Just One Summer (The Dirty Dares #6)

Chapter One

Gaby

I sit in the library of my parents’ summer house, hiding out from all the stuffy guests they invited to their annual dinner party in the Hamptons.

These events reek of superiority, something exhibited by my mother, Madeline, my father, Aaron, and everyone else at this event.

I’m not like my friends in my social circles.

Oh, I learned early on how to play the game well enough, not wanting to stand out or be lonely growing up. But I’ve never been one of them.

I escaped the party and pulled up the reading app on my phone. I’m in the middle of a steamy romance about a blue-collar guy and a runaway heiress bride who found herself stuck in a small town with a broken-down vehicle.

The author is one of my favorites, her love scenes catnip to a virgin like myself. At twenty-two, I should have given it up long before now, as did most of the girls at the private Manhattan high school I attended. I’ve been privy to many locker room conversations I wish I could unhear.

The same talks occurred between my friends at Columbia University.

I graduated a few weeks earlier and wonder if I’ll keep any of those friendships, either.

The men I met in college weren’t any better than the adults in the other room.

In other words, full of themselves, entitled, and utterly unappealing.

I’m saving myself for the one. If that makes me a romantic, so be it, I think, turning my attention back to my book, where the sexy hero has pinned the heroine against the wall. He’s about to take her hard when the creaking sound of the library door opening interrupts my reading.

Annoyed, I look up to find Preston Barrett III standing in the entry. “There you are. Your mother sent me to see where you’d disappeared to.”

Of course, she did, since my parents are actively trying to pair me off with Preston in an attempt to cement their status with his family, and to curb my more common tendencies.

Because for some reason, me enjoying painting and wanting to work instead of giving parties and playing the socialite wife is an embarrassment to them.

My parents act like they’re the Vanderbilts instead of second-generation wealth.

Preston runs a hand over his perfectly styled blond hair. “You’re missing the party.”

He picks a nonexistent piece of lint off his light blue Brioni jacket that he matched with navy dress pants and a pale-blue button-down shirt.

Navy drivers are on his feet. He is a mini-version of his father, Preston Barrett, Jr. And if I just happen to be name-dropping when taking in his outfit, it’s because he does it when bragging, which is often.

I lift one shoulder. “That’s the point. It was stuffy with all those people milling around and I was looking for a little privacy.” Why beat around the bush when the truth would do?

“I like the idea of privacy.” He closes the door behind him and walks across the room.

When he reaches me, he braces his hands on the arms of the chair, his face too close to mine.

“You’re always playing hard to get with me, Gabriella.

How can we get to know one another if you’re always pushing me away? ”

I breathe in and do my best not to gag or scrunch my nose in disgust. I can’t place the type of alcohol on his breath. Mixed with his expensive cologne, it’s a tear-inducing smell.

“Come on,” he says. “One kiss. You’ll see how much you like it.”

I haven’t kissed him and never will. “I need you to step away from me,” I say, my heart pounding in my chest because we’re completely alone. I doubt my mother will come looking for me when she’d be only too happy I was making time for Preston.

“Stop playing coy,” he says, annoyance in his tone. “You know we’re a done deal, right? Your parents want an intimate connection to my family bank. They won’t take no for an answer, so let’s test our compatibility,” he says and smashes his lips against mine.

“Ugh, no.” I shove his shoulders, attempting to push him off, but he’s stronger and won’t budge. Instead he thrusts his tongue in my mouth. I immediately bend my knee and jam it into his groin.

“Dammit!” He steps back, grabbing his nuts and glaring at me. “You didn’t have to do that!”

“You didn’t hear the word no!” I jump up from my seat and brush past him, rushing for the door while he, hopefully, is taking his time, rubbing his balls before returning to the party.

I run down the hall, bypassing the living area full of guests. Then, not wanting to call attention to myself, I slow as I approach the front door.

“Gabriella?”

Only one person could stop me from fleeing.

I turn toward my widowed grandmother Annabelle, who is my father’s mother.

Due to her debilitating arthritis, she lives with us and has her own wing in each of the family homes, where she stays with her full-time caregiver.

My grandmother has been my main source of affection growing up and understands me in uncanny ways.

“Grandma, I need to get out of here.”

Annabelle narrows her green-eyed gaze. “I saw that weasel Preston, stumbling out of the library holding his balls. Did he try something?” she asks, raising her cane and waving it in the air. For her age, Annabelle is as insightful as a woman raised in modern times.

A much-needed smile comes to my lips. “Thanks, but I handled him.”

“Aah. That was from you,” my grandmother says with a wry grin.

“I don’t know what your parents are thinking, expecting you to marry that spoiled, obnoxious excuse for a man.

” She shakes her head. “Aaron is my son but money changed him. Your mother, too,” she says, making a dismayed clucking sound.

“I lost the argument when it came to your sister, but she never had your spirit and was willing to do their bidding. You need to fly, my beautiful girl.”

A lump rises in my throat because without my grandmother, I would be the oddball, lost in my staid family. “I love you, Grandma.” I pull the frail woman into a hug.

“I love you too. Now go before they come looking. I’ll cover.” With a wave, my grandmother turns back toward the party.

When I get older I want to be a badass like Annabelle, I think, as I let myself outside and ask a valet to bring my car, a gift from Annabelle for my college graduation.

Once settled inside the vehicle, I take off. Away from the house and feeling free, I know just where I want to go. The Back Door is a bar I visited last summer when they first opened their Hamptons location. The atmosphere is casual, fun and best of all, nobody will come looking for me there.

* * *

Maddox

I walk into The Back Door, the bar I manage, and nod at the hostess waiting to serve the guests who prefer tables to standing around the bar.

“Everything quiet?” I ask Sheila, who has been with the place since our opening. I came on a few months after.

“Yes. Nice turnover in the dining area.”

A glance tells me every table is full, with more people waiting outside. The owners, Zach Dare and Remy Sterling, will be pleased.

I nod. “Keep up the good work,” I say, then walk straight through to the bar where Cal, the head bartender, holds down the fort. “What’s going on tonight?” I ask.

Cal looks up from the glass he’s holding and wiping down the counter with a rag. “The usual,” he says. “And I’ve been keeping an eye on her.” He tilts his head toward the end of the bar.

Following his gaze, I see a pretty, young blonde stirring her frozen drink with a straw. She wears a halter-top that covers her neck and ends with a soft ruffle beneath her chin. Her arms are tanned, her skin golden, and her soft hair falls over her shoulders, straight and silky.

She mixes the drink, staring into the glass, something obviously weighing heavily on her mind.

From her dainty movements to her clearly expensive clothes, and gold Cartier Love bracelet gleaming on her delicate wrist, every instinct I’ve honed over the years and learned from my brief but lucrative career on Wall Street, tells me she comes from wealth.

So why is she drinking here where the common people gather and not at Daddy’s social club?

As I watch, her pink lips purse around the straw, and my cock twitches in my pants.

Fuck. Seems I learned my lesson about spoiled rich girls but my dick hasn’t gotten the message. “Did you card her?” I ask Cal.

“Of course, boss. She’s legal.”

“Barely, I’m sure,” I mutter.

“Excuse me, Cal!” the woman under discussion calls out, waving a hand to get his attention.

“On a first name basis already?” I ask.

The bartender turns her way. “What can I get you, princess?”

“Princess?”

Cal shrugs. “What can I say? She’s a drunk-talker, and I gave her a nickname.”

She points to her glass, indicating she’d like another.

“How many margaritas has she had?”

Cal shrugs. “This would be her fourth. But I was going to cut her off. She’s been going at it since she walked in a little over an hour ago. Rich girl with rich girl problems. I kinda feel sorry for her.”

“Excuse me,” another patron calls out, an annoyed tone in his voice. “Can someone get me a refill?”

“Coming,” Cal says.

“And I’ll take care of the princess.” I sigh and stride over to her end of the bar.

She glances up with glassy eyes that grow wide at the sight of me. “Well, hi there.” Her gaze rakes over me, approval obvious from her small smile.

“Hi yourself, princess.”

She perks up at the nickname. “Why can’t my parents want me to marry someone who looks like you?” Glassy emerald-green eyes fringed by long, black lashes, stare up at me longingly.

I shake my head and ignore her comment.

“Can I get another one please?” She points to her margarita glass, purses her lips around the straw and sips, making a loud slurping sound. “See? It’s empty!” The noise is unattractive, but her subsequent giggle isn’t.

I groan. “I think you’ve had enough.”