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)
“I don’t think I’m the one Cassie would like to see go.” Tate tips his head toward me. “Isn’t that right, Cass?”
I finally find my voice. “That’s right.”
A scowl darkens Ben’s face. “Are you fucking serious right now? You’re the one who came over here, smiled at me, sat down beside me. And I’m the bad guy? Clearly you started this.”
“And I’m about to finish it if you don’t leave,” Tate snaps. “Seriously, dude. I’m getting sick of having to pry you off women who clearly don’t want you around.”
“Fuck off.” But he does get up. Ben throws a hundred-dollar bill on the bar and then stalks off without a backward look. Asshole.
“Thanks,” I tell Tate, letting out the breath I’d been holding.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. He didn’t do anything, really. Just put his hand on my leg and told me how much he loves my boobs.” I shrug, my tone flat. “They always love my boobs.”
“Don’t do that,” Tate says softly.
“Do what?”
“Try to make light of it. Look, yes, men enjoy a nice rack. But that doesn’t give them the right to objectify you or make you feel uncomfortable. Or to lay a fucking hand on you.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. The truth is, I have a very complicated relationship with my breasts. When I was younger, they made me so self-conscious, which led to some seriously bad posture thanks to my attempts to make them appear smaller by hunching. Eventually I grew to accept my chest, although I’m still not entirely comfortable that it tends to be the first thing most people notice about me. It’s embarrassing. I mean, I get it—humans are visual creatures. It’s hard not to stare when someone has huge tits. Sometimes I even like showing mine off, wearing a tight top or a sexy dress. But Tate is right. Being objectified isn’t a joke. I shouldn’t make light of it, no matter how immune I’ve gotten over the years.
“You’re right. That wasn’t okay.” I release another breath. “He seemed really cool at the beginning.”
“I know. I’ve seen him pull the Mr. Charming act all summer. Usually he keeps it going for at least a few dates, though. I think you caught him when he was drunker than usual. The lowered inhibitions make it harder to hide the sleaze.”
“He didn’t seem that drunk,” I start, but then remember the waitress’s warning look. She’d probably been serving him all afternoon. Both bartenders had seemed well acquainted with him too. I pick up my drink and chug the rest of it. “Oh well. Another fling bites the dust.”
“Nah, ginger, you don’t want that loser. There are a million better candidates.”
I roll my eyes. “Is this the part where you offer to be my wingman again?”
“You know what? Yes. Let’s do this shit.” He flashes that dimpled smile.
“Do what?” I find myself laughing. It’s amazing how fast he’s able to cheer me up. I’m not even thinking about creepy Ben anymore.
“Let’s go out tomorrow night,” Tate urges. “I’m done at the dealership at five and then having dinner with my mom, but I can come grab you afterward. We’ll hit Joe’s Beach Bar. It’s got a balanced combo of locals and your crowd.”
“My crowd?”
“Yeah, the clones. The rich folks. There’ll be a good variety at Joe’s. I’ll help you scope out the candidates. I know practically everyone in town, so I can tell you which ones to stay away from.”
“Really. You’re going to help me find a fling.” I remain reluctant. “I don’t know.”
“Come on, what do you have to lose?”
My dignity.
My self-esteem.
“I don’t know,” I say again.
“C’mon.
“Ugh …”
“C’mon.”
“Are you just going to keep pestering me until I agree?”
“Pretty much.” His dimples make another appearance. “C’mon.”
“Oh my God. Fine.”
* * *
And that’s how the following night I find myself waiting outside Joe’s Beach Bar while Tate searches for a parking spot. The boardwalk is packed, even on a Monday night. And Joe’s is situated in a prime location, its beachfront patio a major draw for the tourist crowd. Six steps off the patio and literally you’re on the sand. I’ve always liked this place. The food is great. Super laid-back atmosphere.
“Ready?” Tate saunters up the sidewalk toward me.
“How far away did you have to park?”
“Not too bad. Beach access lot near the Soapery.”
We step to the door as a group of loud, drunk young men are exiting, one of them stumbling into us before offering a slurred apology. Tate reaches out to steady me, which places his hand at the small of my back. And since I’m wearing a cropped tee, his palm meets my bare skin.
A hot shiver runs through me.
“You okay?” he says.
“Good.” I swallow. Wishing my pulse still didn’t careen whenever we accidentally touch.
But Tate made it clear he’s not interested in flinging with me, and since I’d really like to find a cute guy to spend the summer with, I can either mope around during my remaining six weeks in the Bay and moon over Tate Bartlett—or I can try to meet someone who’s equally cool.