CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ELLIOT
“Are you sure you’re okay looking after Gin and Mango?” She glances between me, the lizard in my arms, and the dog lying at my feet with her head between her paws. “I can at least take Mango.”
“Of course. The last thing you need is to worry about these two while you’re trying to make a good impression.” I reach down and scratch the top of Gin’s head. She whines, tail thumping against the ground. “Plus, it’s only for two days. Then you’ll be back.”
Catherine gives me a dubious look before sighing and tossing her purse and overnight bag into the backseat.
“Thank you, Elliot. For everything.” She wraps her arms around my neck, and I inhale her familiar scent of jasmine and sea salt as I hold her back, not wanting to let go. “I mean it.”
Don’t let her go.
“Of course.” I bite back anything else before it can slip out, ignoring him.
“I’m a little nervous. I haven’t interviewed in years.” She steps back, twisting a loose strand of hair that’s fallen from her bun.
“You’ll do great. You’ve got skills, dedication, and great potential. One perfect package.”
“You think so?” She meets my gaze.
“I know so. Now get going. Text me when you get to your hotel so I can let these two know you’re safe.”
I open the back door of my car, and Gin jumps in. Catherine buckles herself into the driver’s seat and pulls out of the driveway, waving one last time before disappearing down the street.
“Well, you two, we best get back.” I shrug and climb into the car, making the short drive home.
I feed Gin fresh-made dog food and Mango a bowl of wiggling mealworms. Might as well spoil them while Catherine is gone. We all deserve a little treat.
Nothing on TV catches my attention as I flip through channels. All I can think about is how she’s going to nail this interview and leave me forever in a few short weeks.
She needs us. She’ll be miserable in this new job.
“You mean we need her.”
Gin looks up from the couch as I shift in the armchair. More than a week after the full moon beach party, the chair still smells like Catherine, her faint scent of jasmine and sea salt clinging to the fabric.
My phone pings. I pick it up, but it’s just the guys’ group chat.
Elliot. We’re all at The Riptide.
I’m good. Thanks though.
Come on dude. You never hangout anymore
I’m busy pet-sitting.
Excuses.
I stare at Mango perched asleep on the arm of the couch beside Gin.
Fine. Give me fifteen.
I quickly change into a pair of swim trunks and tug a faded, salt-softened T-shirt over my head before jogging out to my car. The late afternoon air is still warm, carrying the scent of sunscreen, ocean water, and fried food drifting from the boardwalk.
By the time I pull up outside The Riptide, the place is already loud.
Music spills through the open windows along with bursts of laughter and the crack of pool balls.
The patio is packed with sunburned tourists and locals still dusted with sand from the beach.
As soon as I round the corner toward the back deck, a chorus of cheers erupts from the table of surfers crowded beneath the string lights.
“There he is!”
“Took you long enough, Fitzgerald.”
Hands clap against my shoulders and back as I squeeze between chairs.
Most of us are playing in the beach volleyball tournament next weekend.
Nothing professional, but around here people treat it like the Olympics.
Rivalries run deep, bets get placed, and bruised egos usually last longer than bruised ribs.
“Liam, pour another round!” someone calls toward the bar.
The bartender waves in our direction.
Before I can even sit down, Dylan empties the last of a pitcher into a frosty glass and shoves it into my hand.
I take a long drink, cold beer sliding down my throat as condensation drips over my fingers. The first swallow cuts through the heat still clinging to my skin from the day.
“So where’s your girlfriend?” James asks with a grin.
A couple of the guys immediately lean in like sharks scenting blood in the water.
How do I explain that she’s not technically my girlfriend? That whatever Catherine and I are exists somewhere in the blurry space between temporary and inevitable?
Does it even matter anymore?
Instead, I smirk and clink my glass against his.
“When are you gonna get a girlfriend?” I shoot back.
The table erupts into jeers and laughter.
“Never,” Dylan says dramatically. “Women can smell commitment issues on him.”
James points at me. “Nah, Elliot’s the shocking one here. Mr. ‘I don’t do relationships’ suddenly playing house.”
I shrug, trying for casual even though hearing it out loud does something strange to my chest.
“You guys ready for next week?” I ask, steering the conversation away from me.
“To kick your ass into the sand?”
I bark out a laugh. “Kick my ass? If I remember correctly, we beat you so badly last year you were coughing up kelp for a week.”
The table howls.
“Psh. That was last year.” James flexes before shoving my shoulder. “I’m a whole new beast now.”
“You’re still built like a surfboard.”
More laughter.
“Besides,” he continues, pointing accusingly at me, “you’ve gone soft on us. Here I thought Elliot Fitzgerald would die alone with a surfboard and a beer.”
“Well…” I tip my glass back with a grin. “When you meet the right one—”
My phone buzzes against the table before I can finish.
In my hotel safe. Missing Gin and Mango already.
and you.
Another buzz, and an image comes through.
Catherine sprawled across the hotel bed, dark hair fanned around her against white sheets.
She’s wearing one of my white cotton button-ups, the fabric rumpled and slightly sheer beneath the warm bedside light.
Bare legs disappear beneath the hem, and the outline of her nipples presses faintly through the thin material.
My shirt.
Heat punches low in my stomach so fast it’s almost painful.
You look beautiful.
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
Call me?
Give me fifteen. Ran to town.
“Guys, I gotta run.”
A chorus of groans answers.
“But you just got here!”
“Whipped,” Dylan accuses.
“I think I left the water running at the house,” I lie.
James snorts loudly. “That is the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”
“Seriously,” someone else calls after me. “At least say explosive diarrhea or something believable.”
I flip them off over my shoulder, grinning despite myself as I head toward the parking lot.
The second I’m inside my car, I blow out a rough breath and lean my head back against the seat.
Goddess.
The image of her in my shirt is burned into my brain.
I start the engine and pull onto the road, driving home as fast as I legally can while trying not to think about the fact that I’m achingly hard beneath my shorts the entire drive.
My phone buzzes right at the fifteen-minute mark with a video call just as I climb into bed.
“Hey,” I say as I answer.
Her face lights up the screen—rosy lips, glossy eyes.
“Hey,” she replies breathlessly. “I wish you were here—”
“I’m glad you made it safe—” I start, and we both fall silent, smiling.
“The hotel has this giant bed.” She lifts the phone with one hand to pan across the sprawling white sheets and oversized pillows.
But I barely notice any of it.
My attention locks immediately on her other hand disappearing beneath the hem of my shirt between her thighs.
My mouth goes dry.
“Catherine,” I manage roughly, my voice already strained.
The soft sound she makes at my tone shoots straight through me.
“What are you doing?” I rumble, even though I know exactly what she’s doing.
“These sheets aren’t nearly as soft as yours, though.” Her lashes flutter closed as her hand moves slower, teasing, her lips parting on a shaky breath.
The sight of her wearing my shirt while touching herself in a hotel room three hours away nearly wrecks me on the spot.
“Goddess, Wren.” I shove my shorts down just enough to free myself, wrapping my hand around my throbbing cock with a hiss. I’m already rock hard, a bead of precum slicking the tip. “Show me.”
Her eyes drift back to the screen, heavy-lidded and molten.
“Only if you show me.”
I angle the phone so she can see my hand wrapped around my cock, matching her pace.
“There you are,” she murmurs.
The low praise sends heat roaring through my veins. I stroke myself slowly, trying to hold onto some shred of control, but it’s impossible when she looks at me like that—hair spilled across white sheets, cheeks flushed pink, my shirt sliding off one shoulder.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” I ask hoarsely.
A small smile curves her mouth. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”
I groan softly, head falling back against the pillows for a second before forcing myself to look at her again.
“Wren,” I warn, voice rougher now. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’m getting in the car tonight.”
She bites her lip, trying—and failing—to hide the pleased expression blooming across her face.
“Maybe I want you to.”
“Don’t tease me, Wren.”
“Come with me, Elliot,” she says as she arches across the hotel bed, mouth parting as her fingers pump faster.
I match her stroke for stroke, watching as a moan slips from her lips.
My legs tense, toes curling as I come all over my thighs.
Her whole body relaxes on camera, a satisfied smile curving her lips as she peers at me through half-lidded eyes.
“Goodnight, Elliot.”
“Goodnight, Wren. And good luck tomorrow.”
The video chat ends, my screen going black as I fall back against my pillow with a huff.
I don’t think I’ll survive if she gets this job and moves away.