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)
The sound of my voice catches the guy’s attention. He gives me a sidelong look.
I crack a half smile, one of those teeny quirks of the lips that says I acknowledge his presence.
He smiles back.
And as always, his eyes drop to my chest. The curse of owning double Ds.
His gaze lingers, and now I feel self-conscious standing there in nothing but a bathing suit and pink flip-flops. There’s nowhere for me to hide. No clothing to burrow under. His perusal doesn’t feel overly creepy, only a glimmer of appreciation, but I’m still relieved when he raises his eyes.
“Hey,” he says easily. “I’m Ben.”
“Cassie.”
“Are you new here?” He flashes another smile, a tad bashful. “You must be, ’cause I thought I knew all the pretty members in this club.”
“Uh, no. I’m not new. I’m here a lot. I mean, I don’t visit for the whole summer often, but I have been here before.”
The bartender approaches with an apologetic look. “It’ll just be a few more minutes. We ran out of coconut milk. Someone’s running over to grab a fresh case from the restaurant bar.”
“That’s fine. I can wait.” I glance over my shoulder to find Joy watching us intently. Grinning impishly, she gives a little wave.
“Sit,” Ben urges, gesturing to the stool beside him. “Take a load off.”
We chat for a while, the coconut milk taking longer than a few minutes to arrive. Ben tells me he’s originally from New York but goes to Yale. He’s in his first year of law school and loving it. His family recently bought a vacation home in the Bay and this is his second summer here. When I tell him my grandparents were the previous owners of the Beacon Hotel and built it from the ground up, he’s suitably impressed. He’s got a bland sort of humor but the conversation flows easily, and when two piña coladas are finally slid in front of me, I decide I don’t want the conversation to end yet.
I lean toward an approaching waitress and ask, “Do you mind dropping this drink off to my friend? I don’t want it to get all melty.” I point across the pool deck at Joy’s lounger. “She’s the one in the red bikini.”
“No problem,” the blonde chirps, taking the tall glass, which is already dripping with condensation. Before she steps away, she gives me a warning look. Or at least I think it’s a warning? I’m not entirely sure.
When I wrinkle my forehead, her head moves, almost imperceptibly, toward my companion, who’s checking something on his phone. Is she warning me away from Ben? I must be misreading the look, but she hurries off before I can figure it out.
A few minutes later, I figure it out.
“You want to get out of here?” he suggests with a devilish gleam in his eyes, twisting his body so that our knees are now touching.
I shift in my seat, easing my knee away. “And go where?” I ask uneasily.
“My family booked a cabana here for the summer. We can hang out there. Lots of privacy …” He raises an enticing brow.
“Oh. No, it’s fine. Let’s just stay out here.” I lift my drink and take a sip. “I’m good.”
“Really? ’Cause I think you’d feel a lot better if we had some privacy.”
It’s funny how fast they transform from cool guy I’m talking to, to run, girl, run.
“Yeah, no. Like I said, I’m good. But my friend’s probably getting bored sitting there all alone. I think I’ll head back.” I start to slide off the stool.
Ben stops me by reaching out and placing a hand on my bare thigh.
Instantly, my cheeks are scorching and my palms feel damp. This stupid bathing suit. Why didn’t I put my shorts on?
Clenching my teeth, I shove his hand off and say, “Don’t.”
“What?” he protests. “I thought we were getting along.” When he notices my dark expression, he leans closer. Lowers his voice. “Look, I’m going to be honest. I think you’re hot. From the second you walked up here, I’ve been fantasizing about pulling that bathing suit off you and feasting my eyes on those tits. They’re gorgeous.”
My eyes become hot, stinging wildly, which is stupid because there’s no reason for me to cry. I’ve been objectified before, and I’ll be objectified again. That’s just the reality of it. And yet shame clamps around my throat, squeezing my windpipe so tight I have a hard time choking out words.
Luckily, someone else does it for me.
“She said no.”
Tate appears behind us. He’s wearing his club uniform, khaki shorts and a white polo with the name of the club embroidered in gold, Tate’s name stitched beneath it. His hair is tousled, probably from being out on the water all morning.
Relief trickles through me as I meet Tate’s hard blue eyes.
“Uh, yeah, get lost, Bartlett,” Ben says snidely, which tells me the two of them are already acquainted. “This is a private conversation.”