Chapter 8
Julian
She’s apologizing for sleeping? Even in sleep this girl is screaming “save me.” Allie is lucky I owe her, or I wouldn’t be here, I lie to myself. If Allie didn’t ask, I’d have found a way to check up on her. I wouldn’t be able to help myself, as much as I wish that weren’t true.
“You’re sorry for sleeping?” I try to tease, but I hate that she feels the need to apologize . . . for anything.
“No, no. I just meant you don’t have to go. Did you need something?”
“I thought we could take advantage of the day off.” I hope I say it casually. “Did Allie tell you she closed Fit for the day so we could get settled? It’s officially Inventory Day.” The last part I say with air quotes. “Maybe I could show you around . . . places besides Fit and Brew.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. Uh, give me a minute. I’ll meet you downstairs.” She’s already hopping off her bed, looking around like she’s trying to get her bearings.
I back out of the doorway and close the bathroom door.
Standing in the middle of my temporary room, I pat my chest with both hands and look around.
My palms stick to the pale blue cotton of my T-shirt.
My heart pounds against my ribs. I grab my keys and sunglasses and bound down the stairs to grab a couple ball caps, water bottles and towels.
I haven’t felt this . . . excited in a long time.
Weird. And terrifying. I want Ever to love Blue Lake like I do.
Like Allie does. Maybe she already does.
Maybe she already knows the best spots. Allie said her family came here when she was a kid.
I ignore my racing thoughts—and heart—and lie to myself that it’s all just a favor to Allie.
It’s not like this is the first time I’ve been attracted to a girl since Taya. But it doesn’t usually stick. There’s always a red flag that sends me running. Weirdly enough, Ever is nothing but red flags—young, seemingly innocent, broken and hurting—and yet I’m not running. I want her.
Wait! What? Dude, collect yourself.
I head back to the stairs to cancel right as she steps off the last step into the foyer. Her smile is unnaturally bright. Forced?
“Ready?” I hear myself ask instead as she simultaneously echoes me.
“Ready.”
Mine a question. Hers a statement.