Caught red-fucking-handed.
“I’m with you. Lala and Anson are out back,” I play dumb. “Not waiting for anyone.”
“So why are you watching the door?”
JJ’s grin grates at me. “I’m not.”
His eyebrows raise. “Brother, I’m trained to spot shell casings buried in the mud in zero-visibility water conditions. I can easily see that your eyes—” he points at them— “are glued to that door.” His finger moves, pointing at the dark oak slab I’ve spent way too long staring at.
My teeth clench. “I’m notwaitingfor anyone.”
“So you’re—what?Hopingsomeone walks in?Preparingto duck and cover if they do?”
Rarely do I ever want my best friend to shut the hell up, but right now is one of those scarce moments.
Even through my annoyance, though, I know it’s not his fault.
It’s mine.
Itook Eliza to that secluded stretch of sand. Said to hell with self-preservation and gave in to my impulses. Jerked off to the memory of those breathy little moans and her pussy spasming around my fingers every day since Monday.
As predicted, the tendrils of attachment have latched right on.
So I’ve spent the week trying to pry them off. Neither of us have brought up what happened. I’m not avoidingher—she still joins me on some tours. But I haven’t gone out of my way to re-engage her, and she’s done the same.
It’s like we’ve both reverted to the mean, shooting surface-level comments at each other, pretending our time on the sand never happened. Like two teenagers embarrassed about their first kiss.
Maybe we should talk about it like responsible adults, but communication is key forrelationships, and I’m activelynottrying to have one here. Besides, even without a conversation, we’re clearly on the same dismal page.
Though the fact that I’m stuck between hoping Eliza appears in that doorway, and desperately hoping she doesn’t, shows just how much I’m struggling tostayon that page.
I’m still figuring out what my reply should be when JJ speaks again.
“Hope you know your answer, because I’m pretty sure that someone’s walking in right now.”
For probably the thirtieth time, I look up to see JJ’s spot-on. Eliza’s following Amanda through the door—probably how she managed to sneak in when they’re turning folks away. And when her body crosses the threshold, I don’t care that JJ’s watching for my reaction.
I can’t look away.
Eliza’s not wearing much of anything. A white, lacy tank-top ends at her belly button, exposing an inch of smooth skin above dark-wash shorts that sure asfuckaren’t work-appropriate. Doesn’t matter that I’ve been beneath that fabric, explored more than what she’s showing. How she looks is like a drug.
Goddammit, I need that beer. To give me limp dick, if nothing else.
She scans the crowd as Amanda leads her toward thebar, and it doesn’t take long for her eyes to find mine. For a beat, she just stares. Then her mouth tips into a friendly smile.
The same friendly, professional smile we’ve been giving each other all week.
Eliza whispers something in Amanda’s ear, then leaves her there as she makes her way to us.
“Need me to flip this table so you can hide behind it?” JJ asks.
I glare at him. He drains the rest of his beer, chuckling, before standing up to greet her. “Hey, there’s my long-lost teammate.” He pulls her in for an easy hug. “How you doing?”
“Good.” She draws back, glancing over at me. It’s quick, a flicker of movement, but her eyes track down my body, stopping on my arms before coming back up. “Grayson.”
Her hair’s pulled back, cheeks extra rosy, from the night’s warm temperatures or a drink, maybe.
I tilt my bottle toward her. “Happy Fourth.”
