“Shall we head down to the beach?” she asks, holding out her arm. I grin and take it, and we make the quick walk across the yard, through the trees, and down a series of steps to the beach. There are people there, running and screaming and playing, but it’s not overly crowded.
We find an empty spot, set up our towels, and crack open the picnic basket that Kathleen gave us. It’s full of cold, glass-bottled Cokes, sandwiches, and little plastic bags filled with cut-up fruit. We’re not seated there ten minutes when I get a ping on my phone.
On my way to pick up Creed. How was your flight?
“It’s Zayd,” I say, when I notice Miranda watching me. I suck my lower lip under my teeth before replying. Awesome. On the beach with Miranda now.
There’s a pause before I see him typing a response.
In my bathing suit. Live in it during the summer. LOL. Can I join you?
Before I can think too hard about it, I type yes.
Miranda’s brows are raised when I look back up at her.
“How are you planning on juggling all of these boys?” she asks, and I blink at her.
“I’m not … what do you mean ‘juggling’?” Setting my phone aside, I pick at the label on my Coke and try to ignore the anxious butterflies in my stomach. Doesn’t help much.
“Um, are you insane?” Miranda asks, leaning over to look at me with wide eyes. “They’re all in love with you.”
I rear back and end up spilling soda all over my lap.
“What? No!” I choke out, swiping at the crotch of my new dress with a cloth napkin. “No, that’s just— I mean, Windsor isn’t …”
“Okay, think whatever you want,” Miranda says with an exaggerated sigh. “But I’m telling you what it looks like as an outsider: you have five guys in love with you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I sputter, but then I feel a hand on my shoulder and jump.
“What’s ridiculous?” Creed asks, kneeling in the sand beside me. A shiver travels through me, and all of a sudden, all I can think about is the hot tub. The hot tub. That goddamn hot tub. I flick my eyes his direction and see that he’s studying me carefully.
“Nothing important,” I manage to get out, scooting over so that our bodies aren’t quite so close to touching. There’s too much tension between us, and I’m too confused as to what our relationship even is. Are we friends? It was literally just over a week ago that I told him he was the subject of a bet. And literally just over a week ago that he stood up for me in front of all his friends … “Zayd’s going to come down and join us for a little while.”
Creed nods, like he expected that, and then unfolds his long body in the sand, leaning back and lying there in his half-buttoned shirt and shorts. The wind tousles the fabric of his shirt, revealing the hard muscles in his lower belly, and the infinity tattoo above his right hip. I have the strongest urge to touch it, and end up sitting on my hand to keep from doing it.
“I can’t believe you’re letting Mom send me away,” he drawls, like he’s already half-asleep. His eyes are closed now, long, pale lashes resting on his cheeks.
“Oh please,” Miranda snorts with an exaggerated eye roll. “You’ll be a ten minute walk away, in a rock star’s mansion, with every possible comfort. Plus, you’ll be shacking up with your bestie, so don’t give me that crap.”
“Zayd is not my bestie,” Creed growls, like a sleeping cat who you’ve petted just this side of too long. He won’t swipe at you—too lazy and tired for that—but the warning’s there. “We’re barely friends.”
“Right. Just like you and Tristan. You’ve all known each other since forever, but you’re not friends at all.”
“Tristan and I were never friends,” Creed snaps, but still he doesn’t get up from his spot in the sun-warmed sand. “Zayd is at least tolerable.”
“Good to know,” Zayd says, appearing behind us, and making me jump. Wow. My nerves must be getting to me because I’m the only one that seems so … excited. My tattooed, pierced little rock star friend squeezes between my towel and Miranda’s, stepping over the picnic basket and then turning to face us.
He’s gloriously shirtless, his ink shimmering in the bright sun. His black board shorts are slung criminally low on his hips, to the point where I’m actually concerned they might fall to his feet, and I’ll get to see … I mean have to see, his dick.
“I like the dress, Marnye,” he says, but even though he’s smiling and trying to be playful, there’s an edge to his words, a lick of shame that I both appreciate and wish I could wipe away. “Gorgeous, as usual.” Zayd squats down, his muscular legs drawing my attention. His thighs look hard as rocks, and there’s a tattoo on the inside of one that’s drawing my attention.
