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)
On the screen, someone is trying to AirDrop me a note.
Tate B.
With a shaky finger I hit accept, and the note pops up.
I think we need to talk about this. —Tate
Underneath the message is his phone number.
I’m mortified. But I’m also not dumb enough to think we can sweep this under the rug and pretend I wasn’t watching him undress. And while I’m normally the type of person who runs screaming from all confrontations, this needs to be dealt with ASAP. Otherwise we’re in for a long, awkward summer.
I click on Tate’s number to pull up a new message thread.
Me: I AM SO SO SORRY. I swear I wasn’t spying on you. I was just standing at my window when you walked by and started stripping.
Tate: Uh-huh. I’m sure that’s exactly what happened.
Me: It’s true! I only saw you naked for like three seconds, max.
There’s a short beat.
Tate: Did you enjoy the show?
Me: Ew. No.
Ew no?
What the hell is wrong with me? This is why I’m single. Someone tries to flirt with me, and I respond with ew no. Clearly I have issues.
Me: I mean, I barely saw anything.
Tate: Come back to the window.
My pulse quickens again.
Me: No.
Tate: Just come back. I promise I’m not standing here with my hand on my dick or something creepy.
Wary, I exit the bathroom. As promised, Tate is not being creepy. He’s at the window, a towel wrapped around his waist, a phone in his hand. When he sees me, he gives a cheeky smile and raises his other hand. He’s holding a flashlight.
I narrow my eyes, which prompts him to start typing one-handed.
Tate: What’s Morse code for “peeping Tom”?
Me: OMG stop. I’m already embarrassed enough.
It occurs to me that instead of texting, we could just open our respective windows and call out to each other. Then again, sound travels on the water and I don’t want my grandmother hearing a second of this conversation.
Tate: Look. Cassie. I’ll be honest. You saw my ass. I think it’s only fair that I see yours.
I squawk in outrage. He can’t hear it, but he must know I made some sort of indignant sound because he grins widely.
Me: Absolutely not.
Tate: One cheek?
Me: No!
Tate: Fine. You drive a hard bargain. I’ll settle for your tits.
I know he’s joking. And I think if anyone else had said that to me they’d come off as a total perv. But there’s just something about this guy’s good looks and dazzling smile. No part of him gives off perverted vibes.
Still, I can’t reward him for that kind of talk. Don’t want to set a precedent or anything. So I walk to the window while typing a final message.
Me: You’ll just have to use your imagination.
Then I close the curtains.
CHAPTER 5
TATE
My dad calls when I’m on my way to meet the boys at the Rip Tide. The Bluetooth kicks in and I answer with a quick, “Hey, Dad, what’s up?” Since I’ve got the top down on the Jeep, I ease up on the gas, driving slower so the wind doesn’t drown out his voice.
“Can you do me a solid tomorrow, kid?”
I can’t help rolling my eyes. I’m twenty-three and he still calls me kid. Meanwhile, if anyone is a kid, it’s Gavin Bartlett. My dad is basically an overgrown boy, so full of energy and life it honestly gets overwhelming sometimes. He was a big baseball hero back in Georgia, so I grew up hearing from everyone on the island how awesome my father was. Then we moved to Avalon Bay, a place where he didn’t know a soul, and within a year he had the entire bay singing his praises too. Everywhere he goes, people love him. He’s just one of those universally likable dudes. Doesn’t possess a shred of arrogance. Always puts his family first. He’s humble. Hilarious. And other than his occasional grumbling when I was a teenager about me not being interested in following in his athletic footsteps, he’s a pretty great dad. Luckily, our shared love of the water made up for my disinterest in baseball, so we still had plenty to bond over.
“Depends,” I tell him, since I know better than to blindly agree to favors. “What’s up?”
“Can you come into work tomorrow morning for a couple hours? I want to take your mom to Starfish Cove.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Does there need to be one? A man can’t take his wife on a spontaneous Sunday picnic? It’s romantic!”
“Dude. I don’t want to think about my parents making out at a romantic picnic, please and thank you.”
“Making out? We’re going to third base at least, kid.”
I make a loud gagging noise, mostly for his benefit. Truthfully, there are worse things in this world than having parents who are still madly in love after twenty-five years of marriage.
I’m one of the rare members of my friend group whose family is wholly, disgustingly normal. I’m an only child, so I never had to deal with any of that sibling rivalry shit. Mom loves to garden and Dad still plays baseball with a men’s league in town. When people ask me why I’m so laid-back and take everything in stride, it’s because, well, I haven’t encountered many hardships in my life. The closest thing to turmoil we experienced as a family was a brief rough period when we moved from St. Simon’s to Avalon Bay. The stress of the move, combined with Dad changing careers, caused some arguing between my parents, a bit of friction around the house. And then it passed.