Sienna tilts her head, and I’m not sure what’s going on behind her hazel eyes.
“Christian,” Emory shouts, then turns to us. “He married us. He hates us.” Her words are cheerful, and I snort a laugh.
The mayor tips his chin, looking none too happy about running into Emory on the water, and she laughs.
“Bye, Christian,” she shouts as he turns the other way, and the dog barks happily.
My phone dings, and I pull it out from under a stack of towels.
“That better not be work,” Sienna says. “We’re off today.”
My stomach tumbles at the name on the screen. “It’s Ryan Valdez. He got my number from Tristan. He wants to go out.”
Sienna makes an excited noise. “Do you want to go out with him?”
“What do you think? Is he a good guy?”
She nods. “He’s hot and pretty nice.”
Feeling sexy is the first step to good sex.
Ryan is definitely hot enough to make me want good sex with him, at least. Even if he is intimidating.
“Okay.” I blow out a breath.
Sienna claps her hands. Emory is grinning.
I squeeze both my eyes shut. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but first, I want a makeover.”
In my mind, I addfeel beautifulto my list of goals.
17
TRISTAN
I’m hefting a cord of oak out of one of the property trucks Friday morning when Katie’s voice rings over the parking area.
“Don’t you have people for that?”
“You volunteering?” I shout back. I toss the stack on top of all the others. Charring night is soon, and I want to see what happens when we use a wood fire for some of the barrels instead of the usual gas fire. I think the flavor will be better. I swipe the back of my hand over my forehead before I turn toward Katie, who is wending her way through the cars—Aiden’s vintage Ferrari, my black Italian sports car, Sienna’s roadster.
“Seems like you could use the…” My words trail off when I catch sight of her hair. “Exercise,” I finish softly. I blink. The image of Katie doesn’t change. That’s really her. Standing in front of me in a cropped top and tiny, fluttery shorts, with movie-star hair. It tumbles around her shoulders in a riot of curls and waves.
This isn’t the Katie I know. That Katie wears it ruthlesslystraight and tied back at all times. This Katie looks—don’t even think it, Tristan.
“What did you do?” I take an unconscious step forward.
She nervously fingers one of the curls. “I colored it. Cut it too. What do you think? It’s my natural color.”
“I think—” I clear my throat.
You look hot. I want to touch it.
“Tristan.” She scowls. “Don’t say anything rude.”
“It looks soft.” The words slip out. “Good,” I amend quickly. “Really good.” My heart is dancing in my chest, and I strip off the gloves I’ve been wearing and toss them on the pile while I avoid looking at her and wait for my pulse to settle.
“No camp counselor comments?”
