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“Not mine.” I don’t delve into my friendship with Shannon. This woman couldn’t care less that Shannon’s completely enamored with Noah Geren. But Shannon and I formed a bond, and I consider her a close friend. She’s a year younger than me, and we’ll be the only ones left from our group when we return next semester.
Without my former roommates, the next school year is going to suck.
“Good because I have plans for you,” Jenni says. The look she gives holds heat. I should be turned on or, at the very least, interested, but again, I feel . . . nothing.
This is new.
Maybe I’m more keyed up about my situation than I want to admit. Or perhaps I’m feeling sorry for myself thinking about Cassie the Ghost and the lack of detective skills I possess for hunting her down. Had I not tried to find her, I wouldn’t be in this situation.
“The only thing you have plans for is to find your ride.”
Jenni and I snap our attention to the stern, demanding voice. The man stands about two inches shorter than my six-foot two-inch frame. Flecks of white streak his otherwise blond hair thatsurprise, surpriseis cut into a buzz. It wouldn’t shock me to learn if he was ex-military. The man stands with his arms crossed at his chest and a scowl settled across his features. His razor-sharp eyes zero in on me.
Fuck.
This is not how I wanted to meet my new coach and host for the summer.
So much for making a positive first impression.
Jenni hesitates and flashes a wary smile. “I’ll, uh, catch you later.” She gives a small but forced smile to the preacher, er, coach, and skitters away.
“We need to lay down ground rules,” he says unamused.
I bite back a sigh. This is going to be a long forty-five-minute drive.
That vodka-laced lemonade sure sounds good about right now.
Chapter Two
CASSIE
“I better changebefore Dad gets here. Wearing a bikini while meeting the new houseguest will drive my dad over the edge.” The suggestion comes from me, but I make zero effort to move. Floating on a raft in a heated pool with my cousin, Nicole, outweighs the risk of getting caught. I skim my fingertips along the water surface and let the warmth from the sun imprison me. It feels too good to move, as proof by the contented sigh leaving my mouth. Nothing could top this day.
“Puh-leeze. If Uncle Nolan had his way, you’d be wearing a one-piece straight out of the thirties,” Nicole says.
“Even that would show too much skin.” Sarcasm drips from my every word. To say Dad was strict would be an understatement. He’s the epitome of authoritarian.
“I still can’t believe Uncle Nolan didn’t send you away this year,” Nicole says.
The protest that I’m twenty-one years old and have every right to stay in my house dies on my tongue. Because face it, she’s right. When summer league baseball rolls around, Dad always sends me packing. Lord forbid, one of his players gets a glimpse of his daughter. And to make matters worse, besides coaching, Dad manages the team and serves as a host, opening our home to a ballplayer. But only one. We have a spare room in our ranch-style home, and I refuse to let a stranger sleep in my bedroom. The office gets converted to an extra bedroom for three months out of the year.
“I wonder if he’ll be cute?”
Warmth coats my cheeks. “What does that matter?”
“It’ll give you something good to look at. If you’re going to have to share living space with a stranger, he may as well be hot as fu—”
“Okay, I get it.” I laugh, cutting her off. I’m not as uptight about foul language as I used to be, but we are at my parents’ house. Well, my dad’s house. A twinge of pain squeezes my chest, but I push away the memory that causes it. I don’t want to think about the last three years. Not today. Not when I’m finally enjoying myself.
“What? You know I’m right.” Nicole won’t let it drop. I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s what my dad calls “boy crazy.”
“That may be so, but I don’t want to think about sharing a bathroom with a hot guy. The only guys that stay here are the ones needing discipline. Bad boys are hardly my type.”
“You sure about that?”
My eyes narrow. Nicole never brings up my bout with said bad boy. That bad boy was Dalton Boyd, whom I met three summers ago when Nicole and I stayed at Aunt Jan’s house in Bellow Bay, North Carolina. Any discussion about Dalton is considered taboo. It’s not like I want to forget him—as if that’s even a possibility—but it hurts too much whenever he enters my mind. And yes, I still think about him—a lot. “Positive. And even if I did, fate had other plans.”
“Enough about fate. The missed chance with him is all on you, not from the lack of invisible love gods playing cupid. There are things called cell phones. We had his number. You made me delete and block it.”
