Chapter 2
Knox
Didn’t think I’d see her again.
Not in a bougie cafe with scones, oat milk, and a ridiculous chalkboard sign that read: We’ll Brew You a Cup of Love.
Yet there she stood, ahead of me, in line at Seaport Coffee Café.
After placing an order, she stepped to the side, calm and collected.
Her gaze slid past mine, nonchalant, as if she didn’t recognize me.
But the color creeping up her cheeks suggested otherwise.
Fine with me. Preferred, even.
Last thing I need is temptation tied up in a neat little bow.
Even so, that didn’t stop me from watching her jet out with her coffee. Or from clocking the bag she’d forgotten, her name scribbled across it.
Cami.
The dark-haired, blue-eyed smoke show I collided with two nights ago.
I’d just arrived from Manhattan and gone for a jog along the beach when, out of nowhere, she barreled into me—naked, wet, beads of water dripping from her long, raven hair.
As she stumbled back, I bracketed her waist to break her fall, and she peered up at me, starlight catching in stormy-blue eyes, sharp and bright.
I’m not the guy who remembers eye color at first sight.
But hers stuck. So did the perfect set of tits and the perfect ass I caught a generous glimpse of as she scurried inside, a snapshot of those curves playing on repeat ever since.
I scrub a hand down my face, cursing the fact that she’s still in my head. Even hours later, I’m replaying her defensive, mouthy spiral, damn near biting my head off like I’m the villain in her reality TV show, The Real Drama of Crystal Cove.
My phone rings, hauling me back to the present.
Mont.
Sending it to voicemail will only make him call back a second later, so I answer on the first ring.
“You free for a quick one?” he says, bypassing small talk. “I’ve got eyes on a boutique fitness chain in Jersey. Solid growth, decent EBITDA, but something smells off in their lease structure. I’m sending over the docs. Need your take in a few days, if possible.”
“Yeah. I’ll take a look.”
Silence hums on the line before he casually spills, “You get laid yet, or what?”
I snort. “Not even close.”
Mont grunts like my recent dry spell is a character flaw.
“Well, don’t come back here till ya do.” His command is low and guttural, like a Mafia boss ordering his hitman to strike.
If I want casual sex, Manhattan has no shortage of hot-as-hell women. Besides, Crystal Cove—the small town for big-hearted families—isn’t the place for random hookups.
It is, however, an escape from the hell I’ve been living in.
A place to simply be.
And hopefully, by summer’s end, the image of my wife taking it doggie-style from a twenty-something fuckwad with pierced nipples and a neck tattoo will finally be erased from my memory.
“Not here for hookups.” I set my phone on the granite counter and hit speaker. “Just need a place to chill until she vacates the penthouse.”
“That two-timing witch is lucky you gave her three whole months. If it were me who caught my wife cheating—”
“Ex-wife now,” I cut in, thankful my so-called marriage is finally severed after six brutal months of court mediation.
“She should’ve been out on her ass the day you came home to find her fucking some other dude. In your newly renovated kitchen, no less.”
Mont’s sentiments one thousand percent echo my own, but I did agree to give Jenna The Ex three months to move out in exchange for my freedom.
“Well, thanks to our prenup, and Jenna wanting to keep chatter of her infidelity off social media,” I explain, “she’ll only have this summer to vacate, plus the measly two hundred grand she had in her bank account when we married ten years ago.”
“And the vacation-rental empire you started?”
“Safe.” I open the fridge, snag a cold one, and pop it open with the drawer handle, a hiss escaping before my first sip. “Turns out, since our separate business entities are doing equally well on their own, we’ve been awarded a clean break.”
I pluck my phone off the counter and step onto the deck, my gaze catching the last slip of daylight.
Sunsets in Crystal Cove are nothing short of perfection.
For a split second, disappointment swirls in my chest at the thought of witnessing them all alone.
“What’s mine is mine, and what’s hers is hers. ”
Mont remains quiet for a beat before finally saying, “All the more reason for you to put yourself out there. Go hit a bar, grab a drink, maybe some fresh seafood—though me, I don’t touch the stuff. Celebrate. Get some pussy while you’re away.”
I can’t help but chuckle at his candor, something I’ve grown to appreciate.
We met at a heart-health awareness gala, one of those events Jenna The Ex swore would be good for networking.
I figured I’d park myself at the open bar all night, but then I met Mont.
Since then, he’s become more than a business partner.
He’s a mentor. A father figure. Maybe the closest thing I’ve had to a second family in years.
“Give it a rest already.” I lean on the deck railing with a chuckle and take a swig of beer as seagulls cut across the violet sky. “Getting involved with a woman is the furthest thing from my mind right now.”
After what my ex did, I’m done. I gave her years of loyalty, unconditional love, and support—but she still cheated.
So, no, I’m not in a rush to even hook up.
Too easy for a casual night to crack something open.
And I’m not risking handing over my heart again.
Especially not when I know exactly how bad it hurts when someone drops it, leaving it battered and bleeding.
I don’t need another heartbreak. I just need a quiet summer to forget.
“On the contrary, that’s exactly what you need to shove this all behind you.” He pauses. “Hey, what happened to that skinny-dipping hottie who ran into you the other night? The one you said had perfect tits and a perfect ass?”
Cami.
“Nah. She nearly bit my head off at the coffee shop earlier today, mouthing off some wild excuse for her naked sprint.” I roll my eyes.
“Can you believe she accused me of slamming into her when she’s the one who bulldozed me?
” I finish the last swig of beer, wishing I’d grabbed two bottles from the fridge.
“Besides, she’s too quirky. Too animated. And way too young.”
Everything I shouldn’t want but can’t stop thinking about.
“Oh yeah? How young?”
“Not sure.” I shrug. “Mid-twenties? Probably some college student Millie’s hired.”
“And who’s Millie?”
“Sweet older lady next door. Travels frequently and hires a house sitter while she’s gone.”
“Well”—he clears his throat—“the best way to get over an ex-wife who cheated on you with a twenty-something low-life prick is for you to hook up with a twenty-something hot-as-fuck house sitter.”
I scoff. “You do realize I’m pushing forty, not some frat boy chasing shots and sloppy hookups, right?”
“C’mon, you’re barely thirty-five. Besides, I had just celebrated my fortieth when Frankie’s mom walked into my life.
We fell head over heels despite our age gap, and the fact that I was her boss.
” He pauses as if marinating in thoughts of the woman and kid he circles back to often.
“She’ll forever be—they’ll forever be—the best that’s ever happened to me. ”
“Well, I thought Jenna was the best thing that had ever happened to me, and we all know she managed to make our marriage look like a full-blown shit show.”
Mont blows out what sounds like a frustrated breath.
“You know I love you like a son. So, here’s my advice: Save your overthinking shit for when you’re tearing apart that boutique fitness chain.
Step out of your comfort zone, and do what you gotta do to get over your ex while away.
Have a one-night stand with someone you meet at a bar, in a grocery checkout line, or better yet, with that bombshell next door.
Think of it as therapy. Sex therapy. A common cure for get-over-a-bitch-itis. Trust me, it’ll do wonders.”
He’s not wrong.
While most guys would’ve buried themselves in a new woman after their spouse cheated, I’ve buried myself in work, unwilling to risk my heart again.
Jenna and I’d been together for over eleven years, counting our first year of dating.
She’s the only woman I’ve slept with since college.
The only woman I had ever craved. Our marriage seemed unbreakable.
Strong. Everlasting. No sign she’d fall astray.
Seeing her get fucked by another man—a much younger man—nearly sent me six feet under.
Before our call ends, Mont challenges me to bang the next hot piece of ass I come across, even if she happens to be Ms. Perfect Ass and Tits next door.
If it keeps Mont off my back, and keeps me from thinking about how damn lonely this house is going to feel over the next three months, fuck it.
“Okay. Challenge accepted.”
My new late-night pastime before settling in is a jog along the beach—secluded, accessible only to a couple of oceanfront properties: mine and Millie’s place next door.
Back in Manhattan, a quick two miles on the treadmill sufficed. But Manhattan doesn’t have crisp sea air, waves crashing against the shore, or the head-clearing vibe I need after crunching numbers and eating cold takeout.
I grab my phone, lace up my running shoes, and head down toward Crystal Cove Beach, its waves lapping at the shore.
And just as I’m about to slip in my earbuds, a woman screeches, “No freaking way I’m staying here for three whole months! Not with attic gremlins!”
My curiosity snaps to the house next door, and my dark-haired, blue-eyed smoke-show neighbor.
Her short, satin robe clings.
Her hair is wild.
And she’s bolting straight toward me like déjà-fucking-vu.
Instantly, Mont’s challenge flashes in my head.
Pretty sure I should go on that run, mind my damn business.
Instead, I stand here, my gaze cemented on her breathtaking beauty. Also known as You are so fucked.