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A second later, a shorter, curvier girl steps over to us. She’s Black, with a ponytail high on her head and a yellow dress.
“What are you doing, Landry?” the girl asks my new friend. “I’ve been looking for you.” Her eyes widen as she fans her face. “And who is this?”
I run a hand back through my hair, feeling self-conscious even as I smile at her. “I’m Landry’s new, tall boyfriend.” I wink at the girl beside me, and she covers her face with both hands.
“Landry, what did you do?” The yellow dress girl looks at me. “I’m Cara, by the way. Our girl here has had too much to drink. You can’t be picking up boys from the city,” she says to Landry.
I laugh. The city? “What city?”
“Are you from Huntsville or Atlanta?” she asks. “Or I guess it could be Chattanooga.”
I grin. “What makes you think I’m from one of those places?”
“Well, you’re not from here.” Cara crosses her arms, looking down her nose at me, which makes me laugh again. “You’re a city boy. I know ’em when I see ’em.”
I grin.
“See? Even that smile says city boy. You had braces?” she asks.
“No. I didn’t. Does it look like I did?” My hand hovers over my mouth.
“No, but you’ve got white, straight teeth like all those city boys.”
“That sounds like stereotyping.” I lift a brow, and Cara falls onto the couch with Landry. They’re clutching at each other, laughing, clearly both drunk as fuck.
When they come up for air, still holding onto one another, Cara giggles. “I may have had some spirits myself.”
I nod, feigning somberness. “You may have.”
“Who the hell are you?” Cara laughs.
“I’m Ezra. I’m from Richmond,” I say, lifting a brow. “And I just moved here.”
Josh
I lose Ezra for half an hour. I’m tracking the time, because I’m thinking if I don’t see him soon, I’ll need to go check for his car. Maybe he left.
I'm sitting at one of the oversized white picnic tables on the pool deck, drumming my fingertips on the faux wood and frowning at people as they drift by in the ribbon of water that surrounds the massive pool, when I spot him on Shamu.
What the fuck?
Shamu is this giant, blow-up whale float that technically belongs to Mason's father. No one is allowed to ride on him because Mr. Young is uptight and protective of his superior flotation device.
But...yeah. That's definitely Ezra. He's got on red swim trunks—whose, I don't know—and he’s holding a bottle of what has to be beer.
Shamu is spinning slowly as the lazy river current drags him through the water. Ezra’s head is leaned back against the whale's...upper back? He looks completely chill. Like he belongs here. I can't help the way my gaze moves over his chest—comparing. Admiring.
So, he's not as lean as he looks. Or...really, he is. There's no fat anywhere on him. But he's ripped.
See, he’s like a model. You had that part right at least.
His hair is falling over his forehead. It looks darker in the dim light of the tiki torches than it did in my mom’s kitchen.
I'm looking right at him as the current swirls Shamu so Ezra’s facing me directly. I don't know what I'm expecting—but he winks. That dickhead gives me a small smile that looks mean, and he winks, making a gun with his free hand, waving it slightly at me.
Guess he really is a fucking psycho. But the good guy in me is relieved to see he’s doing okay. Not sitting in some corner alone or something.
An hour later, I'm in shock—in awe—at how he's hanging with my friends. I watch from my spot in the pool, where I'm playing volleyball with some folks, as Ezra sprawls out in one of the pool chairs, folding both his arms behind his head. Reese and Landry are on him like magnets. Reese sits with her backside pressed against Ezra's upper abs, near his pec. Landry’s perched herself between his ankles. I watch as she fusses with her pony tail.
What a fucking night.
When the volleyball game breaks up, I wade toward the pool’s side, finding that Ezra and his admirers have re-located to a picnic table about twenty yards away. Marcel’s dealing cards, and I wonder for what game. There are six people on one bench and five on the one across the table.
Ezra says something, and everyone laughs. I find a pool chair a little ways down, fucking with my phone just so I won’t look at him when a voice says, "Joshie."
I jump, making my head throb, and there is Jenna Whatley, one of my closest friends; she was my across-the-street neighbor back when Mom and I lived in the Fern Street apartments.
"What happened?" She's wearing cutoff jean shorts and a bright pink sleeveless shirt over her swimsuit, and she’s pointing to my head.
