dreaded red, white, and blue bikini. They’re freshmen at UT Dallas, if I’m remembering correctly, and, once upon a time, freshmen sorority twins would have been a jackpot of sorts.
Except . . . I’m pretty sure these girls know it, and their smug awareness of their appeal strikes me as unappealing and far too easy.
So instead of joining them and their skimpy suits, I continue toward my original destination of the dock.
After three hours in a car with Chloe I could use the solitude.
I kick off my flip-flops and lower my feet to the water. I can’t say I’m a big fan of Texas in the summer, but Texas in the summer by a lake?
Not so bad.
The Bellamys have neighbors, none so close as to feel crowded, but nearby enough to catch the sounds of happy families, tipsy friends, and the smells of a half dozen BBQs.
For a second, I feel something that might be homesickness.
It reminds me of summers in the Hamptons, back when I’d belonged. Back when it had been my family hosting the barbecues, my friends playing music too loud, laughing too much.
For one brutal moment, the loneliness threatens to surface.
I shove it back, partially because it’s futile, partially because I hear footsteps behind me.
For once, I’m actually eager for the distracting presence that is Chloe Bellamy.
Hell, I’m even tempted to confide in her. Somehow I suspect that if anyone understands being lonely in a crowd it’s her.
But it’s not Chloe who settles beside me on the dock. Not Chloe who swings her legs over the side and dangles her feet over the water.
It’s not Chloe who sits with a hip touching mine, even though there’s plenty of room on the dock.
It is a bikini-clad Kristin.
Neither of us says anything, but she reaches over and plucks the beer bottle from my hand, tilting it back to her lips. It’s probably supposed to be a sexy, casual move, but there’s something artificial about it, as though she’s hoping someone is watching.
Say, perhaps, her boyfriend?
“Wasn’t expecting my tennis pro to show up at my parents’ lake house,” she says.
“I’m not your tennis pro this weekend,” I say, turning my head just slightly to look at her. “I’m Chloe’s friend.”
I can tell by the way her nose scrunches up, just slightly, that she doesn’t like this. She takes another sip of my beer, and this time it’s less contrived. Like she needs it to wash a bad taste out of her mouth.
“She’s lost weight,” Kristin says, handing my beer back and leaning over just slightly to watch her feet swing back and forth over the water.
Her parents had said the same thing—not in Chloe’s hearing—but whereas Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy had said it with delight, Kristin’s tone is something else entirely. Not quite begrudging, but definitely thoughtful.
“She’s lost a few pounds.” I roll my shoulders and set the beer aside.
Kristin’s nails tap against the wood of the dock. “How many?”
Why does it matter?
I crack my knuckles. “It’s not about the weight loss.”
She gives me an incredulous look, and I don’t think it’s my imagination that she straightens a little to better display the full impact of her slim frame. As Chloe promised, Kristin is wearing the red, white, and blue bikini.
And she’s wearing it well.
Her smug smile shows she knows it.
“Chloe’s got killer curves, whatever the weight,” I hear myself say.
Kristin’s smile slips.
It’s not that Kristin doesn’t have curves in all the right places; she does. But for some reason I want her to know that some guys might prefer Chloe’s hourglass figure.
“You sound like a chick,” she snaps. “What’s next, a girl-power anthem?”
I smile and lift my beer. I’ve been goading her for weeks now, knowing it piques her interest, but today is different.
Today I’m goading her because her tone when she talks about her sister pisses me off.
“Where is Chloe?” I ask, very deliberately fueling the fire. “She was supposed to meet
Except . . . I’m pretty sure these girls know it, and their smug awareness of their appeal strikes me as unappealing and far too easy.
So instead of joining them and their skimpy suits, I continue toward my original destination of the dock.
After three hours in a car with Chloe I could use the solitude.
I kick off my flip-flops and lower my feet to the water. I can’t say I’m a big fan of Texas in the summer, but Texas in the summer by a lake?
Not so bad.
The Bellamys have neighbors, none so close as to feel crowded, but nearby enough to catch the sounds of happy families, tipsy friends, and the smells of a half dozen BBQs.
For a second, I feel something that might be homesickness.
It reminds me of summers in the Hamptons, back when I’d belonged. Back when it had been my family hosting the barbecues, my friends playing music too loud, laughing too much.
For one brutal moment, the loneliness threatens to surface.
I shove it back, partially because it’s futile, partially because I hear footsteps behind me.
For once, I’m actually eager for the distracting presence that is Chloe Bellamy.
Hell, I’m even tempted to confide in her. Somehow I suspect that if anyone understands being lonely in a crowd it’s her.
But it’s not Chloe who settles beside me on the dock. Not Chloe who swings her legs over the side and dangles her feet over the water.
It’s not Chloe who sits with a hip touching mine, even though there’s plenty of room on the dock.
It is a bikini-clad Kristin.
Neither of us says anything, but she reaches over and plucks the beer bottle from my hand, tilting it back to her lips. It’s probably supposed to be a sexy, casual move, but there’s something artificial about it, as though she’s hoping someone is watching.
Say, perhaps, her boyfriend?
“Wasn’t expecting my tennis pro to show up at my parents’ lake house,” she says.
“I’m not your tennis pro this weekend,” I say, turning my head just slightly to look at her. “I’m Chloe’s friend.”
I can tell by the way her nose scrunches up, just slightly, that she doesn’t like this. She takes another sip of my beer, and this time it’s less contrived. Like she needs it to wash a bad taste out of her mouth.
“She’s lost weight,” Kristin says, handing my beer back and leaning over just slightly to watch her feet swing back and forth over the water.
Her parents had said the same thing—not in Chloe’s hearing—but whereas Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy had said it with delight, Kristin’s tone is something else entirely. Not quite begrudging, but definitely thoughtful.
“She’s lost a few pounds.” I roll my shoulders and set the beer aside.
Kristin’s nails tap against the wood of the dock. “How many?”
Why does it matter?
I crack my knuckles. “It’s not about the weight loss.”
She gives me an incredulous look, and I don’t think it’s my imagination that she straightens a little to better display the full impact of her slim frame. As Chloe promised, Kristin is wearing the red, white, and blue bikini.
And she’s wearing it well.
Her smug smile shows she knows it.
“Chloe’s got killer curves, whatever the weight,” I hear myself say.
Kristin’s smile slips.
It’s not that Kristin doesn’t have curves in all the right places; she does. But for some reason I want her to know that some guys might prefer Chloe’s hourglass figure.
“You sound like a chick,” she snaps. “What’s next, a girl-power anthem?”
I smile and lift my beer. I’ve been goading her for weeks now, knowing it piques her interest, but today is different.
Today I’m goading her because her tone when she talks about her sister pisses me off.
“Where is Chloe?” I ask, very deliberately fueling the fire. “She was supposed to meet
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