kind of want you to myself.”
“Noted,” I say. “Can’t say I’m in the mood to schmooze when I can get the private tour with you.”
This wins me a lingering glance from the shirtless hottie in the lobster shorts.
My impatience, coupled with the scope of the Hayworth’s spread, make the trip toward the house seem long. We pass a pool house, a covered pavilion with a bar area, a tent sheltering a DJ, and a hundred more people sipping tropical drinks.
“We used to have a little beach house, like normal rich people,” Keaton says as we skirt the edge of the crowd. “But then Dad traded up to this place when I was in high school.” He rolls his beautiful eyes. “This crazy pool. The private beach. Clay tennis courts.” He points toward the fenced-in courts. “Do you play?”
“Tennis? What do you think, Hayworth?”
He gives me a sly smile. “I think I like it when you surprise me, that’s all. And tennis would suit you, ’cause you’re quick on your feet.”
“Aw shucks,” I say in my usual cool manner. But the flattery hits me square in the chest. “Maybe you can teach me.”
“Yeah?” He lights up. “That would be so fun. The tennis pro that Mom has on call is good eye candy too, just saying.”
I laugh out loud. “Male or female?”
“Oh, it’s a dude. A dude in tight white shorts.”
“Does your mom know you think he’s hot?” I’m still trying to figure out Keaton’s family.
“Of course. We’ve had long discussions about his hotness, and how we don’t like to serve the ball into the net when he’s watching.” He leads me around to the front of the house.
And then finally we reach the house itself—a low-slung modern structure that looks like something you’d see on the cover of an architecture magazine. There’s a living room that can’t decide if it’s indoors or outdoors—it’s completely open on one side. But Keaton bypasses that to lead me around to the side, where there’s an ordinary screen door into the kitchen.
He holds the door open and I step into a ridiculously large kitchen that’s teeming with caterers. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Keaton hisses, taking my elbow and steering me through the madness. “It’s Grand Central Station in here.”
We exit the kitchen on the other side, stepping into a quiet space. It’s a grand hallway with art on the walls and a thick carpet underfoot.
We’re the only ones here. Finally. So I do what needs doing. I grab Keaton with two hands and back him up against the modern stone tiles on the wall. Then I lift a hand to his perfect scruffy chin and kiss him. Hard.