Page 43 of Thirst For Me
I finally give up and sit in a simple cross-legged Sukhasana. I pop my earbuds in and listen to “Somebody That I Used to Know” and just breathe. But it’s too sad, so I pluck Gotye out of my ears and close my eyes.
Unfortunately, I’m still sad about the breakup. Mostly, I’m sad about the years I wasted with, apparently, a man who was all wrong for me.
I’m angry at Kyle for diving into his best friend’s arms so fast. I’m angry at Mason for trying to evict me from Orchard Cove. I’m angry at my stepsister for telling me on our weekly Sunday-night phonecall yesterday that I “really could’ve seen this coming,” and for being so right about Kyle, and especially for having all her shit so perfectly together, as always, while mine is perpetually falling apart.
And I’m angry at myself, for putting myself in a position to get dumped by someone I should’ve broken up with long ago, for struggling in my business, and for generally fucking failing at life,still. At thirty years old. When I really thought I’d have some of it figured out by now.
“Fuck,” I curse into the wind.
I try to focus on the gentle sound of the waves and the breeze in the trees. But I’m too sad. And angry. And creepily on guard. I’ve seen this on influencers’ travel pics, but is this supposed to be calming? An axe murderer could sneak right up on me. There’s, like, no one out here but me.
I knew it.
Nature is overrated.
A tinkling sound startles me. My eyes fly open as a golden retriever trots up to me, collar tinkling and tail wagging. His tongue lolls out the side of a lopsided doggy smile.
“Hey, you.” I reach out to greet the friendly dog, letting him sniff my hand, then petting his soft head. I find myself smiling for the first time today, and I look up as the dog’s owner approaches.
I yank back from the dog as if it bit me, and it happily turns to sniffing my shoes.
Mason Grant is walking toward me, blue eyes leveled at me, the dog’s leash dangling from his hand. He wears a scrap of a shirt that I guess you would call a tank top, his muscular shoulders, tattooed arms, and the outer curves of his pecs on spectacular display in the morning sunshine. I even glimpse an exposed, dark-pinkish nipple as the thin fabric flutters in the breeze.
My entire body flushes hot. I feel like the girls in theKPop Demon Huntersmovie when the ripped dude in the boy band flashes his abs, and popcorn shoots out of their eyes.
I try to scrape my eyeballs back into their sockets as I get to my feet, angrier than I already was. But his loose shorts cling to his muscular thighs, the aforementioned breeze making the longandgirthy package in front impossible not to notice. The fabric is practically translucent.
It’s obscene.
Of coursethis man has an incredible cock, because the universe is an unfair place. And yes, I remember vividly how it felt in my hand. Warm. Smooth. Pulsating, and hard as rock.
Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, ever since he so kindly reminded me that I shoved my hand down his pants and grabbed it, somehow awakening the memory with extreme sensory detail.
But come on. Did he put on the thinnest shorts in the world,without underwear, because he knew I was here?
Who is actually trying to seduce who here?
I scowl as he comes too close for comfort. As in, where I can see his bare nipple clearly.
Did he see me come down here? Has he beenwatchingme?
“Scar,” he calls to the dog. “Come here.” He stands there, his gaze roaming over my yoga outfit, and I wonder ifmynipples are showing through my sports bra. The breeze is kind of cool.
I hug myself as my eyes scramble for something unsexy to fixate on. The dog.
“Your adorable golden retriever is named Scar?” I say incredulously.
“My brother’s dog,” he corrects me with a frown. “It’s short for Scaramouche. It’s from—”
“‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’” I say blandly. “I guess you didn’t believe me that I know all the songs.” But why would he? I am a liar, according to him.
“You didn’t seem to know ‘Hotel California,’” he points out, deadpan.
Damn. Didn’t I? Grandpa Alexlovedthat album. “I do. I was just drunk.” I change the subject. “What are you doing here? Lemme guess. Here to draw a line in the sand? What is it this time? You want me to stay away from your barber, your mechanic, and your kindergarten teacher? Anyone else you wanna add to the list?”
His eyebrows pinch together. “I’m just walking a dog. It’s a public beach. And I live ... right there.” He nods toward his family’s expansive property above the beach. We’re standing right in front of it.
I thought I’d walked straight down from Honeymoon Lane. I didn’t realize I’d drifted over this way.
