Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“We should pick you up someone at the bachelor auction,” Joy suggests while applying some moisturizing lip balm. She always complains that the sun dries out her lips.
“Are they seriously still doing that?”
“Oh yeah. You should go check out the events desk. I peeked at the calendar when I got here to see what’s coming up this summer, and I swear there are so many events.”
“Like what?” From the table sandwiched between our chairs, I grab the aerosol can of sunscreen and spray some on my legs. Either my sunglasses are warping the colors around me, or I’m starting to burn a little. I lift my shades and wince. Yup, burning. I can practically hear Grandma’s voice in my head lecturing me for not consistently reapplying my sunscreen.
“We just missed the regatta—that was last week. Next weekend is the charity gala, which features the bachelor auction. First week of August is the golf tournament. Beach Games at the end of the month.”
“Did I tell you I’m competing this year? Mackenzie Cabot asked me to join Team Beacon.”
“That sounds like my worst nightmare,” Joy informs me. I’m not surprised, seeing as how she’s the least athletic person I know.
“Nah, it’ll be fun. And then the grand reopening of the Beacon is the weekend after that,” I remind her. That’s the only event I’m truly excited about, although I know it’ll be bittersweet. “Grandma and I will be at the charity thing this weekend. She likes bidding in the silent auction. She’s giving me some cash to bid with since it’s for a good cause, but I doubt I’ll attend the bachelor event. It’s always a bunch of old dudes with very noticeable hair plugs.”
She laughs. “Nuh-uh, last year there were some young’uns in the mix.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Including your best friend Tate.”
“Really?” I ignore the way my heart skips a beat. “You think he signed up again?”
“No idea. But I vote we check it out regardless. Maybe we’ll find you a cute guy to fling with.”
“Wasn’t that today’s goal?”
“Well, yeah, but I haven’t seen any suitable candidates yet. Have you?”
“No,” I say glumly.
She slides up in her chair, readjusting her sunglasses. “Let’s take another look.”
Weekends at the Manor are always busy, so the pool area is packed, every single lounger occupied. We had to reserve ours in advance, and Joy had grumbled up a storm when she was informed there were no available cabanas to book for the day. Her family usually reserves one for three full months, but this year her parents opted out because her mom got a promotion at work and will be spending the bulk of the summer in Manhattan.
“Oooh,” she suddenly says. “I got one. Eleven o’clock, end of the bar.”
I pop my sunglasses back on to make it less obvious that we’re staring. The guy she’s homed in on does look promising. Average height, dark hair, chiseled profile. He’s decked out in shorts, a green polo, and brown Sperrys. When he turns slightly, angling away from us, my gaze lowers to his butt, because apparently I’m a butt girl now. It’s decent. And he’s at least an eight, which ought to satisfy Peyton.
“I sure could use a refill of this piña colada,” Joy says. With a grin, she waves her empty glass around.
“You’re really going to make me go up there? Haven’t we established I’m terrible at asking guys out?”
“Who’s asking him out? Just go and talk to him. See if you like him. Then you can decide if you even want to ask him out. You always make yourself needlessly anxious by assuming the outcome.”
Good point. I do tend to jump the gun a lot, assuming every cute guy I speak to is my potential boyfriend when really it’s just a person to say hello to.
“Fine.” With a brisk nod, I slide off the striped towel draped over my chair and get to my feet. I don’t bother with my shorts, just slip into my flip-flops and saunter across the pool deck. There are women here walking around in string bikinis; my one-piece is hardly scandalous. It’s high-cut and does show quite a lot of thigh, but it supports my boobs well, a rare feat for a Cassie Soul bathing suit.
When I approach, the guy is sitting on a stool laughing at something the bartender just said. The second bartender, a curly-haired woman with a deep tan, greets me with a smile. “What can I do you for?”
“Two piña coladas, please. Virgin.” I blush at the word, but it sounds less dorky than nonalcoholic. Joy and I decided against day drinking today, even though I’d probably be served here. Most of the bars in the country club turn the other way when it comes to underage clientele, provided their families are rich enough. And my family passes the wealth test, apparently.