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I wait, but that’s all she says. “What are you doing?”
She waves the phone she’s holding toward me. “I go to university in London. Haven’t seen mountains in a while, and this place has a nice view.”
Nice viewis an understatement.
Properties on this side of the slope go for eight figures and stay in families for generations.
I’m entertained by her nonchalance, and unsurprised. Between that comment and the combination of her American accent and British education, it’s obvious she’s part of the elite group of snobs who love this particular zip code. Probably by choice, instead of my own reluctance.
But I’m not one to look for more than a pretty face.
Not anymore.
“View’s better from in here,” I tell her.
Her expression doesn’t change at the invitation, and it’s a thrill I haven’t experienced in a long time.
Girls rarely challenge me. They usually throw themselves at me. Willing and eager to please, happy to have my attention for however long it lasts.
“I have a personal policy against climbing into hot tubs with strange men. Maybe next time.”
I smirk, appreciating her snark even more than her disinterest. My dick reacts too, stiffening underwater. She’s the exact distraction I’m craving right now.
“You’re trespassing on private property. I hardly lured you here under false pretenses. Just trying to be a good host.”
She glances away, and it annoys me.
I can’t see her face. Or read her expression.
“This is your family’s place?”
“Yeah. You live around here?”
She must have come on foot. The driveway curves right above here into the garage, so I would have heard a car arrive.
“My friend lives across the street.”
I think. “The…Coopers?”
“Her last name is Riley. Her parents bought it a few months ago.”
“Oh.”
The last time I was here was Christmas, years ago. I’m surprised I even remember the Coopers. I met them once, if that, at a cocktail party my mom threw around the holidays. “Your friend isn’t the felony-committing sort?”
I can’t tell for sure in the limited light, but I think she rolls her eyes. “I just needed some fresh air. Didn’t plan to walk this far.”
“What’s a few more steps?” I ask, grabbing my glass and taking a sip. I let the tumbler dangle between my fingers, watching her through the glass.
I can’t decide if she’s considering coming closer or about to walk away, and it’s affecting me more than the alcohol. There’s a bolt of adrenaline—of intrigue—wondering what she’ll do next and not knowing the answer.
Part of it is the fact we’re strangers and the uncertainty of night. But the rest is realizing how predictable my encounters on campus have become. How I ordinarily know how the night will end before it even begins. Even the girls I’ve hooked up with since arriving in Colorado have all followed the same pattern. Buy them a drink at the bar by the biggest slope, trot out a few one-liners, and then we’ve ended the evening in the king-sized bed upstairs. Satisfying, simple…and kind of boring. Close to a routine after only a few days.
Shock—and satisfaction—spreads through me when she takes a step in this direction rather than walking away.
“I don’t have a bathing suit,” she tells me.
I smirk. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I’m not wearing one.”
