Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“There’s no way I’m going back to the Crazy Crab,” the blonde in the neon-yellow bikini says as she flips her hair behind her shoulder. “There were way too many creepers there last night.”
The brunette in the pastel-pink bikini laughs. “You say that about every bar we go to.”
“Whatever. I don’t care. Pick another place.”
“What about Frankie’s?” the other brunette, wearing a flowery bathing suit with both butt cheeks out, suggests. “They have a DJ.”
“Yeah, okay. I’m down for Frankie’s,” the blonde agrees.
I try to tune out their ongoing conversation about bars and spring break and college courses, but something the blonde says catches my attention and holds it hostage.
“Who is that guy?” she questions, and I look up from my book to glance at them out of my periphery on instinct.
And when I discreetly search for the guy in question, my roomie, Mack Houston himself, is the only man I find. He’s still paddleboarding across the water, his large presence undeniable.
“Dayum. He’s someone I certainly want to know,” Flower Bikini purrs. “The body on that man. I volunteer as tribute.”
Pathetic or not, this is the norm when it comes to Mack Houston. Women fawn all over him. Hell, I’ve seen both moms and dads of students flash flirtatious looks in his direction at all the school functions.
But I don’t normally have a front-row seat to the inner workings of people tripping all over themselves.
Out of the corner of my eye, I analyze the state of his new groupies. All three women have that familiar slack-jawed look as they stare toward him, and their mouths move a mile a minute as they pick apart his presumed situation manically. Unfortunately for me, my ears don’t miss a single word of their conversation as it continues.
“I bet he’s early thirties.”
“You think he’s that old?”
That old? Holy hell. I roll my eyes so hard it threatens to give me a headache.
“You think he’s married?”
“I sure as hell hope not. But honestly, if he is, I don’t kiss and tell.”
As they laugh and snicker about their moral emptiness, I climb from my chair and drop my book in my bag, destination anywhere but here.
Any more of this conversation and I might start to lose brain cells. Or get chest pain.
Without wasting another second of time, I grab my beach bag, dust off the bottom of it, and walk as far away from Mack Houston’s fan club as I possibly can.
Is it just me or does it suddenly feel like this is going to be one long-ass vacation?
Sunday, March 20th
Mack
As I finish brushing my teeth and doing the usual morning bathroom routine, my already sun-kissed face staring back at me in the mirror, I make a decision.
Today, I’m going to get in Katy’s good graces. For real.
I can dial up the charm and spin back the tendency to instigate, and I can get to know Katy Dayton on a genuine level.
Because, at this point, I think I have to.
Yesterday, by the time I got in from paddleboarding and took a quick shower to wash off the sea and sand, Katy was already in her room with the door closed and the lights out. It wasn’t even eight yet, and she’d officially called it a night.
And the only reasonable conclusion is that it’s me. I mean, I have a hard time believing this is her norm. I know some people like sleep more than I do, but what grown-ass adult goes to bed before the sun even sets?
It’s because she truly loathes you…
No. I shake my head. Not anymore.
Today, I fix it. Because there’s no reason that woman should be going to bed before old people hit early-bird dinners in the name of keeping her distance from me.
I leave the bathroom and head for the kitchen, “Determination” my newly christened middle name. I’m ready to rebuild bridges and balm wounds and cover myself with olive branches.
The only problem is that Katy is nowhere to be found.
I glance down the hallway and note that her bedroom door is open, a fair sign that she’s not in there, and if she’s not there, I don’t think she’s anywhere in here. This condo is spacious, but it’s not massive. If she were in here, I’d have seen her by now.
There’s half a pot of still-warm coffee in the coffeemaker on the counter, though, so I don’t imagine she’s been gone for long.
I open the fridge to all the groceries Katy bought. The old me would have grabbed one of the yogurts without thinking anything of it—because if the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t mind at all.
But Mack “Determination” Houston has the self-awareness to realize that I already drank her wine yesterday and agreed to an explicit rule about not consuming her food and drink without permission not long after.
My phone vibrates inside my board shorts pocket, and I pull it out hoping it has some kind of clue about her location. Not surprisingly, I’m not signed up for the Universal Notifications Subscription Plan.