Chapter 21
chapter twenty-one
Dayton
She brought another man home.
She was on a date.
I’m trying to think through the roar in my brain as I pop open the bottle of tequila.
There’s a small bowl of limes on the counter from the tree in the backyard, so I numbly start cutting them up after Summer escapes to the bathroom.
The tension in my muscles is making me ache, like I need a massage or to submerge in a hot tub to stop feeling like I could rip someone’s head off—a very particular someone with stringy hair and great taste in tequila.
“Sorry to interrupt your evening. You want me to chase him down in my car?” I call through the door.
I’ve been storing my Aston Martin in the garage to drive it when I’m on the island.
“You wanted to scare him off, and we both know it.” She emerges from the bathroom, face washed and hair up in a seashell-shaped clip. She changed into a thin white sweater that hangs off one shoulder and short cotton boxer shorts with blue stripes on them.
My mouth waters at the sight of her nipples under the fabric, which is exactly why I’ve been avoiding her since her birthday. Her tanned thighs look squeezable and delicious, so I turn back to the margaritas I’m mixing up.
“I can’t help that he jumped to conclusions.” Or that I felt violent urges when I saw him with you.
“Big bad Dayton just can’t help himself, hmm?”
“You don’t seem too torn up that he ran off.”
“I like to keep the mystery alive. Can’t invite them in too early.”
You’re not gonna invite him in ever, if I have anything to say about it.
I finish off the margaritas with a splash of sparkling water on top and a lime wedge on the edge of the glass.
I’ve been shamelessly watching her from the security cameras for the last four weeks.
This is the first date she’s brought home.
The artist painting the mural has kept his grubby fingers off of her, too, from what I can see.
She grabs the drink from my outstretched hand and takes a sip.
“Hmm, he knows his tequila, doesn’t he?”
“You sure you don’t want me to chase him down?”
“So you can run him over? No thanks.”
I level my gaze at her, wondering if she knows just exactly how obsessed with her I am. Her pale green eyes study me. The studio feels like it shrinks when she looks at me like that.
“I would never.” Do that unless he touched you.
“So, why are you here? I thought I’d finally gotten rid of you.”
“Not that lucky, Cupcake. I’m just checking in on my high-risk investment.”
She raises a brow. “And you’re sleeping here again, I presume?”
“With a warm invitation like that, how could I refuse?”
She rolls her eyes, sipping from the margarita again. “Mmm, this is really good.” She takes another drink, nearly finishing it off.
“You want another?”
To my surprise, she nods. “If you’re gonna be here, you might as well make yourself useful. I had a shitty—” She stops herself, considering her words carefully before continuing, “I had a shit day.”
“Hmm.” I start making another round of the margaritas, doubling them in size. “Well, I worked a long week, got on a packed plane with no legroom, and flew here, only to find my house invaded with a guy who looks like he’s never heard of shampoo.”
“How dare you make fun of my date?! He has great taste in alcohol, remember? That has to count for something.”
I nod, trying to hold back a smirk.
“And not all of us want to date flawless New York City runway models.”
“You sure bring that up a lot.”
She scoffs. “I do not. I’m just jealous of her hair.”
Her hair is the off-brand version of yours.
The fact that she can’t see that is beyond me.
I pour her another drink, this one bigger than the last.
She moves over to the bed and sits down on the edge. “And her style and maybe how her life is so put together.”
“You get all that from online stalking?”
She bobs her head.
“Maybe I should call her.”
She shrugs. “If you do, ask her for her hair care routine.”
She doesn’t care who you call or who you date. This obsession train only runs one way.
I walk over, sitting on the same side of the bed, near the end. “Sure. Any other burning questions you want me to bring up?”
She ponders the question, already halfway done with the margarita.
“I would love to know if she has an eyelash growth serum. I’ve been looking for one. Also, how does she put up with someone like you?”
“Maybe you should just call her yourself, so I don’t forget anything.”
She slips her hair to the side, combing her fingers through the messy waves. My mouth waters, so I take a drink of the tart cocktail.
“Does she know who I am?”
I laugh. “No.”
She gulps down the rest of her drink. I study her, wondering what she expected me to say.
Why would I tell my hookup buddy about the girl I’ve been obsessed with since I was a teenager, who has suspiciously similar hair to hers?
“Welp, sucks that you guys broke up.”
The sudden urge to grab her hair fills my veins. I grip the comforter to steady myself. When I was with Noelle, I always fisted her hair when we had sex. As shameful as it was, I would close my eyes and pretend she was Summer.
I never expected to be faced with this unhealthy obsession again. I thought sleeping with a woman with hair that reminded me of hers would remain my dirty little secret, not my Achilles’ heel, haunting my memories and my current situation.
“We were never together. I don’t have time for a relationship.”
She snorts. “Right, right. I forgot.” She waves a hand at me, swaying to the side as she stands up. “I forgot you have to focus on your big bad business and stockpile of money. What a beautiful life purpose.”
She walks back over to the kitchen.
“You think maybe you’ve had enough? How much did you drink while you were out with that little guy?” I stand to help her.
She waves a hand at me. “I’m looking for a new cup. I need water.”
“Go sit. I’ll get it.” I fill a glass of water for her. “Here.”
She takes it from me and sighs. “I was pretending to like him,” she mumbles.
My heart skips a beat. “What?”
She peers up at me with her addictive green eyes. Her hand snakes out to grab mine. She pulls me down to the mattress beside her, her lips brushing up against my ear as she presses her chest up against my shoulder. “I was pretending to like him. Just like I have to pretend I don’t like you.”
I open my mouth, but words don’t come. Tingles spread over my skin as she traces her fingers from my hand, up my arm, to my shoulder. She squeezes.
“You have such big muscles.”
All my fantasies about Summer Lark Sullivan are rushing to the surface. She finally realizes why I treated her that way—because I was a jealous, stupid teenager with raging hormones and an incurable obsession.
I reach out my hand to cup her waist underneath her sweater. Her skin is warm to my touch.
“Your eyes are so green.”
She tilts her head. “I thought you never noticed anything about me.”
I almost laugh. I could describe her to a sketch artist in perfect detail, every distinct color shade, every shape, every freckle on her skin.
I frown instead, tracing my hand up her side. She inhales as my touch gets closer to her chest. She’s not wearing a bra.
“Are you nervous?” I start playing my favorite game from high school, the one where I got an excuse to touch her.
She closes her eyes, sighing. “I know this is all a game to you, Dayton. I just don’t know why you like to play it with me so much.”
I set my margarita down so I have full use of both my hands. I take her glass of water and set it on the nightstand. My fingers wrap around the side of her neck, and her eyes shoot open. I feel her pulse jump under my fingertips. She blinks up at me, not with fear, but with something like … awe.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
My other thumb brushes over the side of her breast. Goose bumps prickle her skin. Her eyes stay locked on mine as I bury my fist in her hair and grip the base of her scalp. My half-mast dick hardens fully, poking up in my sweatpants.
“I’m touching you.”
She gulps. “Why?”
“Because it’s all I can think about,” I say, honest for once.
Her breath hitches. The hard peaks of her nipples poke up against her thin sweater. The urge to kiss her pink lips feels like a physical force inside me. I know she’s had too much to drink, so I won’t let myself do something she could regret in the morning.
“Are you going to kiss me, Dayton?”
I lick my lips, pulling her closer. “I was thinking about it.”
I feel her arch her back and lean into me.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to just do it, to press my lips against hers and sink into that feeling, that sensation I’ve been chasing for thirteen years. My grip in her hair tightens.
“You should get some sleep.”
With Herculean strength, I release her, standing up and taking a step back from the bed. My body feels like it’s on fire, and I’m fully aware that my erection is tenting my pants.
She peers up at me, eyes half lidded and cheeks pink. “You don’t want to?”
I turn away. “Go to sleep, Cupcake.”
I walk outside, shutting the door behind me and resting my head back against it. My body is vibrating with desire and the willpower it took to deny her.
If I’d kissed her, I wouldn’t have been able to stop there. I can’t let her make that decision when she’s been drinking and risk her waking up and wishing it hadn’t happened.