Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Holy shit.
I can’t believe last night actually happened. I keep replaying it on a loop in my head—the press of Mason’s lips against mine, the way he dropped to his knees and made me forget how to speak, let alone think. It was the kind of thing teenage me used to fantasize about in the dark, alone in my room.
A hot, muscled lifeguard sucking my dick and calling me pretty? Hell. Fucking. Yes.
But what really surprised me was the way he looked at me afterward—like I wasn’t just a distraction or a passing curiosity, but someone who actually mattered. Like he wanted me.
Me. A skinny, awkward, socially-inept nerd who knows way too many useless facts about plants and corrects people when they confuse moss and lichen. The guy who’s more comfortable identifying trees than talking to actual people.
When my research proposal was approved earlier this year, I braced myself for a summer of quiet fieldwork and data analysis.
A few sunburns. Maybe a bout of poison ivy.
I certainly didn’t expect him—and I sure as hell didn’t expect him to want me back.
This kind of thing doesn’t happen to people like me.
Right now, I’m slouched at my desk, trying to type up my weekly status report for my graduate research advisor. My fingers hover uselessly above the keyboard, paralyzed by the racing thoughts in my brain.
With a groan, I shove my laptop aside and collapse on my bed, letting the blankets swallow me. I grab my phone and call my emotional support hotline: my best (and only) friend, Derek.
He picks up after one ring. “Hey, bitch! How’s it going?”
I groan into my pillow. “Derek, I need help. I’m having a crisis.”
“You’re always having a crisis. Be more specific.”
“I did a thing last night.”
“A thing?”
“A sex thing. With a guy.”
He gives a snort of disbelief. “Okay, solid joke. Now tell me what actually happened.”
“I’m not joking!” I snap, lifting my head. “You remember that lifeguard I told you about? Mason?”
“The grumpy-but-sexy straight one?”
“Yeah, well… turns out I was wrong about the straight part.” I pause. “We had an argument, and it got kinda heated, but then he kissed me. And we, um. Gave each other head.”
A beat of silence passes between us.
“Wait. Are you serious?”
“Yes, Derek!”
“Holy shit, Hunter. This is huge! You haven’t hooked up with anyone since—”
“I know,” I cut in, my stomach twisting at the name I know he’s about to say.
“Since Travis,” he finishes anyway.
I pick at the chipped polish on my thumbnail. “Obviously. Travis is the only guy I’ve ever slept with.”
God, it’s humiliating to admit out loud. Travis was my first everything—first kiss, first fuck, first heartbreak. And until last night, I hadn’t touched anyone else. We broke up two years ago, and I’ve been stuck in a stasis ever since. I’m twenty-three years old and have only ever kissed one guy.
Well, now two guys.
“Jesus. Okay, tell me everything. How was it?”
I take a breath. “It was… good. Really good. Like, way better than I expected. And not just the blowjob. I didn’t know kissing someone could feel like that.”
“That’s because Travis was a bad lay and a terrible kisser,” Derek says flatly. “And a shitty person.”
I hum quietly. “Yeah.”
For a second, we just breathe into the line together. Then Derek asks, more gently, “So… what are you gonna do now?”
I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. “We said we wanted to do it again, but we’re keeping it casual. I mean, I’m only here for two more months.”
“Then you better enjoy two months of no-strings-attached sex with a hot lifeguard, you lucky bitch,” he says.
I huff. “You’re forgetting I have barely any sexual experience. I’m not like you—I didn’t get passed around by the entire high school drama club.”
He gasps. “Are you slut-shaming me right now?”
“Absolutely.”
He cackles. “Stop overthinking it, Hunter. You’re smart, funny, kind, and a complete nerd, but in a lovable way. And you’re hot, even if you don’t see it.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Gross.”
“Shut the fuck up and let me compliment you,” he snaps, but his tone is tender.
There’s a sudden clatter in the background, followed by muffled cursing.
Derek groans. “Shit. Oliver just burned himself on the stove again. I gotta go play nurse.”
Oliver is his fiancé. They’ve been dating for about four years, and they’re disgustingly in love. They recently got engaged, and I’m going to be Derek’s best man at their wedding next summer.
“Go take care of your man. Tell him I say hi.”
“Will do. And I want every detail about Mr. Hot Lifeguard moving forward.”
I press my forehead against my knee, smiling despite myself. “Sure. Love you.”
“Love you more. Don’t forget to wear protection! Bye.”
He hangs up.
I toss my phone aside and sink back into the pillows, staring at the ceiling fan spinning overhead. I feel a little lighter, but the weight in my chest doesn’t fully go away.
There’s still this tiny, insecure voice in my head whispering that Mason is going to wake up, realize he’s out of my league, and decide last night was a mistake. That he can do better.
But God, selfishly, I hope he doesn’t. Because I want more.
I want to kiss him again. I want to feel the warmth of his skin against mine, memorize every freckle, lick his abs, learn what makes him moan.
I’ve never been this desperate to touch someone before. Granted, my experience is admittedly… limited.
This summer, I came to Claremont Shores to conduct research. Maybe I should think of this thing with Mason as another kind of experiment—an opportunity to become an expert in sex. A sex-pert.
Time to collect some data.
***
It’s nearly eight o’clock at night by the time I finally build up the courage to text Mason. I type, delete, and re-type the message at least half a dozen times. My thumb hovers over the send button, twitching hesitantly.
Finally, I close my eyes and hit send.
Hunter: Hey! I had a great time last night. :)
I stare at the screen, already spiraling. My heart lurches.
Fuck. Was the smiley face too much? Too juvenile? Is punctuation in texting lame? What if he thinks I’m clingy? Or—
My phone pings, and relief washes over me.
Mason: me 2. r u busy rn?
Hunter: Nope. Do you want to come over?
Mason: be there in 20
Normally, the excessive acronyms would make me cringe, but it’s oddly endearing coming from Mason.
Launching myself into the bathroom, I scrub my face, brush my teeth with way too much toothpaste, and give my tongue the deepest clean of its life. I wrestle my hair into something that looks halfway presentable.
Next: outfit. Almost all of the clothes in my closet are thrifted or designer, the latter of which are gifts from my parents. I manage to find a pair of gray sweatpants and a purple tank top that clings just right. Casual. Cute. Chill. Like I’m not trying too hard to impress him, even though I am.
When the doorbell rings, I wait a few seconds before opening it. Just long enough to seem cool. Not desperate.
Then I swing the door open, and my lungs freeze.
Mason stands there, lit by the warm-toned porch light, looking stupidly hot.
He’s in a plain black T-shirt that hugs his muscled chest and arms like it’s plastered to his skin.
His light brown hair is damp, curling at the ends, and he’s wearing black joggers with scuffed sneakers.
There’s something boyish in the way he stands, one hand stuffed into his pocket, the other holding his keys.
“Hey,” I greet, my voice cracking embarrassingly high.
“Hey,” he replies, eyes sweeping over me in a way that makes my skin feel hot.
I step aside. “Um, come in.”
He walks past me into the foyer, glancing around like he’s in a museum. I suddenly become hyperaware of the absurdity of this house. The marble floors, the oversized windows, the perfectly staged décor and furniture that looks like a set design.
My face burns. “I know it’s a lot.”
“No kidding,” Mason says, his voice full of amusement. He steps farther into the open-concept layout, peering into the sleek kitchen. “This place is insane.”
There’s a massive island in the middle of the kitchen with a sparkling white quartz countertop. Mason runs his hand over it and whistles. “This counter’s bigger than my entire bathroom.”
“My parents insisted,” I mutter, scratching the back of my neck. “It was the only furnished rental they could find on short notice.”
He looks back at me, one brow raised. “So, you’re like… rich rich, huh?”
“I’m not,” I say quickly. “My parents are.”
He laughs. “Sure. That’s what rich people say.”
I bite my bottom lip. “Yeah, well…”
He pauses at the window above the sink and stares at the lake. The waves lap calmly at the shore, the beach cloaked in orange light as the sun sinks into the horizon.
“Nice view,” he muses.
“Mhm.”
He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. “Growing up, all the kids who lived here went to private schools. A bunch of real estate guys came in a few years back and bought up most of the houses. Now they’re all rentals and Airbnbs.”
“It’s a nice neighborhood,” I offer.
He turns back toward me, hands braced on the lip of the countertop. His gaze pins me in place, intense and searching, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “So, what do you wanna do tonight, Hunter?”
A nervous laugh slips out of me. I wave a hand vaguely toward the living room. “Um, maybe we can sit? Or—uh—hang out?”
Mason’s mouth curves into a grin. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
He walks over to the couch and drops onto it, spreading his long arms across the backrest. I hover awkwardly for a second before sitting down beside him, just close enough that our legs brush.
The faint scent of sunscreen lingers on his skin. My stomach does a somersault.
“So,” I say, fiddling with the drawstring of my sweatpants. “How, um. How was your day?”
The hinge of his jaw twitches. “Honestly? One of the worst days of my life.” He lets out a dry, humorless laugh that makes my stomach twist.