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A wave crashed so far up on the shore that the water rushed up to the edge of Spencer’s towel. She pushed her sunglasses up on her forehead and studied her sister. “I thought you hated me for turning Ian in?”
“Look, I don’t think you’re right . . .” She opened her mouth like she was about to say more, then changed her mind. “Whatever. The point is, I need a distraction from thinking about it, and you’re all I’ve got.”
“Gee, thanks,” Spencer said wryly.
Melissa elbowed her in the side. “Don’t be so sensitive. You know you’re bored, too,” she said, getting to her feet and dusting the sand off her legs. “Want to walk up to the club with me? We could do a spa day.”
Spencer hesitated. A man with a yellow Lab jogged by, and down the shore two grade-school girls were hard at work on a sand castle. Melissa was right. Spencer was lonely. And if Melissa was ready to bury the hatchet—for a few hours at least—maybe Spencer should give her a chance.
“Um, okay.” Spencer threw on her cover-up and stuffed her towel in her canvas tote. Together they started up the sand, deciding to walk along the main route to the club.
There were a bunch of people out and about, and all the store doors were flung open, air-conditioning on full blast. Each shop was a trip down memory lane: There was Samantha’s, the boutique where Spencer had bought a dress for her fifth-grade birthday party. Melissa pointed out the fudge shop where the sisters had had a fudge-eating contest when Spencer was eight—Melissa had won, of course. There was the store in which Spencer’s dad had bought a long board and tried to teach himself how to surf. He’d spent the week paddling fruitlessly in the waves, too afraid to catch any.
She was looking at the Quiksilver T-shirts and Billabong hats through the window of a surf shop, when suddenly a shape shifted behind her. When she turned, someone ducked around a corner. Her stomach flipped.
“You okay?” Melissa asked, a concerned look on her face.
“Yeah,” Spencer said, forcing her voice to remain steady. It was hard to shake the feeling that someone was following her. Taking a few deep fire-breaths, she reminded herself that Mona was dead. A was gone.
After accepting a sample from Ye Olde Saltwater Taffy Emporium and buying iced lattes at the Blue Dog Pancake House, Spencer and Melissa strolled to the Longboat Key clubhouse, a gorgeous white building at the edge of the bay. Twenty golf carts were parked in the front spots. Guys in polo shirts and khaki shorts shouldered golf bags, and women in visors gossiped in clumps.
The sisters followed the loud thwocks of balls hitting rackets on the tennis courts. Posters announcing an upcoming tournament on New Year’s Day were tacked to the fences, and two guys were involved in a heated game. Both were dressed in white shirts and shorts—the club was as strict as Wimbledon, shunning colorful tennis gear—and looked to be in their early twenties. A dark-haired guy with an angular face, taut limbs, and a tight, squeezable butt was clearly the more talented of the two, making impressive drop shots and cross-court volleys. A crowd of girls had gathered on the perimeter of the court, their heads swiveling back and forth in time with the fluorescent-yellow ball.
“Did you know Colin’s ranked ninety-second in the world?” a girl wearing a terry-cloth Lacoste dress and grosgrain-ribbon flip-flops whispered to her friend, who had on an equally short sundress and sky-high wedge heels. “He told me.”
“He told me he’s playing in the New Year’s tournament,” Wedge Heels said back.
Lacoste Dress rolled her eyes. “Of course he’s playing in the tournament! He’s totally going to kick ass!”
Spencer settled against the chain-link fence next to Melissa, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Groupies were so lame.
But Colin, the guy with the cute butt, was fun to watch, especially as he decimated his opponent. His serve was blisteringly fast, whipping past the other player’s face before he even had a chance to react. Every time he scored a point, he twirled his tennis racket and pretended not to be pleased with himself, but Spencer totally caught him smiling into his chest.
“I’m going to head inside and check out the spa menu,” Melissa said, fanning herself. “You want in on a mani-pedi?”
“Sure,” Spencer said absentmindedly, keeping her eyes on the match. “I’ll meet you at the spa in a few.”
When the game was finished—a complete rout—Colin and his buddy shook hands, walked to the sidelines, gulped down two bottles of something called AminoSpa vitamin water, and stripped off their shirts. Spencer coolly picked at her cuticles, not wanting to stare too pointedly at Colin’s absolutely perfect abs. He was definitely hot—maybe even hotter than Wren, the boy Spencer had stolen from Melissa earlier this fall. If he weren’t so mobbed with fans, he might just make the perfect winter-vacation fling. It had been ages since Spencer had gotten excited over a guy.
“Hey, Colin,” Lacoste Dress cooed, winding a piece of blond hair around her finger. “That was some amazing tennis.”
“You’re sooo good,” another girl drawled. “Do you practice every minute of the day?”
“Pretty much.” Colin wiped sweat off his face and opened another bottle of AminoSpa. “My trainer’s down here for the winter—sometimes we play with the pros. The other day I saw Andy Roddick on the courts.”
The girls nudged each other. “That is amazing,” one of them said. “Nike should so sponsor you.”
Colin just grinned. He finished loading his gear into a big lime-green Adidas bag and started in the direction of the clubhouse. Suddenly, he stopped and stared straight at Spencer. She could feel his eyes boring into the top of her head as she pretended to smooth a wrinkle on her cover-up. “Hello.”
