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He hadn’t known Aunt Tate personally, but he’d scribbled Amy a postcard or two when she’d spent those months in France. One-liners, yes, but for Fletcher, that was a lot.
When Amy reached the rickety wooden stairs that climbed the fifteen feet to his deck, she noticed four triangular bits of red cloth flapping from the railing. She picked them up, fingering the damp strings and then the triangles of what appeared to be the tops of two miniscule bikinis. When she heard music, she frowned. Was Fletcher having a party without her?
A singer cried, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Then the sound of a steel-string guitar accompanied by the heavy thudding of drums.
Her throat tightened, and she flung the bits of fabric savagely into the grass. Avoiding the front door, which stood ajar, Amy put her hands on her hips and marched around to the back of the house by way of the deck. Rounding a corner too fast, she almost stumbled over a bloated male body. His beer gut moved up and down, so he had to be alive. But his shaggy hair was filthy, and his sunburned arms sported several tattoos. She didn’t recognize the spider tattoos, so maybe he wasn’t one of Fletcher’s regular roommates.
No sooner had she scooted around him when she saw six or seven more bodies sprawled on the deck, over the hoods of cars in the backyard and across the lawn furniture. A boom of deep male laughter accompanied by wild squeals in the Jacuzzi made her heart speed up.
Fletcher.
She turned slowly. Sunlight glinted in his tousled curls as he squirmed on the edge of the tub while balancing two topless blondes on his lap.
Amy dug her fingers into the railing so hard a splinter bit into her thumb.
When she cried his name, Fletcher bolted to his feet. He wasn’t wearing a suit. To his credit his handsome face turned red. “Aw, baby, you should’ve called.”
The girls toppled into the Jacuzzi with a splash. Squealing, they grabbed at Fletcher’s bronzed legs.
Horrified, Amy began to back toward the front of his house.
“Baby!” Fletcher yanked a wet towel off the floor of the deck. Whipping it around his waist, he stomped toward her, leaving big, drippy footprints on the deck.
She ran, leaping over unconscious surfer bodies, plates of half-eaten pie and overturned beer bottles, her feet flying down the steps into the chaos of cars in his front yard. But he was faster. Springing down the stairs with the agility of an orangutan, he grabbed her arm.
“Baby, I know you think you’ve got a right to be mad, and you do, you do, but I can explain.”
His voice was slurred, and he reeked of beer. A smear of lipstick marred one prominent cheekbone.
She jerked free and stomped past the cars to her Toyota.
“Look, I know I should have invited you to the party!” he yelled. “But you hate my parties. You refused to move in with me. You never want to do anything fun anymore. Ever since you got the store, you act as old and boring as those old clothes you buy and sell. And when it comes to sex, forget it! You never want to try anything new.”
“Maybe because I’m tired after working all day.”
“Which you throw at me constantly.”
“Maybe because I want you to grow up.”
“Maybe I’m as grown-up as I’ll ever be. I have money. I bought this house. I run it. So what if I don’t have a real job?”
She looked at him, at the plastic sacks fluttering like ghosts in the over-long grass, at his unpainted house and then down at the beautiful beach. “Is this all you’ll ever want?”
“What’s wrong with this? My old man worked himself into an early grave. Luckily he left me enough so I can get by. I wake up to paradise every day.”
The blondes, wrapped in towels now, were standing on the deck watching Fletcher.
Would Fletcher’s girlfriends get younger every year?
Amy fumbled in her purse for her keys. When had everything changed? Grabbing her keys, she punched a button and got her door unlocked. Then she climbed in and slammed it. As she started the engine, she rolled down her window. He ambled over and smiled at her.
Oh, God, his eyes were so startlingly blue, so warm and friendly and sexy even now, but dammit, her mother was right. She couldn’t live with him.
But could she live without him?
“You know what, Fletcher? I’m tired of having to feel lucky to be dating the good-looking, popular guy that all the other girls want. I want to be wanted.”
“Baby—”
“You’re not the only one who needs to grow up.” She hit the accelerator so hard her tires slung bits of shell against his bare shins.
“Sorry!” she whispered when he let out a yelp. And she was. She was sorry for so many things. Sorry she’d disappointed her mother. Sorry about her dad…. Sorry about all sorts of dreams that hadn’t panned out.
