Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
I change fast—black trunks, T-shirt—then step onto the patio with the sky throwing gold and coral across the tops of the palm trees. The pool filter is humming, the desert air is warm; the stone under my feet holds the day’s heat but doesn’t burn as it would were it earlier in the day.
Benny explodes through the sliding kitchen door in a rainbow suit. “Towels are by the chairs! Grabbing floaties and foam noodles! Oh! Bluetooth speaker!” She is buzzing.
“Quiet songs only,” I warn. “I’m not in the mood for a ton of noise.”
She groans like I’ve ruined her entire evening. “Fiiiine.” Then she cannonballs so hard the splash hits my calves. I can’t help it—I laugh.
The guest room door opens.
I make the mistake of looking.
Layla steps tentatively onto the patio, undecided about dashing back inside.
Bikini. Classic triangle top, tiny as a postage stamp, tied in bows that look one tug from surrender. Tie-side bottoms riding high on her hips, long legs going for days, the kind of high cut that makes rational thought go straight down the fucking gutter.
She still has her hair down, glossy and messy from her fingers, oversize sunglasses pushed on top of her head, lip gloss catching the last flare of the sunset.
Never would have thought a body like that would have been under that Fall Fest puffer coat.
“Whoa!” Benny shouts, rounding the corner, dragging a blow-up unicorn. “Layla, you look like one of those girls in Vegas!”
I have no idea what that means, exactly, or how she knows about sexy girls in Vegas.
Layla forces out a laugh and tries to cover herself by wrapping a towel around her waist but only succeeds in framing everything like it’s meant for me to stare at.
Tits.
Such beautiful tits . . .
She lifts a hand, the tiniest smile tugging at her lip. “Do I look ridiculous? I feel ridiculous.”
“No,” I say too fast. Too honest. “You look—” My jaw tics. “I like your suit.”
A lot.
My dick does too.
A lot.
“Thanks.” Another laugh.
She slips into the water with a hiss, arching her back as the cool blue hits her warm skin; my pulse trips over itself. Benny’s already paddling figure eights around the unicorn, humming into the evening. I follow, dropping into the deep end, and the world goes hushed except for the soft lap of water.
Blub, blub . . . blub.
Benny splashes her with zero remorse. “Teams!” she shouts. “Adults versus me!”
Layla cuts me a sideways glance, amusement and heat braided together. “Think we can take her?”
“Not a chance,” I say. “But you can bet your sweet ass she’ll crash early tonight.”
Layla and I share a look that’s more conspiracy than strategy and push off together. We don’t have a plan, unless “try not to drown while we’re distracted by each other” counts as one.
Benny fakes left, squeals right, and I go for the tag—miss by inches. Layla darts in, quick and sure, cornering Benny against the cove. For a second I forget to be impressed with the defense because Layla’s laugh flashes out, bright and surprised, and the sound hooks me like a hand in my shirt.
“Got her!” Layla crows.
“Traitor!” Benny wiggles free and dives under the unicorn. She pops up behind us, triumphant. “You two are terrible at this.”
“Disagree,” I say, eyes on Layla. “I think we’re excellent.”
Heat sparks in her eyes. She wipes water from her mouth with the back of her hand, then flicks a drop at my chest. “Focus. And take off that damn shirt.”
I hook a brow at her, then at Benny, then peel the soaked T-shirt over my head. It hits the surface with a wet slap. Layla’s heated gaze drags over me—quick, but not quick enough—and my pulse answers like a show-off.
“Better?” I ask.
“Yup.”
Benny jukes and sprays us both, and the game devolves into splash warfare. Layla feints, slips behind me, and plants her palms on my shoulders to use me as a shield.
The touch is small.
My reaction is not.
Benny launches a tidal wave at our faces, cackles, then abruptly announces, “Okay, I’m done,” in the same way she declares she’s tired and ready for bed.
She grabs on to the unicorn, tows it to the steps, and climbs out, water streaming off her tiny body. Her feet slap across the warm stone patio, and we watch as she takes a towel, dries off, and disappears into the house without so much as a farewell.
The pool is quiet.
We drift aimlessly. Ease toward the deeper end—and toward each other—inch by inch so we can talk without raising our voices. Layla wafts over, one hand holding her steady, clinging to the edge, while I stand, tall enough that my head and shoulders are above water.
She bobs.
My eyes wander . . .
Do not look at her boobs, do not look at her boobs, do not lo—