Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Skye
"We're here!" Harper says, pulling me out of my thoughts about the moment Dom and I had at the restaurant.
I look ahead and see the beautiful house we're pulling up to and gasp.
It's like something straight out of an architectural magazine—all clean lines and huge windows reflecting the afternoon sun.
Modern but somehow welcoming, with natural wood elements that soften the sleek design.
Three stories of perfection perched on what looks like a cliff, with what must be an incredible ocean view on the other side.
The structure seems to merge with the landscape around it, as if they had found a way to make concrete and glass feel like a natural extension of the rugged California coastline.
"Holy shit," I whisper, unable to help myself. My fingers press against the window like a child at an aquarium, drinking in every detail.
He parks the truck in a huge garage that has two nice cars in it—a sleek black Audi that looks fast even standing still, and some kind of vintage sports car in dark blue that probably costs a fortune.
Shit, how many vehicles does this man need? I wonder if having this much money means you just collect things because you can.
"I'll give you the grand tour and then we can change into our swimsuits and go down to the beach," Harper says, practically bouncing with excitement, her hair catching sunlight as she moves.
"Okay," I say, still in shock about this house.
I guess I should have figured he was this rich after the amount he almost paid for my virginity, but it really didn't cross my mind.
The numbers felt abstract then—just a solution to my problems, not something connected to this level of wealth. Not something real people actually had.
"I got the bags," Dom—err, Mr. Grayson says, and I follow Harper into the house, trying not to notice how easily he carries everything, as if our combined luggage weighs nothing to him.
The moment we step inside, I'm hit with the vastness of the space.
The entryway opens into a huge living area with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a panoramic ocean view that steals my breath.
Everything is sophisticated but comfortable—plush couches in neutral tones, a massive stone fireplace, and art on the walls.
The space feels alive somehow, as if the room itself is breathing with the rhythm of the ocean beyond those windows.
"So this is the main living room," Harper says, sweeping her arm around. "Dad designed it himself, obviously. Kitchen's through there—it's ridiculous, wait till you see it."
She leads me through to a kitchen that would make professional chefs weep—gleaming countertops, high-end appliances, and an island big enough to prepare food for twenty people.
Every surface catches the light in a different way, creating a symphony of reflections that makes the space feel even larger.
"This is where I'll be doing most of my baking this summer," she says with a grin. "Dad had the oven customized for me last year." She pats the massive stainless steel oven like it's a beloved pet.
We continue upstairs, where she shows me a home office with even more stunning views, one guest bedroom, and her room—a beautiful space with photos of her and her dad through the years, mixed with fashion magazines and baking books.
Her space is a perfect balance of sophistication and normal teenage girl, just like Harper herself.
"Bathroom's shared up here," she explains, showing me a luxurious space with double sinks and a rainfall shower that makes me itch to try it immediately.
The third floor turns out to be what Harper calls "Dad's space"— his bedroom takes up the entire floor.
When we get back downstairs, her dad asks, "Which room do you want?" His deep voice echoes slightly in the open space.
Shit, I wasn't even thinking about that. I'm used to just taking whatever space is available and being grateful for it.
"If you want to be on the second floor with me, you won't have your own bathroom, but you can always take the master suite down here so you have your own bathroom. That way you can use the jacuzzi tub—I know how much you like your baths," she says, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.
"Uhh... I'll take the first floor," I say. The thought of soaking in a jacuzzi tub after years of quick showers in our cramped bathroom at home is too tempting to pass up.
Her dad walks off in the direction of said room with my luggage, his movements fluid and purposeful.
"Okay, go change and meet me back here," Harper says, already bouncing on her toes with excitement.
"Yes, mom," I say as she grabs her bag and runs up the stairs, her energy seemingly boundless.
"Hurry up, bitch!" she yells on her way up, her voice echoing through the house.
I laugh at her crazy ass and make my way to my new room for the summer. Just as I'm almost there, her dad walks out, filling the doorway with his tall frame.
"I put your bags in there and got you some towels in the bathroom," he says, his voice softer than before.
"Uh... thanks, Mr. Grayson," I say, suddenly hyper-aware of being alone with him in this part of the house.
"Dom," he says, those dark eyes holding mine for a beat too long.
"Right," I say and walk into the room, but as I get past him, he grabs my wrist. My mind flashes back to the night I met him in the restaurant when he grabbed me like this.
I look up at him, at war between anger and horny again.
God, why does this man affect me so strongly?
It's like my body betrays my brain whenever he's near.
"Thanks for not telling her about us meeting," he says, his thumb unconsciously brushing against my pulse point.
"I didn't do that for you," I say, willing my voice to stay steady. "I did it for her. I didn't want to make everything awkward or upset her. I love her."
"Either way," he says, "it's best she doesn't know." His fingers are warm against my skin, sending little electric currents up my arm. I wonder if he can feel my pulse racing beneath his grip. "Do you think we can forget about that night too and start over?" he asks.
"You mean how you were a dick to me or how you wasted my time meeting you when you were just going to back out of the deal?
" I ask with what I hope is an angry look, but he makes me nervous, and I just hope it doesn't show.
My nose ring suddenly feels too tight, and I resist the urge to fidget with it.
"I can explain that," he starts, but I interrupt him, afraid of what he might say.
"It's already forgotten. Don't worry about it," I say and shake off his hand.
"Let's just try our best to get along for Harper," I say, walking into the room.
But when I turn back and look at him, I feel so guilty for my tone—after all, he's letting me stay in this amazing house all summer.
He's giving me a chance to escape my real life for a while.
"Okay," he says and turns to leave, his shoulders slightly tense.
"Mr. Grayson," I say, stopping him, the formality feeling safer somehow.
"Yeah?" he says, turning back around, one hand resting on the doorframe.
"I really appreciate you letting me stay here and for the plane tickets and everything. I'll pay you back," I say, and then he looks angry. He walks back to me, into my room, each step deliberate and controlled.
"Don't," he says, voice dropping to that deep tone that makes my stomach flutter. "Don't insult me by offering to pay me back. You're Harper's friend—family, practically. I'm not keeping a tab."
His presence fills the space, making the spacious room suddenly feel small. He's close enough that I catch his scent—something expensive and woody that makes me want to lean closer, to breathe him in more deeply.
"I just don't want to be a burden," I say, hating how small my voice sounds. How young and insignificant I feel standing in his perfectly designed home.
His expression softens slightly. "You're not a burden, Skye.
Harper has been talking about this summer all month—having you here makes her happy.
" He pauses, those dark eyes studying me in a way that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and protected.
"And making Harper happy is what matters to me. "
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. Not "Cherry," but "Skye"—my real name in his mouth feels intimate somehow, like he's peeling back a layer I hadn't meant to reveal.
"Still," I insist, unable to let it go, "there must be something I can do to help out around here." I'm not used to taking without giving something back. That's not how my world works.
A flash of something crosses his face—too quick for me to identify—before his expression returns to neutral. "Just enjoy your summer. That's all I ask."
He turns to leave again, then stops at the doorway without looking back. "Harper's probably already waiting for you." Then he's gone, leaving me alone with my racing heart and a suitcase full of questions about how I'm supposed to survive a whole summer under his roof.
I hurry and dig out my only bathing suit from my luggage.
A little triangle top black bikini—we don't swim much in Pennsylvania, maybe once or twice in the summers, but a couple of times before my dad left, we visited Myrtle Beach in South Carolina for a few days in the summer.
I undress in the bathroom and throw on my suit, then I pile my hair up in a high bun and leave the room in search of Harper.
She's standing in the kitchen holding towels, looking like she was born to be in California with her flawless skin and confidence. I feel suddenly self-conscious in my simple suit—it's nothing special, just something I picked up on clearance.
"I didn't grab shoes. Do I need them?" I ask, walking into the kitchen, feeling the cool tile under my bare feet and immediately noticing how beautiful the marble is.
"Nah, I didn't put any on either," she says, kicking a foot out to show me, her toenails painted a perfect coral that matches her bikini top. She grabs two waters out of the fridge and hands one to me, a fancy glass bottle with some Italian name I can't pronounce.
"Come on, we have a few hours before it gets dark," she says, walking over to the massive wall of windows and glass doors facing the ocean.
The view is even more spectacular from this angle—endless blue stretching to the horizon, the sun creating a path of golden light across the water, like something straight out of a travel magazine or one of those Instagram accounts that makes you hate your own life.
When we walk out onto the deck, I can't get over how beautiful it is.
The house sits at the perfect vantage point, with a deck that extends out toward the cliff edge, and below, a pristine stretch of private beach.
The stone feels warm and smooth beneath my feet, clearly expensive and maintained to perfection, just like everything else in Dominic Grayson's world.
"I didn't know you were this rich," I say, gesturing towards everything—the infinity pool to our right that seems to melt into the ocean beyond, the perfectly landscaped native plants arranged in artistic clusters, the outdoor kitchen area that could host a party for fifty with its built-in grill that looks like it's never been used.
"I mean, I guess I don't even think about it," she says, leading me toward the stairs. "I live with my mom most of the year, and she's not rich at all. But Dad pays for everything I need, so I guess I'm like half money, half not."
I laugh. "You're so weird," I say as she leads me over to the stairs that were built into the cliff like they were always here, stone blending with the natural rock formation in a way that makes it seem organic but is obviously the result of careful planning.
"Your dad designed this place?" I ask, running my hand along the smooth railing, imagining his hands sketching out these curves, these angles.
"Yeah," she says, her feet light on the steps as we descend. "He's kind of a big shot in the world of architecture."
"I believe it. This place is amazing. If his others are like this, then... just wow," I say, taking in how each turn of the staircase reveals another stunning angle of the coastline, each view more beautiful than the last, like he designed it to unfold like a story.
"Thanks," she says with genuine pride. "He's pretty awesome."
He's definitely impressive, hot, and from what I know and see, a good father—but he's also a big dick. A dick that I need to stay far away from while I'm here. It will be easy—just avoid him like a sexually transmitted disease. The thought makes me snort to myself. Great analogy, Skye. Real classy.
We reach the bottom and my toes hit warm, soft sand.
It feels so good, nothing like the rocky lakeshores back home where you have to wear water shoes to avoid cutting your feet.
The beach is completely deserted—apparently being disgustingly rich means you get your own private slice of paradise without having to worry about other humans intruding on your perfect day.
Harper looks at me with a huge smile on her face, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Race ya," she says, and we both stand there for a second, tensed like runners at the starting line. I take off suddenly, leaving her standing there, my feet kicking up little explosions of sand behind me.
"Hey!" she yells after me. "Cheater!" When I get closer to the water's edge, I drop my bottle of water in the sand and keep running straight into the ocean.
My feet splash through the shallows, sending up diamond droplets that catch the sunlight, creating miniature rainbows that disappear as quickly as they form.
When I get to my knees, I can't run anymore.
The water is clear and the perfect temperature—not freezing cold like I expected, but refreshingly cool against my sun-warmed skin.
I tread water until I'm thigh deep and look at Harper right behind me before I dive in, letting my body slice through the surface like one of those synchronized swimmers I used to watch on TV.
The salt water envelops me in silky coolness, and for a moment, I feel completely free.
No bills, no responsibilities, no weird sexual tension with my best friend's father—just weightlessness and blue.
When I surface, I push my wet hair back and laugh, feeling lighter than I have in months, maybe years.
Harper splashes me, her red hair darkened by the water, freckles standing out against her pale skin like constellations. "I can't believe we have all summer," she says, floating on her back beside me. "This is going to be perfect."
I nod and float next to her, staring up at the vast California sky, with the sun on my face and my best friend beside me.