by Leigh, Ember
“Yeah, I know, I was being a dick.” I squeeze my brother’s shoulder. He’s always been the pacifist in the family, opting out of the fights and competition as much as he could. But he’s as much of an asshole as the rest of us. He just hides it better. “I should have asked, where’s your boyfriend?”
Weston gives me the famous Daly side eye. “Wherever yours is.”
I laugh. My brother likes women as much as the rest of the Daly men. That is to say: exclusively. But it’s hard to not razz him. He is my little brother, after all.
Maverick comes over a moment later, sweating and scowling. “I’m done.”
“Oh, come on, what happened?” I gesture toward Dom and Gray. “Don’t let those two assholes ruin our fun.”
“I’m not as asshole, I’m a gray-hole,” Gray cracks.
“Con-hole here,” I add.
“Dom-hole,” Dom said, coming up with his hands on his hips.
“West-hole?” Weston asks.
Maverick smiles, and then finally, a laugh rips out of him. I glance around at my brothers, and they’re all smiling too.
So this is what it feels like for us to get along for once. I wish Mom were here to see it.
“Listen, let’s go fuck around on the Jet Skis,” I suggest. Less competition and more open water is our best shot at maintaining the brotherly love. I get a round of agreement, and we head east down the beach, past striped beach towels and tanning teens.
While we walk, Mav occasionally stops to pick up rocks and skip them into the bay. Grayson falls into step beside me.
“Where’s Ms. Ca-ba-na?” he asks, over-pronouncing her last name.
“Seeing her parents.”
“Ah. Why aren’t you there with her?”
“Because she’s allowed to do her own thing, man.” I shove Grayson a little. His questions are innocent enough, but I get the sense that he’s testing me. Maybe I’m being paranoid.
We walk along for a little bit, our footsteps leaving weaving trails through the damp sand.
“I thought you were with that hot brunette,” Grayson goes on, shoving his hands into his pockets. My chest tightens at the mention of her, but not because I miss her. Between hanging out with Kinsley and all the family time, I’ve barely thought of her. And even less after this morning.
Tamara and I never had the sort of explosive connection that Kinsley and I discovered today. We just looked good together and had the occasional nice night out. It was mostly fighting and frustration, though, interspersed with occasional make-up sex that promised better things on the horizon.
“Nah,” I say, squinting into the horizon. Better to leave it at that.
Grayson rubs his chin for a moment, glancing at me like he knows a secret. “I’m surprised, I guess.”
“About what?”
“She doesn’t seem your type.”
Irritation flashes through me. “And how would you know? You don’t even know her.” I pause. “You barely know me.”
Grayson is quiet after that. He looks out toward the water. Conversation over, apparently. But his words stick with me. They grate at me on the surface, but as with all things my older brothers say, even their offhanded comments have barbs. They get beneath the skin.
He might not know me like a friend anymore, but he knows me better than most people ever could. It’s the consequence of growing up together.
Tamara is exactly my type, or rather—the Daly type. Busty, curvy, and hot enough to model. All of us have a string of hotties in our collective pasts, and Tamara is no different.
So he’s not wrong about Kinsley. Because she isn’t my type.
I just can’t figure out why that bothers me.
When we make it to the docks, we take turns tooling around on the two Jet Skis my parents have. Thankfully, we manage to share for the few hours we’re out on the water, taking turns like good boys. The water washes away my concerns, as it always does, the best salve known to mankind.
The afternoon melts away in summertime bliss. Sunlight so pure, it makes me squint, even with sunglasses on. The rhythmic crash of waves against the wooden dock posts as I watch Mav stand on the Jet Ski out on the water, sending spray behind him in a graceful arc. And the gulls, circling nearby, which remind me of the incident with Kinsley the other day. That puts the perma-grin back on my face.
Once we make the trek home and Mom is starting dinner, Kinsley still hasn’t texted. I’ve got some time to kill, and I’m starting to feel restless, so I head to the bedroom and pull out my laptop. Code hard or die, basically. I lose myself in my project easily; the time away from it has given me a new perspective.
And yes, I’m coding on vacation again. But the sooner I finish this, the better. The raw tension of being stuck in a stagnant career pond is potent enough to gnaw through my feel-good vibes here in Bayshore. Once this is done, I’ll have direction again.
My phone buzzes in the middle of my code-a-thon. An hour has melted by, and I barely noticed. Mom has texted to say dinner is in five. I log onto social media, one of the few times I’ve even gotten on my account since hitting Bayshore.
And of course, the first thing that pops up is Tamara. She went to some bridal shower, and she’s showcasing one of her infamous selfies with mauve fish lips and overflowing cleavage. Seeing her reminds me of one of the prime directives of my trip: piss her off.
Originally I thought the trickle-down of news after the fact might be satisfactory, but a new idea occurs to me in a flash. I swipe through my phone and pick the best selfie of Kinsley and me from the other day. No caption. No explanation. Just two happy, ruddy-faced people who are probably fucking, enjoying Bayshore and life and each other.
Before I post, I edit one important detail. The audience. This is a bitchfest-inducing, jealousy-inspiring mission, so my tactic only needs to reach one demographic.
Tamara.
Chapter 15
KINSLEY
I stay away from the Daly household for as long as I can stand it. Because I don’t know how to move forward from here.
Every bit of my innards are screaming for more more more. More sex, more Connor, more of this fun and flirty connection we’ve unwittingly stumbled upon. But the more I think about it, the more confused I get.
Because this is fake—right?
And if it’s fake, it won’t go anywhere. Even though, if I listen hard enough, I can hear wedding bells in the distance. I should enjoy it for what it is, which is an entirely unclear and befuddling situation that we’ve created ourselves. Reap the orgasms while they’re ripe, which is a saying that no one has said ever.
But around eight p.m., I’m feeling the itch for more Connor. I need to face the music. We need to figure out how to address the fact that we had an intimate slip, a cascade of carnality. Because I know the truth: it’s just sex for Connor. I’m a warm body in the same bed. He wouldn’t look twice at me if he had his pick of all the women in Bayshore, and I repeat this to myself as I text him.
KINSLEY: Ready for me?
CONNOR: You have no idea. Where should I meet you?
Butterflies swarm to life in my belly. He’s probably stressed from spending the day with his brothers, but it’s nice to think that maybe he missed me. I seriously need to stop indulging in this sort of fantasy, though. It’s only going to hurt me later.
KINSLEY: Pick me up at High-5’s?
It’s a neutral middle ground between my parents’ house and his. He tells me to give him ten minutes, so I say goodbye to my parents and start the late evening walk to the locally famous bar.
When I get there, I stop at the back of the deck behind High-5’s. It overlooks the grassy knoll that slopes down the side of the bar toward the boardwalk below. Boats are docked all along the shore here—it’s the convenient hitching post for boaters when they need to stop downtown to grab a bite to eat or a beer.
Connor is coming down the boardwalk toward High-5’s, his hands shoved into the pockets of his light-gray shorts. He’s wearing
a blue and white striped muscle shirt, and the sight of his casual saunter makes my core tighten immediately.
This man was inside me roughly twelve hours ago. A shiver trembles up my spine, and for a moment, all I can do is stare at him and recall the moment when he first pushed himself inside me. Will I ever recover from that? Or will ten years go by, and I’ll still be held hostage by the memory of his perfect cock while I’m stuck in a dissatisfying relationship with someone who isn’t Connor?
“Kinsley!”
His gruff voice snaps me out of my reverie. He’s climbing the cement steps that cut through the sloping knoll up to the back patio. I’m white knuckling the railing of the patio, and it takes me a moment to find my voice.
“Hi, Connor.” I tuck some hair behind my ear, swallowing hard as he heads toward me. A million thoughts collide inside me. Lighthearted quips and casual comments that might mask my nervousness fight for airtime on my tongue. I try to force some combination of them together. “What’s you?”
A grin curls his lips, and he slows to a stop in front of me. I replay my words in my head, and I pinch my eyes shut.
“What?”
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “I mean…how are you? Or, what’s up…I don’t know. Hi.” I offer my hand, which he takes cautiously. “I’m Kinsley, the biggest dork on the planet. Pleased to meet you.”
His grin widens as we shake hands. “I wouldn’t say biggest...”
“Oh, no?”
“Definitely top five.” Our hands drop slightly, and I swear he squeezes mine before he lets go.
I snicker while humiliation rises up like a phoenix inside me. “Well, I’m ready when you are. Do with me what you will.”
His eyebrow lifts. People are milling around us, drinks in hand, but this isn’t primetime for this spot yet. After nine, the bands start, and this back patio gets packed shoulder to shoulder. But for now, there’s still room to breathe.
“Want to grab a drink first?”
I expel a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Yes, actually.”
This sense of direction is helpful. We’re getting a drink. That might take the edge off this nervousness that has flared up like the newest strain of influenza. Everything that has come out of my mouth so far has been slightly off. I don’t have much hope for all the words yet to escape.
I don’t know how to be around Connor now that we’ve had sex.
I follow his broad shoulders as we weave inside High-5’s, through laughing groups of friends and couples clinking glasses of wine. He finds a bartender and is already ordering when I reach the edge of the bar beside him. The bartender flits away before I can say anything.
“Did you order for me, too?”
He nods, sending me a mysterious smile. I try to see what the bartender is preparing, but it’s impossible. My belly flutters.
“What did you get?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” he says, and then leans against the bar, elbows behind him. “Just something to enjoy the sunset.”
I squash the silly grin which threatens to take over my face. Because this is still acting. Even though we’re away from the family, he probably still wants to be able to say, “Kinsley and I spent a romantic evening watching the sunset.” So this is all part of the ruse. He’s not buying me a drink because he really wants to.
It’s so hard to keep my footing in all of this. But I forget the grapple when the drinks arrive. Two RumChatas. I find his gaze waiting for mine, laughter in his eyes.
“You didn’t.”
“Cheers, Kins.” He lifts his tumbler and clinks it against mine. We both take a long sip, and he pays the bartender. A moment later, he coughs. “Been a long time since I’ve had one of these.”
“Probably since senior year of high school, right?”
A laugh crinkles his eyes again. “Actually, yeah.”
The moment settles pleasantly between us. I forget about my confusion, about my nervousness. But only briefly. As he leads us out of the bar and back toward the patio, where sunset has exploded in a raucous, golden volcano of light and sunbeams, all of my tension returns. Do I act like we didn’t fuck? Was that lovemaking or something else? Can Connor be considered a hookup now?
He heads toward a tall table along the wooden railing. We slide onto the stools, and I offer a smile.
“How was your day?”
God, this feels so formal, which is even more embarrassing. I want to crawl into a hole somewhere. I jerk my gaze from the table and out toward the lake. Better to concentrate on the orange and red hues rippling across the bay. That makes way more sense than what’s going on between us right now.
“It was awesome. My mom and I went to the mall. She bought me some new underwear. Now I have a new pair for every day of the week.”
“So you have the complete granny-panty collection?”
His words make my eyes go wide. I look over at him and see the shit-eating grin on his face. My cheeks flame instantly, and I down half of my RumChata. This, right here? This is what I’ve been afraid of. I’m not on his level. He’s used to confident women in thongs that double as dental floss. I’m just a lost girl in granny panties that double as wash rags.
When I don’t respond, he adds, “They’re cute. I like them.”
I groan, covering my face with my hands.
“And I haven’t even seen the new ones yet. But I’ll probably like those, too.”
I nibble on my lips, shaking my head. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you suffer through that.”
He grabs my wrist then, tipping his chin so that his gaze finds mine, heated and intense. “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying, Kins. I want to see the new ones.”
My cheeks flame again, but not from embarrassment this time. I look away from him, because meeting his gaze sparks too much confusion. Somewhere deep down, I know this is a game for him.
His stool scrapes over the wooden slats of the deck as he scoots closer to me. His arm brushes against me as he leans in close.
“Was this morning a dream, or did I fuck you so hard that you fell asleep on top of my dick?”
I wince, even though his words are so sexy, I feel a lick of arousal run through me. God, he probably thinks I’m such a little girl. I can’t hold my own against a man like him. I fell asleep while he was still inside me, for God’s sake. “I think we both agreed at the start that we were dreaming.”
He clears his throat, glancing around before leaning in so close that his lips brush my ear. “Then I think we should go back to dreamland.”
My entire face is in flames. It has to be, because this man’s words are too hot for me to properly comprehend. This isn’t just half-awake bodies next to each other in bed. He’s sober and awake and actually saying this. I dare myself to look up at him, and it takes all my strength. As much as I’m turned on by him, I’m also languishing from embarrassment. I’m not a sexy goddess. I’m no man’s fantasy. I learned that over and over again from my ex. Which means that whatever Connor is responding to now is based on pure testosterone.
He just wants to have sex. And so do I. Even though I also want so much more.
I muster up my huskiest voice. “Finish your RumChata.”
A grin spreads across his face, the type that involves dimples and sparkling irises, and I fall a little bit deeper in love with him. I could look at his face for a full year, strapped to one chair, no blinking involved, and still want more. Another thing to not say out loud, Kinsley!
He finishes the rest of his drink in a gulp, and I attempt the same. It takes me two and a half swigs. I wipe my mouth, and we slide off the stools. He grabs my hand, our footsteps thudding across the deck as he leads me toward the stairs and down to the boardwalk.
It’s hard to hide the silly smile on my face. It’s hard not to get swept up in dreamy what-ifs. This, right here—this is the confusing shit. It feels so real, but I know it can’t be.
But even so, I giggle while he tugs on me to hurry be
hind him, only to stop abruptly to point out a cawing group of seagulls.
“They’re still displeased,” Connor says, faux-serious.
“What’s the reason this time?”
“Because you stayed away so long today.” Connor squeezes my hand, resuming the quick pace from before. His words repeat a few times in my head, and I fight back the warm fuzzies as best I can. The boardwalk curves around the bayfront, and by the time we’re hitting the northeastern lip of his parent’s neighborhood, the sunset turns bloated and brilliant. We pause, gasping and pointing, as the fat, red ball sinks beneath the horizon.
The wispy clouds in the sky turn fuchsia and violet as the sun’s effects continue to dance across the heavens. Seeing something like that sends a whoosh of prickly energy through me. My entire body is tingling with excitement, and that has as much to do with Connor’s big hand around mine as the hot-pink skyline.
We cross into the neighborhood, sand tracked over the first few feet of asphalt road as we snag the uneven sidewalk leading down the street. He hasn’t explicitly said it, but I’m fairly sure we’re going to have sex as soon as we set foot in his parents’ house. We might even half undress as we stumble up the staircase. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.
He glances back at me. “What color are they?”
“What?”
“Your new collection.”
Amusement ripples through me. “Oh, a variety. Deep purple. One is sky blue. Another pair is white stripes with like, pink edging…” I slow my pace beside him. “Actually, I have them here. Do you want to see them?”
His grip tightens around my hand. “Not yet. We don’t want to be indecent on the sidewalk.”
The neighborhood is bustling with activity at this time of night. I always liked this neighborhood growing up, because it seemed so tight-knit and funky. That aspect hasn’t changed a bit. A younger couple is dragging out the wooden boards to set up cornhole on their driveway as we walk past. The next house over, an older man is fighting with a tiki torch, and he mutters, “I’m ready to tiki torch this thing,” as we walk by.
