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“I ain’t a thief, Lu. Swear it on my mama’s soul.”
She glances down at my hand. The one that’s wrapped around her wrist. Her turn to chuckle. “Wow.”
“What?”
“You think I still want you, don’t you?”
If only.
I drop her wrist. “I’d never assume that, no. Don’t get me wrong, princess. I’ll hate fuck your brains out. But for the record, I ain’t doin’ it when you’re drunk. Besides, I wanna talk to you about that cookbook first—”
“Go. To. Hell.” Her face is red now. She turns to face the door, fingers wrapping around the handle. “Stay away from me, Riley.”
Her words cut like a knife. I clear my throat. Jesus must take the wheel, because I’m stepping back, giving her space to open the door. Everything inside me riots at the loss of her nearness.
“If that’s what you want,” I say.
She’s moving through the door. “It is.”
“Let me at least walk you home. It’s dark—”
“Go away.”
I don’t listen. I jog through the kitchen to keep up with her. She’s practically running out of the restaurant like it’s on fire. Which, again, I get.
I grab the front door and open it for her. “You really not going to let me explain?”
“Nope.”
“How about I walk behind you, then?”
“How about you go away?”
I follow her a few steps behind. There’s no moon tonight thanks to the cloud cover, so I can’t see much. But as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can’t stop staring at her shape. The shoulders, her ass. The long, muscular legs.
I’m dying to ask her what her story is these days.
I’m dying for another cigarette. Blue balls is a real thing. So is regret.
The memory hits me like a freight train: the night Louise asked me to teach her how to give head. I started by going down on her first. I was so hard by the time she got to me, I came in her mouth in two seconds flat.
That night, I don’t regret. But what came after?
It doesn’t take long for the Gibbes’s house to come into view. Looming over us in the darkness, it’s as beautiful and classic as ever. White siding. Elegant metal roof. Deep porches dotted with rocking chairs and hammocks that sway in the breeze.
A dream.
I own several houses that I rent out that are bigger and more extravagant than the Gibbes’s place. Abel and I are actually building one on this street. But there’s something about this house that will always make my heart beat a little too fast.
“See?” Louise glances over her shoulder. “Made it without getting mugged.”
Hands on my hips, I watch her climb the house’s wide front steps. “Gators don’t mug people. They eat them. We got two mean old gals making regular appearances in the marina.”
She opens the door—no one locks their houses on Bald Head—and without looking at me says, “Good. Maybe they’ll eat you.”
“If only you were so lucky. Night, Lu.”
She throws me a look over her shoulder, daggers in her eyes. “Louise.”
Then she disappears into the house without saying goodbye. But I’m still frozen in place, feet blocks of cement on the oyster tabby sidewalk.
I don’t want to go home to an empty boat. I want to go inside.
I want to make Lu come.
Would it really be so bad if we hooked up? What if she’s single? We lived in different worlds at eighteen, but that’s not the case anymore.
Quit it.
I put that poor girl through hell. I’m not sure I trust myself not to do it again. Nothing made me reckless the way Lu Wade did.
Nothing fucked me up more than the summer we met, when I lost everything.
five
Louise
Shake It Off
I shuffle up the stairs the next morning, careful not to make any sudden movements. I’m scared the hammer in my head will resume its assault on my skull if I do.
Like many homes on the island, my family’s has a reverse floor plan. The bedrooms are on the first floor, while the kitchen and living areas are basically one big room on the second. The thinking goes that you want the best views from the rooms where you spend the most time. And for us, that’s definitely the kitchen.
“Good morning, sunshine!” Aunt Lady greets me with a wide smile. “We’ve been waiting for you to get up.”
Keeping my head down, I move toward the coffee pot.
Did I really get shitfaced and confront my ex-boyfriend in his kitchen in front of all his staff last night?
And did he really offer to hate fuck me? My body pulses at the memory. Traitor.
I feel a stab of shame when I think about my hand gripping his shirt and staying there for far too long. I wanted an explanation—why he opened the restaurant, why he offered to buy me a drink. Why he said he still cared. But when he offered to give me one, I didn’t let him.
