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)
Apparently Grandma’s going to foist a friend group on me come hell or high water. It’s baffling. I mean, seriously. Why does she believe I’m an antisocial loser? I don’t know what signals I’m giving off to make her think I’m some tragic shut-in, but I might need to have a talk with the lady.
“All right. Then, sure,” I relent, because even if it was my grandmother’s idea, it does sound like fun. “I’m down for Beach Games.”
“How are your sandcastle-building skills?” Gen demands.
I mull it over. “Above par?”
She nods, pleased. “I’ll take it. Mac and I have a little wager going with the twins.”
“You mean the winners,” comes Evan’s smug voice, and he’s projecting some serious swagger as he descends the deck steps. Scampering at his feet is an eager golden retriever with a bright orange ball in its mouth.
Evan hurls the ball down the beach and the dog takes off like a rocket, paws kicking up sand.
“You haven’t won a damn thing yet,” Gen retorts.
“But we will.” He offers a broad smile. “Aka you will lose. Badly, and with no mercy from us.”
Laughing, I glance between them. “What are the stakes?”
“Well, I’m glad you asked, Cassie,” Evan says solemnly. “When we win, my beautiful fiancée here, along with my brother’s okay-looking girlfriend—”
Mackenzie gives him the finger.
“—will be serving us a home-cooked dinner …”
“That’s not so bad,” I tell the girls.
But Evan isn’t finished. “… in French maid uniforms.”
I bite back a laugh. The others do not display such tact. Jay, Heidi, and Steph are doubled over, practically howling.
“Nah,” Gen argues. “When we win, my smartass fiancé here, along with his obnoxious brother, will proudly be holding up signs advertising the Beacon Hotel on the boardwalk …”
“That’s not bad,” I say to Evan.
“… in neon-pink G-strings.”
I sigh.
“Yeah, no. Never gonna happen,” Cooper announces as he joins the group. He’s put on a shirt and is holding a beer.
Someone else follows him down the steps, and my heart skips when I realize it’s Tate. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, khaki shorts, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. For some reason his hair always looks a little windblown, pushed away from his face to emphasize his cheekbones. He’s so good-looking it makes my throat run dry. I try to remedy that by gulping my drink, remembering only at the last second that it’s basically pure vodka.
My coughing draws Tate’s attention. An easy smile curves his lips. “Ginger,” he drawls. “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight.”
I respond with a self-conscious shrug. “Uh, yeah. Mackenzie invited me. And stop calling me ginger.”
“I will when your hair is no longer ginger.”
“It’s copper,” I growl.
“You two know each other?” Mac’s wary green eyes shift from me to Tate.
“We’re neighbors,” I explain.
“Just for the summer,” Tate adds. He grabs one of the Adirondack chairs and drags it closer to our lounger.
“Oh right. You’re housesitting for the Jacksons,” Evan pipes up. “Fuck, I love that house. Remember the rager we threw there a couple summers ago?”
Tate makes a sardonic noise. “Oh, you mean the night you did body shots off Gen’s ass on the custom-made hand-carved coffee table Shirley Jackson had specially shipped from Denmark?”
Evan’s eyes glimmer as he winks at his fiancée. “That was a good night.”
Genevieve’s eyes are equally ablaze. “Such a good night,” she echoes, and the two exchange a sultry look loaded with so much heat I have to turn away. They might as well be having sex in front of everybody—that’s how potent their chemistry is.
“Yeah, well, there won’t be any repeat performances of that,” Tate warns his friends. “I had to pay for an army of cleaners to come deal with the mess you guys left behind. Never again.” He sips his beer, watching me over the lip of the bottle. “Has Mac given you a tour of the hotel yet?”
“Did that today,” I confirm.
“And Cassie just agreed to join our team for Beach Games,” Gen tells him.
“Oh yeah?” He cocks his head at me. “That officially makes us archenemies, then.”
“You’re competing?” I demand.
“Of course. Someone’s got to represent the yacht club. Plus, this is the twins’ first year competing, and I never miss an opportunity to kick their asses at something.”
“Is your uncle going to be on your team?” Steph asks the Hartleys. “Because I’d pay to see that.”
“We asked him, but he said no way in hell,” Cooper says. “So we’re using our foreman, Alex, and this guy Spencer who’s on the crew.” From his chair across the pit from us, he flashes a cocky smile at his girlfriend. “Be prepared to get murdered, princess.”
She presses one hand to her heart. “You’re so romantic.”
Cooper just chuckles.
The rest of the evening flies by, much to my surprise. But the conversation is lively and the various personalities are so entertaining that three hours pass before I know it. I’m having a great time. Mac’s cool. Gen’s hilarious. Heidi’s kind of bitchy, but after a while you get used to it. At some point Steph plants a fresh cup of vodka lemonade in my hand, while Evan and Cooper, who are literally identical from head to toe, start arguing about which one of them is better looking. And the entire time, I’m shooting sidelong looks at Tate and wondering how it’s possible for someone to be so hot. Like, criminally hot. Every now and then my gaze flicks toward his abdomen, because whenever he runs a hand through his hair, the bottom of his shirt shifts upward and I catch a flash of his abs.