Chapter 3
Close proximity to the ocean appears to be the only obvious selling point. There’s an access point to the beach directly across the street.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror one final time, then climb out of my convertible and lock it.
I pick my way around the clumped weeds carefully, glad I opted for sneakers over sandals. I thought it’d make my dress look more casual, and I got the sense this would be a laid-back affair.
The correct sense, I confirm when climbing the stairs and stepping inside the open sliding door of the deck.
The interior of the house isn’t any nicer than the exterior.
The only furniture in what I think is the living room is a stained floral-print couch and a coffee table so covered with cans that I can’t tell the color.
As I shoulder through the crowd, I get a lot of double takes. I haven’t spent enough time in the Hamptons for any of them to recognize me as a Kensington, but they can all tell I don’t belong here. Not wearing a designer dress with a full face of makeup.
Whatever.
I like looking good. And I had time to kill, waiting for the rest of the house to go to bed, before sneaking out.
Amid a sea of ripped denim and faded shirts, plus a few swimsuits, my outfit stands out.
I scan the unfriendly, surprised faces, looking for someone I recognize. The woman from the clearing is across the room. She looks younger tonight, with her hair down, and happier, laughing loudly at something the girl next to her said. Then she sees me and immediately sobers.
I wave, and she glowers.
What is her problem?
I push ahead rather than wait to find out.
The kitchen is next. Linoleum floor, white appliances. Cheap bottles of alcohol and used plastic cups litter the counter.
“Wren! You came!”
I turn, finally spotting another semi-familiar face. It’s the guy who invited me. Will? Wes? Neither sounds right. I nod and smile and try to recall his name as he approaches, a beer bottle in one hand and a wide smile aimed my way.
“Cool party,” I say.
He smiles. Sips some beer. “Probably not what you’re used to, huh?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Variety is good.” Glance around the kitchen. “Is this your place?”
“Not just mine. But I live here, yeah.”
“Great location,” is the only honest compliment I can come up with.
What’s his name lights up. “Right? That’s what sold me on this place. Do you surf?”
“Uh, no. Not really big on the ocean. I prefer a pool.”
He tilts his head. “Why’d you go bluffing, then?”
“I wanted to. I’m not afraid of the ocean.”
“Huh.” He still seems confused. Or maybe I’ve offended my only ally. “You want a drink?”
“Just water. I drove.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, we usually just take it from the tap.” He nods toward the sink.
I clear my throat. “Anything flavored? Sparkling?”
He shrugs a shoulder, not appearing optimistic. “I’ll check the fridge.”
The door swings open, revealing the contents. Several cases of beer sit on the shelf, all but one ripped open. Aside from that, all that’s inside is a random assortment of condiments.
I should have brought a seltzer.
“Tap it is,” I say, spinning toward the sink.
Immediately, my eyes latch on Sawyer. He’s standing just through the doorway that connects to a hallway, talking to a guy with a shaved head. I can’t tell if Sawyer has noticed I’m here, much less cares. But he’s here, and that realization ratchets up my heart rate.
He’s just a guy.
A guy I hardly know.
A guy who seems to be an asshole most of the time.
A guy I’m not even sure likes me.
A guy who has Skylar tattooed on the inside of his wrist.
And also, the main reason I’m here.
“Here you go.”
A plastic cup of water is handed to me by the guy whose name I still can’t remember. I thought it was a W, but maybe it was a D? Dale?
Shit. I’m going to have to ask soon. It’ll be more awkward, the longer I wait.
I was distracted by Sawyer at the marina.
Just like I’m distracted by him now. He’s still talking to Buzz Cut, but his eyes have shifted to me.
He’s noticed I’m here, but I can’t glean any reaction from his expression.
Not if he’s surprised or disappointed or annoyed or pleased to see me.
Nothing. It’s as thrilling as standing at the edge of a cliff with him was.
Most guys are obvious. They leer or smirk or look at my boobs. For the most part, I don’t care what people think of me. But I’ve always—until now—had some idea.
“So, you staying the whole summer or …”
“Just a few more days,” I answer. “My dad’s work trip got canceled, so we came to stay with my aunt and uncle. My aunt’s mom throws this big Fourth of July party every year.”
“Oh yeah. The Red, White, and Blue thing. My sister was part of the catering staff at a couple of those. Said the food was gross. Oysters and caviar and shit.”
“Sounds right,” I say, sipping some water and hoping I’m imagining the rusty aftertaste.
“Where are you spending the rest of the summer?”
“New York mostly. I’m teaching a tennis camp. And I’ll probably take a trip to California to visit my grandparents. Next weekend, I’m going to Marseille for a friend’s eighteenth birthday.”
“Oh. Uh, cool.”
“What about you? Any summer plans?”
“Pretty much just this.” He waves a vague hand around. “Surfing and working, you know. Hanging with the crew.”
“The crew?”
“Guys at the marina and—hey, Cap!”
A flat, “Hey,” comes from behind me.
I fight the urge to look in every muscle, counting down from ten until I allow my head to slowly turn his way.
When I do, his eyes are on me.
“You showed,” Sawyer states with no intonation.
He would seriously clean up at poker.
“Yep,” I say cheerfully. “Since”—I glance at the guy I was talking to, then quickly away—“you guys made it sound fun.”
What’s his name smiles, but there’s a crease of confusion on his forehead. Sawyer didn’t encourage his invitation in any way.
He hasn’t realized I forgot his name yet.
But I think Sawyer might have come to that correct conclusion. He taps a finger against the rim of his plastic cup, scrutinizing me. Judging me, it feels like.
I hold his gaze, refusing to be the one who looks away first. Yeah, it was rude of me to forget the name of the guy who invited me, but it’s not a crime. He’s acting like I committed a felony.
“What are you doing here?” a snide voice asks.
The brunette is approaching. I forget her name, too, but I don’t feel badly about that.
I deliberate not answering, then decide saying, “I was invited,” is more satisfying. So, I do.
“Who invited you?”
One second passes. Two. Three.
“Me,” a male voice says. Not the one I’m expecting, but the one I instantly recognize and can connect to a name.
Her snideness wavers, hurt appearing instead. “Seriously, Cap? The fuck?”
“Leave it, Cammie,” Sawyer says, then strides past me and out of the kitchen.
“The deck cooler is out of ice, Wade,” Cammie comments cooly, then follows after Sawyer.
Wade. Wade, Wade, Wade, I chant silently, determined not to forget his name again.
“On it,” Wade replies. He glances at me, curiosity evident in his expression. He’s the only other person here who knows what Sawyer just said was a lie. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Sounds good,” I say, raising my glass in a silent cheers.
Wade smiles, then leaves me standing alone in the kitchen.