Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“So this is about Theo.”
“No,” I barked, snapping back into angry mode. “He’s gone from my life.”
“But is he really?” she countered, then crossed the room and took my hands. Despite being annoyed, I let her, though I threw my gaze to the wall. “I think that cute, sexy, manipulative bastard is living rent-free in a bungalow in your brain. And if you let him stay there, he’ll dictate who gets to move in for the rest of your life.”
“I hate your metaphors.”
“Don’t just be Theo’s ex. Make Theo your ex. Move on from that cute, sexy bastard.”
“You’ve called him cute and sexy twice.”
“He was,” she mumbled defensively before continuing on without missing a beat. “I think you’ll regret it if you don’t pull down all your walls and just try letting River in. All the way in.” Her voice went deeper. “All the way in.”
Yes, she was implying sex. “I’m going to the gym,” I said to her, gently pushed her hands off of mine, and made my way out.
I’m still thinking about her—and River—when I take my tired-ass self for a stroll across Breezeway Point, shoes and socks off and stuffed into my gym bag so I can enjoy the sand between my toes. I didn’t drive to the gym today, figuring I could use the walk to contemplate the abyssal mess that is my knot of feelings for a certain River Wolfe. Also, perhaps in some desperate effort to promote the Fair, Brooke insisted I wear the Hopewell Hoodie Tank to the gym—a neon green sleeveless hoodie with rainbow piping around the edge of the hood and our logo across the front. I guess that also makes me a walking beachside billboard, as bright as can be, can’t miss me halfway across the sand.
And I’m no closer to understanding how I feel about everything. My sister’s words hang over my sluggish head about how I’m allowing my “cute, sexy, and manipulative” ex to be the landlord of my brain. I wish it was so easy to just shut it off. To not feel like anyone’s efforts of flirting with me—even River’s—isn’t to just get something. Will I ever trust people again?
Or trust myself?
The next thing I know, a volleyball whacks me in the side of the head with such force, I literally stumble forward with stars in my eyes before tripping over my own feet and face-planting into the sand.
And when I turn, there’s the same hot beach guy again, his messy hair, dripping in sweat and tight abs, charming smile and twinkling eyes in the afternoon sunlight.
The same fucking guy. The same fucking volleyball.
“Are you kidding me??” I blurt out before he can even start his flirty charm on me. “Twice?? Do you have some fucking vendetta against my consciousness??”
He laughs and lifts his hands in innocence. “I swear, it is a total coincidence. I am so sorry, bro—”
“I ain’t your ‘bro’, bro!” I snap back.
He recoils, surprised at my temper.
Honestly, I’m surprised by it, too.
Just then, I spot a young woman some distance away with her phone pointed my way. Is she recording this? I’m so surprised that I freeze in place, as if some spotlight just cracked on and craned itself onto me at full brightness.
There’s someone else squinting my way, too—a guy in a pink speedo. He pulls out his phone, but not to record; apparently to check something. He looks up at me, then his phone, then me again, growing increasingly surprised.
“I said I’m sorry,” says the volleyball hottie, but I find myself too spooked to respond. I just gather my gym bag into my arms like a baby and scurry off across the sand.
Then I see someone else looking my way. A group of guys. Phones are coming out. I peek over my shoulder. The young woman is still recording me, following from a far distance. I fight an instinct to shout at her to stop, but the very act of being recorded keeps me silent and scared. In no time at all, it feels like everyone’s eyes are on me. I’ve already passed the Easy, otherwise I would beeline straight in there and duck under the counter, begging Chase to hide me—or Cooper himself, if he’s actually at work today. Just my luck that he would be when I can’t make my way there without walking back past the woman recording me. Wait a sec—are there three people recording me now?
Over just a simple mishap with a volleyball?
And my angry eruption?
Did I forget to get dressed at the gym and strolled out of it stark naked somehow? Nope. Bright-ass hoodie and shorts: definitely on. What is all of this attention about?
“Is that him?” I hear someone from ahead, causing me to stop in my tracks. It’s another guy with his phone out, a curly-haired buddy standing at his side. That buddy is bold enough to actually talk to me—or yell, rather: “Hey, you! Are you Finn? The island lover?”