by Jenna Scott
He is entirely too close though. The space between our seats isn’t nearly enough to diminish the taut energy radiating off of him. I cross my legs and turn toward the window, keeping my eyes on the road so I won’t have to look at him.
So far, I’ve recognized all the streets he’s taken. But when we get to the intersection where we’d turn right to get to his neighborhood, he goes straight instead.
“That’s not the right way,” I say, looking over at him in confusion.
“Yeah, it is,” he says, which does nothing to reassure me.
Sinking back into the seat, I tell myself everything is fine. Maybe he just wants to drive around until he calms down. I don’t have a car, and getting my driver’s license made me all kinds of anxious, but I know that some people find driving very relaxing.
But a few minutes later, he still hasn’t given any indication of where we’re going, and we keep moving farther and farther away from our intended destination and closer and closer to the beach. He also seems focused, not like he’s just taking random turns. What the hell?
I’m about to tell him to turn around and drop me off like he said he would when he finally turns into an unlit dirt lot beside an old lighthouse. Then he turns the car off.
“Why are we here?” I ask, my voice quiet, more curious than angry now.
“You’ll see,” he says.
To the left, city lights flash in the distance; to my right, I can see the black expanse of the ocean softly crashing against the cliffs. Before us is the lighthouse, which is small and white and box-shaped with windows along the front and a tall tower rising from the center of the roof with a glass observatory on top of it.
Well, okay then. Here we are.
Hunter gets out of the car, so I do the same. The ocean breeze hits me as soon as I step out, chilly and salt-scented, raising goose bumps on my arms. I barely notice. It’s deserted and beautiful out here, magical almost, the lighthouse seeming to glow in the dark. When I look up at the sky, the stars are the brightest I’ve ever seen.
It’s obvious that the lighthouse is no longer functional, probably serving as a museum nowadays. Which means we probably shouldn’t be here after hours…
I turn toward Hunter, but he’s already opening the gate in the white fence surrounding the property.
“Um, Hunter?” I start. I have no idea what he’s up to, and yet I can’t believe he’s taken me somewhere so nice. That said, it’s obvious we’re trespassing.
“Come on,” he says. “This way.”
As I follow after him, I wonder: aren’t we breaking and entering?
And if we are, do I even care?
Not that I can afford to get arrested, but some part of me is giddy at the idea of this adventure, this secret something that Hunter is wordlessly sharing with me.
I come up beside him at the door and whisper, “Is this legal?”
“Jesus, Camilla.” He turns to me, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why do you always have to overthink everything?”
“Because people like me can’t afford to take risks,” I answer.
“People like you? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means not everyone gets to have everything handed to them on a silver platter, and some of us can’t just weasel our way out of an arrest record.”
“You assume my life’s been easy because I have money,” he says with a smirk.
“No. I just assume it’s been easier for you than it has been for those of us who don’t have money.” I fold my arms over my chest. “So is this your brilliant evil plan? Getting me to commit a felony crime on a school night so your dad kicks me and my mom out?”
“Fucking hell,” he says, shaking his head. “Just relax. And by the way, it’s not a felony, it’s a misdemeanor, at least until you steal or break something.”
“Of course you’d know that,” I shoot back.
“I guess I would.”
With that, he digs into one of his pockets and pulls out a key.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hunter
Ever since Camilla moved in, I’ve been spending less and less time at home. Which is stupid—it’s my house, and if anything, she should be the one avoiding it as much as possible. But when we aren’t at school together, she’s either babysitting Harrison or she’s “home” at the pool house, and when she’s not there, she’s in my head.
I can’t even go for a swim without wondering if she’s watching.
That’s why I let the guys convince me to go out to The Sweet Spot tonight, even though I wasn’t in the mood for greasy diner food. Getting space to just breathe and clear my mind sounded fucking great. But of course she was there, laughing with her friend as my posse walked in. I heard her all the way across the restaurant, and I knew it was Camilla before I even turned to look.
At this point, it’s like fate keeps throwing us together just to torture me. Like some bastard god is enjoying watching us clash every time we get near each other.
I tried to keep my friends distracted as we passed her table, hoping the others wouldn’t notice her. If they did, the conversation would’ve inevitably shifted to what’s up with her and me and whether I’ve put her back in her place or just fucked her yet. The distraction was for Steve, too, since he always zeroes in on Isabel as soon as he sees her, and I couldn’t risk him trying to get us all together at one big table or something.
Luckily, we got seated far from her booth, and we were almost done eating when I noticed Camilla and Isabel getting up to leave. I figured they’d ride home together, but a few minutes later, through the huge front windows of the restaurant, I saw Isabel duck into a car and Camilla stay behind. Steve made a joke then, and the guys dragged me into their loud-ass camaraderie. The next time I looked up, Camilla was gone.
That’s when I caught a flash of the light blue sweater she was wearing and realized she was making her way up the darkened street. Alone.
There was no way in hell I was letting her walk home by herself.
It took an entire split second for me to open my wallet and drop two twenties on the table while telling the guys I had to leave early. The fuck was she thinking? How could she not know this part of town is dangerous, that it’s the place people come to hold up corner stores or score random opioids and cheap coke?
It was like Matt’s kink closet party all over again, with Camilla completely oblivious to the danger surrounding her. There are a lot of shitty things I can live with, but risking my brother’s nanny apparently isn’t one of them.
My brother’s nanny. Right. That’s all she is.
So I chased after her. Of course she fought me at first, but she finally gave in, got in the car, and let me drive. But every time I looked over, it was obvious how miserable she was. It’s not just that she’s as easy to read as an open book, it’s like she’s a freaking kid’s book. It was almost too easy to see she was uncomfortable, to see she was counting the seconds until we got home.
And then I noticed how clear the sky was, and I started wondering if she’d appreciate the view from the lighthouse. So I didn’t turn toward home and then didn’t answer any of her questions. I wanted to see what her face looks like when she’s surprised with something good. At least, I hoped it would be good.
What is it about Camilla that I can’t shake? I’ve had plenty of other hot girls. Girls who don’t argue with me, who don’t constantly call me out. The kind who do exactly what I say, when I say it, and don’t make me work hard to get what I want. It makes zero sense for me to be hung up on her.
Yet even right now, when I’m trying to do something nice, she’s looking at me like I’m some sort of rogue. Accusing me of breaking and entering without a care because being rich supposedly guarantees you a free pass on misdemeanors.
I’m holding the door open, waiting for Camilla to come inside. But she won’t budge. She’s looking right at me and saying, “I know you have connections and whatever, but how’d you get a key to this place?”
Her whole body tenses, and she hisses, “Hunter, seriously. Let’s just go.”
“I’m joking, Camilla,” I say, holding up my hands defensively. “My dad’s real estate company owns the property, and he sometimes brings people to see the place.”
I don’t mention that the people are generally his sidepieces, not prospective buyers, or that I’ve overheard him bragging about how many women he’s screwed here.
“But you’re not a licensed real estate agent,” Camilla points out.
That forces me to crack a smile. “Maybe not, but clearly I’m within my legal rights to be here. More or less. And you’re my guest. So come on in.”
I gesture for her to follow me, and finally she does, shuffling in small steps.
“It’s so dark. Can’t you turn on a light?” she asks, keeping her voice low even though there’s no way anyone would hear us over the sound of the ocean anyway.
“Someone might realize we’re here,” I tell her.
“But you said—”
“Just because it’s not illegal to be here doesn’t mean my dad wouldn’t be pissed, yeah? And you don’t have to whisper.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
Using my phone’s flashlight app, I lead her across the room to the tower stairs.
“So does your dad ever throw the occasional real estate party up here?” she asks as she climbs the spiral steps behind me. “That might be kind of cool.”
“Depends on what kind of party you’re talking about,” I say, moving extra slowly to make sure she keeps her footing. “But I assume the guest list stays at two.”
I let the words hover in the air as we pass the service room, still climbing.
“You mean…”
“It’s not like he can bring his girlfriends to the house,” I clarify.
She clears her throat, and I can tell she’s not sure what to say. “Oh.”
“You can say it. He’s an asshole.”
“You can say it,” she says, voice small. “It’s different for me.”
Right, because he signs her and her mom’s paychecks and now puts a roof over their heads to boot. I know all too well what that feels like.
At this point, we’re both breathless from the climb, but we finally reach the last turn of the stairs.
“This is it. The lantern room.” I step into the room and turn to wait for her. Once she’s beside me, she exhales deeply, like she’s letting herself go. A little bit, at least.
“Wow.”
A chuckle leaves me. “See? It was worth it.”
The glassed-in space offers 360-degree views; from this high up, it’s almost like we’re floating in the night sky. Camilla walks to the center of the room where the light sits, surrounded by panes of curving, carved glass. If the lamp was on, she’d be blinded.
“This is gorgeous,” she breathes.
“That’s the lens for the lamp. It focuses the light into a beacon so ships can see it from really far away. Approximately twenty miles, give or take.”
“You’re a nerd, Hunter Beck,” she says, looking at me and smiling. My chest goes tight hearing her say my full name, but I just shrug. “I think I like this side of you.”
“It gets better,” I tell her. I don’t elaborate on whether I mean the lighthouse gets better or my personality does. I’ll let her interpret it however she likes.
Taking her hand, I lead her across the room and outside onto the platform, which is enclosed by a metal railing. There’s a light breeze up here, and it’s a little cold, so I take off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. I can hear the sound of waves thundering against the rocks below, and something inside me feels like waves too.
“And this is called the lantern gallery,” I tell her. “The lookout, basically.”
“I—I love it,” she says, her eyes big and beautiful, reflecting the stars.
Her loose hair is whipping all around her face, to the point she has to hold it back, and the sight of her bare neck makes my pulse kick higher. I try to shake it off as she moves toward the railing.
“The view is amazing,” she says, her smile lighting up her entire face. I step closer until I’m at her side. Closing her eyes, she breathes in. “I can smell the beach.”
The waves continue to churn and crack, and next to me, Camilla is a beacon of warmth, begging to be held and kissed. But I don’t want to scare her into leaving again.
I brace myself on my forearms as I lean against the metal railing beside her. “I like coming here when everything else is too much. It’s loud but also…quiet, I guess.”
Milla looks over, her slight frown speaking volumes. I know she must be wondering why I brought her here, why I’m standing so close. But she doesn’t say it. Instead, she looks back to the ocean. “I get it. It is nice up here, listening to the waves.”
“Yeah. It’s kind of like being in the water without being in it,” I murmur.
“Is that why you swim so much?” she asks. “You love the water?”
“Yeah, I do,” I answer automatically. “It reminds me of my mom.”
Camilla’s fingers tighten on the railing as she softly says, “Your mom?”
I nod, appreciating the careful way she frames it, giving me room to decide whether or not to elaborate. Maybe that’s why I tell her more.
“I only have one memory of her, from before she walked out on us. We were swimming at the beach, me and her. The waves were rolling in all around us, rough, but she was holding me in her arms. I was safe, and the sun was warm on my back. I was happy.” My voice cracks a little, much to my embarrassment, and I breathe in slowly, letting the waves echo in my ears.
“It sounds like a good memory. How old were you?” Camilla asks softly.
“Little. Maybe four.” I stay quiet for a minute, reliving it all in my head. I can almost taste the salt water in my mouth again, smell the coconut sunscreen my mom wore. “The thing is, even now, whenever I’m in the water, it feels like the world isn’t so loud anymore. Like there’s something good, and…better. I don’t know.”
I turn to her, and she’s looking back at me, her lips parted like an invitation.
The next thing I know, my mouth is on hers, fleeting but firm. Softly, she gasps, one of her hands coming up to rest on my chest, but she’s not pushing me away. Instead, she leans in for more, standing on her tiptoes. I kiss her again, deeper this time, tilting her chin up for a better angle.
She lets out a little moan, and it’s game on.
My tongue slips against hers, and she opens wider, matching my pace. I can feel her nails digging into my shirt, and all I can think of is that we should’ve been kissing all along. But tasting her is not enough. My free hand circles her waist, finding the small of her back, and I pull her tight against me and let myself get lost.
“Why?” she asks when we come up for air.
I know what she’s asking. Why did I kiss her? Why am I so cruel to her face most of the time but then can’t keep my hands off her when we’re alone together?
Part of me wants to be honest and tell it to her straight. Right now, I want to be comforted, and kissing her distracts me, takes my mind off of everything else. But that sounds dickish, and lying feels wrong, so I go for half the truth instead.
“The same reason you do,” I tell her. “Because this,” I kiss her again, slowly but persistently, and pull away just after my tongue strokes hers, “feels good.”
She lets out a sharp exhale. “Maybe.”
I don’t like maybe.
Dropping my lips to her neck, I kiss her there too. Camilla’s breathing gets faster, like she can’t help the effect I have on her, and now I want more. I need more.
“Isn’t it better than what you were feeling before?” I ask, biting her collarbone softly, then taking my mouth lower.
One of her hands comes to rest on my shoulder and squeezes. “I just…”
“Milla,” I say. “Stop over
thinking it. If you don’t want to—”
“I want you,” she interrupts fiercely.
My arms tighten around her, crushing her to me, and I kiss all her doubts away. It’s desperate, and borderline clumsy, but my head’s full of her and the desire to hold on to her warmth and never let it go. I shift my grip to hold her ass, and I feel the satisfaction of knowing I was right about how it would fit perfectly in my hands.
There’s still more of her I haven’t taken, and all I can think about is how badly I want it.
Turning us around, I press her back against the cold glass window and grind my hips into hers. When she lets out a desperate whimper, I do it again.
Her hands slide up the back of my neck, weaving into my hair, her nails dragging deliciously across my scalp. I attack every inch of exposed skin; her neck, her chest, the top of her soft cleavage. Her sweet moans urge me on, urging me to keep going, to use my lips and tongue to unravel every inch of her.
In this moment, she’s everything I want.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Camilla
Being with Hunter at the lighthouse is like some kind of fever dream. It isn’t just the kissing, or his warm, strong hands all over my body, or the way I completely lose my mind whenever I do anything physical with him.
It’s so much more than that.
It’s how he let his guard down with me and spoke honestly about his mom and his swimming, right from the heart, proving my theory that there’s a mask he wears all the time, and that for some reason, he trusts me enough to lower it when we’re alone. There’s something real between us, whether we’re ready to admit it or not.
With his tongue on mine, the waves crashing hard below us, and the purple night sky spread out over our heads, I feel like we’re connected. Like there’s more to our hookups than just raging hormones or (in his case) the appeal of a new fling.
It’s hard to describe, but this isn’t something I’ve ever felt before.
When I say his name as he’s kissing the soft spot behind my ear, it sounds like a magic spell.
