Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
He pulls my body into his, pushes off the sand, wraps himself around me. “Your turn.”
I laugh as I carry him toward the sand. “You’re too heavy.”
He releases me and dives under a wave.
Even though I dive just in time to feel the perfect pull of the current—a light sway, toward the depth, then toward the sand, just enough to keep me exactly where I am—I feel a different sort of pull.
Toward him.
I like him.
That complicates things.
Or maybe it simplifies things.
Maybe this is what we both need. A little fun that cures him of his feelings for Lexi and ends my long dry spell.
I want him.
I feel it everywhere. And the more I watch him swim, those feelings expand. Even though he’s awkward in the water. Because he’s awkward in the water but loves it anyway.
That’s what I need in a partner, someone who knows how to have fun, even when things aren’t perfect.
Because I can’t do that. I need someone else to lead.
So, when we finish swimming and he asks if I want to go home, I say no. I insist on lunch at my favorite nearby restaurant, and I spend the drive lost in images of the two of us together.
…
River tears into his carne asada tacos with gusto. “I forgot good Mexican food existed.”
He looks out of place here, on the pristine patio, at the fast casual place just off PCH. Not the sort of Mexican place you find in San Diego or even Anaheim. A very Newport Beach sort of place.
Stone tables, bright pillows on the bench seats, big orange umbrellas. And all the customers in classic California-cool attire.
A dad and his teenage sons, all in shorts, rainbow sandals, and T-shirts for the high school in Irvine, the one where the SNL actor shows up to do announcements a few times a year (annoying the students every time). A couple around our age in athleisure, and two older women in breezy, floral print kaftans.
Everyone else fits into the bright surroundings. Well, everyone except the two college girls in the corner. They look sorta like me and Lexi. The woman with short hair and black nail polish laughs as her friend swipes left and right.
A dating app, probably.
Are they using MeetCute?
For once, I don’t care enough to watch them. I don’t want to think about work. I want to be here, at the little square table, surrounded by succulents and sunshine and Mexican love songs.
It’s not that I need to focus on my mission here. I am here for a reason. To keep River away from Lexi.
But somehow, that doesn’t feel necessary the same way it did yesterday. I want to stay close because I want to be close. Because this feels good. Easy.
We’ve never shared a meal together. Not the two of us.
This is what people do on a date. They go to dinner, they go for drinks, they go home.
But we can’t go home. That’s far too complicated.
Maybe the car. The back seat.
Or the office. No one is there on a Saturday.
No. Home is okay as long as Lexi is out. And Lexi is always out on Saturdays. With friends. With Jake.
Only Jake isn’t in the picture, right now. And I need to make sure he’s in the picture. How the hell do I keep him in the picture? Beyond playing cockblocker.
At the moment, I feel other motives more strongly. A desire to climb over this table and mount River, for example.
He catches me staring. “Do I have something on my face?”
“A little. Here.” I motion to the left side of my lips.
He wipes salsa from his mouth. A totally normal, not at all seductive gesture that feels sensual as hell.
It’s the sun, the salt in the air, the T-shirt sticking to his chest.
He’s still in his board shorts. I’m wearing my cover-up over my swimsuit.
We’re barely dressed. We’re in full-on California teen summer sex mode. I’m not a teen anymore, but I still have all those feelings, those cravings.
A bonfire by the beach. A make-out session on the sand. A little light touching in the back seat of a car, parked in some distant spot, hoping the cops wouldn’t show up, because it’s still Orange County, wherever you go, until you get to Long Beach (north) or Riverside (east) or San Diego (south). Though there’s really nothing between south Orange County and San Diego. Coastline and Camp Pendleton.
Not that the details matter.
Only I can’t stop picturing details.
Right now, I see it: the two of us in the back of my car. Then in my bedroom, the one in the house, that’s still filled with Star Wars paperbacks and eyeliner stains. I’m in my twin bed, peeling off my bikini top, pushing my bottoms off my hips.
And River is standing there, watching, taking me in like the artist he is.