Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 107(@200wpm)___ 85(@250wpm)___ 71(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 107(@200wpm)___ 85(@250wpm)___ 71(@300wpm)
Like she already knew this summer was going to ruin us both.
3
JULIET
Afew days had passed since Bastian got back, and Dad was already using it as an excuse to throw another cookout.
“It’s not every day your brother sticks around,” he’d said that morning, way too excited about the whole thing.
Now, the backyard was packed with the usual chaos of screaming kids, music blasting through the old porch speakers, coolers overflowing with beer, and Aunt Clara arguing with Uncle Stanley over grilled corn like it was a life-or-death situation.
I sat on top of the picnic table in cutoff shorts and an old tank top, my knees pulled to my chest while I picked at the label on a beer I didn’t even want. Everyone around me laughed and talked over each other like always, but I still felt disconnected somehow. Like I was watching my own family from the outside instead of actually being part of them.
The only exception was him.
My gaze kept drifting toward Bastian no matter how many times I told myself not to look.
He stood near the grill with his arms crossed, listening to Dad and Uncle Stanley talk about fishing boats and weather damage at the marina. Over the last few days, he’d barely said more than a handful of words to me. Every time I got too close to a conversation he was part of, he found some excuse to leave. He wasn’t rude about it, just careful, like being around me was dangerous for him somehow.
I caught him staring more than once. At my legs. My mouth. The way my tank top clung to my skin in the heat. Then he’d pull himself back fast, his expression tightening like he hated himself for even noticing.
It was starting to get under my skin in a way I couldn’t ignore.
“Juliet, you want another beer?” Dad called without even glancing up from the grill.
“I’m good,” I answered with a small smile.
He nodded absently and went right back to his conversation, probably already forgetting he’d asked in the first place.
I looked down at my bare feet against the weathered wood beneath the picnic table and smiled faintly to myself. Everything here was loud and messy and chaotic, but somehow, I still loved it anyway.
A second later, a cold bottle of water appeared beside me on the table.
No words.
No explanation.
I glanced up just in time to catch Bastian walking away from me like he hadn’t done anything at all. My chest tightened. He was watching out for me again.
He always did things like that. Quiet little things nobody else noticed. Solving problems before anyone asked. Taking care of people without wanting credit for it.
Especially me.
That familiar warmth spread down to my core before I could stop it. No matter how many years passed or how long he disappeared, Bastian always showed up when it mattered.
Later, as the sun started dipping lower across the lake and shadows stretched longer over the yard, I wandered barefoot down toward the dock wanting a little quiet away from everyone else. The wood was still warm beneath my feet from the heat of the day.
I stepped near the edge of the dock and hissed when something sharp sliced into the bottom of my foot.
“Shit,” I grunted, jerking back by instinct, pain shooting up my leg.
I sat down quickly on the edge of the dock and lifted my foot, watching blood start welling near my arch. Probably a splinter or broken piece of wood from the old dock boards. I was just about to stand up and head back toward the house when a shadow fell over me.
I looked up against the glare of the setting sun and found Bastian standing there. Without saying a word, he crouched in front of me and wrapped one large hand around my ankle. My breath caught.
His touch felt rough and warm against my skin, his calloused fingers spanning nearly the entire width of my ankle like it was nothing.
“Hold still,” he said. His voice came out low and rough enough to make heat curl low in my stomach.
He grabbed a water bottle beside him and poured it carefully over the cut while his thumb brushed slowly across my skin, cleaning away the blood.
Every single touch sent little shocks racing up my leg.
I stared down at the top of his head while my body reacted so intensely. He was so close I could smell him clearly now. Engine grease. Soap. Whiskey lingering beneath it all. Something intense and masculine that always reminded me of him no matter how many years passed.
The air between us suddenly felt thick with something I didn’t know how to name.
His thumb kept moving in slow circles against my skin, careful and gentle in a way I’d almost forgotten he could be. The touch itself was innocent. I knew that. But the way my body reacted to him was anything but innocent.