Kitty St. Clair’s Last Dance (Dial Delights #16)

Prologue

“All right, babe, you’re up.”

Zoe hands me the empty bottle of Jose Cuervo with an exaggerated wink and giggles, making me suspect she’s primarily responsible for its empty state.

I’m trapped. Our little party within a party has commandeered the entire dock to the left of the Sharma ’s massive boathouse with our game.

Now I’m wedged between Zoe’s cousin with the perpetually sweaty hands and some summer tourist Zoe picked up at the beach today—both of whom you’d describe using words like beefy and broad.

My back is to the lake, and although I have no desire to take a midnight dip, the idea is preferable to the tequila bottle in my hands and the rules that go along with it.

“I should probably go.” I attempt to stand so I can head back to my tiny apartment above the pizzeria and, more important, my bed, but Beefy Tourist grabs my wrist and tugs me back down to the circle.

“Can’t leave before it’s your turn.” He shoots me a grin that I’m certain he thinks is sexy.

And although I’m three drinks past my usual one-drink limit, there is no doubt that I’ll remember this entire exchange in the morning.

He, however, either will not recognize me or will not acknowledge that he does when he stumbles into the coffee shop tomorrow at noon to order his double Americano.

“Come on, Jules.” Zoe sticks her lower lip out in a pout. “One little spin. Live a little. It’s just for fun.”

I don’t see how playing spin the bottle is fun.

We’re not in middle school. More important, we shouldn’t be at this party.

It wasn’t like they were checking invites at the door, but we’re townies, and there’s an unspoken rule that we don’t mix with the summers unless we’re fucking with them.

But I promised Zoe I would “be chill” tonight—my birthday gift to my best friend.

However, kissing random summer boys is where I draw the line.

If they won’t let me off the hook, I’ll have to get creative.

“Okay, fine. One spin.” I place the bottle down in the center of the circle and give it a hard flick with as much strength as my five-foot-three frame can muster.

The bottle skitters across the deck, but instead of falling over the edge toward Lake Huron below as planned, it hits Beefy Tourist’s beer, spraying him as it ricochets back toward the boathouse.

It rolls to a stop next to a guy sitting in a Muskoka chair, half-hidden in the shadows of the boathouse’s roof.

He picks up the bottle and tosses it into the air, where it flips at least twice before he catches it with the skill of someone who has clearly handled a few liquor bottles in his life.

He’s got that quintessential summer resident look.

Faded blue swim trunks with a wrinkled blue linen shirt rolled to the elbows.

Expensive but not overt. I’d bet my meager barista paycheck he’s a Toronto boy with money who, every Friday to Sunday, June through to the end of August, comes up here to get away from it all.

It isn’t until he looks over and his brown eyes meet mine that I realize I’m staring. He smiles and holds up the thankfully still intact bottle as if to ask if it’s mine.

I want to blame the tequila working its way through my bloodstream for my inability to look away, but I know I’d only be lying to myself.

He’s so beautiful it’s unfair.

Dark wavy hair that hits below his ears, day-three stubble on his cheeks, and skin like mine—a usually pale complexion brought to a deep bronze by many long days out under the summer sun.

I’d say I’m smitten if I were naive enough to believe a girl could fall in love with a single look. Or if I weren’t the type of girl who would be perfectly fine if she never fell in love at all.

“Nicely done, Jules.” At some point during my man ogling, Zoe made her way into Beefy Tourist’s lap, and she’s now poking me in the ribs with her bony elbow. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

I’m grateful a wild dance party is happening on the other side of the dock because Zoe does not know how to use her indoor voice.

I make a second attempt to escape, and this time, when I stand, no one stops me. I move toward the stairs, sliding the screen of my phone open so I can use the flashlight to help me up the darkened path to the cottage, but before I reach them, someone calls out.

“You forgot something.”

I turn at the sound of the strange male voice. Beautiful Summer Boy stares back at me, the empty tequila bottle dangling between his outstretched fingertips.

“Oh. That’s not mine.” I turn to leave again, but he gets to his feet, moving toward me.

“So you throw random bottles of tequila at strangers?”

My back straightens, an instinctual reaction as I steel myself for a fight until I realize he’s smiling at me, full-blown dimple and all.

“I didn’t throw it. I spun it. Hitting you was an accident.” I grab for the bottle, but he lifts it high out of my reach.

“Why were you spinning it?”

I track my brain for any excuse less embarrassing than the truth and come back with nothing other than “A very stupid game.”

He turns toward my friends, who have, in my absence, located a replacement bottle. Beefy Tourist appears to be up. He takes his spin and smiles when his bottle stops facing a girl I’ve known since the seventh grade. We watch as she climbs into his lap, and their tongues intertwine.

“Spin the bottle?” he asks like a question, and I don’t bother denying what is clearly unfolding in front of us.

“Immature, I know. But it’s my friend Zoe’s birthday month—”

“Month?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “It makes much more sense when you know her. She’s persuasive, which is why I agreed to play in the first place.”

“So this was your turn.” He stares down at the bottle, which is now clasped between both our hands, and then raises a brow as if he’s only now noticed we’re both holding it.

“You’re welcome to kiss me at any time.”

I feel heat rush to my cheeks. “I’m not kissing you.”

My stranger laughs.

“The look you’re giving me says you think the experience would be painful. It’s not, by the way. Or at least no one has ever complained.”

“I don’t think that’s the accolade you think it is.”

He shrugs. “Fair point. But I’m pretty confident it’s a pleasant experience. There’s a very easy way to find the answer.” He flips the bottle in the air and catches it.

“I’m not kissing you,” I say a second time.

His smile falls for the briefest of seconds before it flashes again like it never left in the first place.

“Well, that’s too bad. I was looking forward to being kissed.

My all-boys school didn’t lend itself to too many spin-the-bottle games.

It’s a rite of passage I missed out on. But if you’re not into kissing me, can I offer an alternative? ”

I should say no and good night and then leave because nothing good can come from listening to his suggestion. Still, I find myself nodding.

“What if I kissed you?” he offers.

I should have bolted when I had the chance.

I could be halfway down the driveway by now, thinking about the crisp cotton sheets of my bed, not the way his brown eyes look almost black, as if they’re tempting me.

Luring me toward jagged rocks and what could only be an inevitable disaster if I give in to the very Zoe-like voice in my head telling me to live for once in my life.

“That’s looking to me like a yes.” His voice is low, a hint above a whisper. “I’m going for it.”

He waits until I whisper back exactly what he wants to hear. “Yes.” Then his hands are cupping my chin, and his lips are upon mine, feather-soft like he’s testing the waters. His tongue parts my lips, and if I wasn’t kissing him back before, I most definitely am now.

My heel pops, and my head swirls. All the things that were never supposed to happen to a girl with my common sense are happening. It’s so perfect it almost feels clichéd and yet—

“Yeah! Ju-Ju! You get that dick,” a voice that sounds awfully like the actual Zoe calls out. It’s the cold bucket of water I needed to wake me from whatever trance this siren of a man has put me under. Get ahold of yourself, Jules.

“I’ve got to go.” I step out of his embrace and back to reality.

“Already?”

He smells like summer. Campfire and pine with a hint of Canadian rye on his breath.

A seductive cocktail if you’re not careful.

But summer here at the lake is fleeting.

Just when it’s lulled you in with its heat and endless nights—it’s gone.

Leaving you cold and bitter. I’ve lived here most of my life.

I have watched, over and over, what happens when you fall for a summer boy.

“I’ve got to go,” I repeat, but I don’t actually move.

I do. I need to go. All of my instincts are telling me to cut and run. I shouldn’t be here at this party. I shouldn’t like the way his eyes never leave my face.

He takes a step closer. “But what if you hung out for a bit instead?” He nods back toward his chair and the one next to it. “I’d like to get to know the girl behind that kiss.”

My heart flutters and I simultaneously snort. “You’re pretty charming for a guy drinking alone in the dark.”

He inclines his head up toward the cottage. “My younger brother is friends with Megh Sharma. I tagged along at the last minute. Forgot most of them are dicks.”

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s crashing this party, too. A little on the outside. Someone else who doesn’t quite fit. Although it goes against my better judgment, I follow him back to the chairs.

He stops just short of the closest one and extends his arm. “I’m Reeve, by the way.”

I laugh as I take his hand, less at the sudden formality and more at the absurd order of tonight’s events. “Jules.”

He gestures at the two Muskoka chairs and waits. When I’m settled, he sits, then reaches over and pulls my chair closer so our armrests touch before leaning over and grabbing two beers from a cooler hidden by the shadows of the boathouse roof.