The Real Deal

Two hours of active obstacle course duty later, I’m tired and spent, but I’ve finished every task on his list. But this time, I didn’t lug two dozen chairs alone. The other guys helped out, so perhaps April’s dad is backing off a bit.

I go upstairs. I stop and look at the hallway mirror. I’m covered in lips. She painted kisses all over my cheek. Bright red kisses. Cherry red lipstick marks. Fire engine red lips pursed together in an O. Ruby red ones open wide. As I stare, all I see are her lips, covering my face. I imagine she left them all on me. Wet kisses, hard kisses, soft kisses. Openmouthed ones. Kisses with tongue. Kisses that steal your breath. Kisses that start slow and linger all night long.

You’ll know what it means.

How the hell do I get in bed with her after that conversation on the deck? A conversation I pushed. I prodded it, led it along, made it happen. I heave a sigh.

I need an endless well of willpower.

When I creak open the door to the crepe room, I won’t have to tap that well. April is curled on her side, fast asleep in the light of the moon.

It makes me sad and relieved at the same time.

Something tugs inside me, wishing she’d wake up, grab a towel, and wipe these marks off my face. I’d lean against the vanity, and she’d rise on tippy-toes, daubing the wet end of the towel across my cheek, her breath ghosting over my skin. I’d raise a hand, cup her cheek, and kiss her senseless.

I’d leave all the imprints on her.

But as I gently close the door, letting it click softly shut, I reason it’s better this way.

Less risky. Less dangerous.

I head to the bathroom, shut the door, and strip out of my clothes. Under the hot stream, I scrub all the paint off my cheek, until it looks as though I’ve bled out in this pristine white shower. I look at the door, wishing I’d see it crack open, then she’d appear, slink around it, take off her clothes, and join me.

The room would steam up as I kiss her, touch her, taste her. We’d nearly slip in the tub, but I’d hold her steady, wash her hair, run my hands down her soft, wet skin. But the room remains just me. The water streams hot down my spine, and I’m alone with all these inappropriate thoughts. Eventually, I turn off the shower, brush my teeth, and slip into bed beside her, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with this jealousy, this want, this lust.

But there’s something else at play, too.

Deep in the center of my gut is a seed of doubt that makes me question why I have any right to feel jealousy.

Not because we’re playing a game, but because I could never be the guy April wants. April Hamilton was born and raised in an entirely different world than I. April comes from sunshine. She comes from pancakes and eggs for breakfast. She’s from parents who meddle in her love life because they love her. Because they want her to come home and live near them. I don’t have a family. Not really. Not like this.

I was born into normal, but then thrust into trouble. And I liked trouble. I caused trouble. I profited from it, once upon a time.

Now, I’m just a guy who’s cobbling it together to make ends meet, and playing pretend to pay even the smallest bills. I can’t be the guy that a girl like her needs, even if she’s so damn hard to resist that I flirt with her on the deck of her mom’s B and B.

She deserves better.

A guy like Dean.

But that thought burns black inside me.

Sometime later, in the middle of the night, when darkness streams through the open window, breath whispers on my neck. A quiet little rush of air rustles against my skin. I rouse from sleep to find she’s still dozing, only she’s wedged beside me. Her small frame is pushed up against my bigger one. Her face burrows into my neck. Her breasts are pressed to my back. Her quiet, even breathing tickles my naked shoulders.

I don’t know if I’ll ever fall back asleep, but this moment is when I call upon the reserves. I go completely still, because if I move one millimeter, I will leave lip marks all over her body.





Chapter Seventeen

April

The third day

I yank my now-dry hair into a ponytail holder and slick on some lip gloss, then leave the bathroom. Theo is still sound asleep, the covers slipped down to his hips. His smooth, tanned skin shines golden in the early morning light.

I consider flying the full-on freak flag, by curling up in the corner chair and staring at him. Yeah, I could totally get into that. I’d earn my first-class weirdo stripes, for sure. But damn, he’s worth it. From the morning scruff to the smooth expanse of skin to the hard planes of his abs, he’s a sight to behold.

I sink into the cranberry-red armchair. I tuck my feet under me, prop my chin in my hand, and catalog the man in my bed. The compass on his biceps points north, and I wonder if there’s a reason for it, or if the reason is simple—a compass points north. The sunburst is brilliant on his forearm, blazing with fiery shades. It speaks of possibilities and hope. Another day, another sunrise. His thick brown hair flops messily on his forehead, with a few strands sticking up. He breathes heavily, a small snore fluttering from his nose.

I laugh silently because even his snore is cute.

Evidently, I need to get out more. Claire is right. It’s been too long. If I’m delighted by a snore, it might be time for me to either get my head checked out or try to date again. I grab my phone from my back pocket and tap out a quick message.




As I stare at her text, I repeat her question in my head. What is the issue? There are so many. Too many to enumerate.




This issue is the biggest one, and it’s crystal clear to me at last. It’s evident in the way we talked to each other on the deck, in how I reveled in his jealousy, in how I adore talking to him.

I take a deep, fueling breath and type the answer.




A soft rap on the door pulls me from my phone. Reflexively, I glance to the sleeping guy first, but he’s still snoozing. I stand and head to the door, then quietly open it.

My father shoots me his signature I need a favor smile as I stand in the doorway, shielding the sleeping man.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, sweetie pie. Any chance you could do your dear old dad a favor and grab some Kleenex for today’s event? I don’t have enough. We need about ten boxes for Junk in the Trunk.”

“Absolutely. I’ll head out now.”

“I can join you.”

The masculine voice comes from down the hall. It’s Dean, and he’s dressed in gray workout shorts and a white T-shirt. Shades sit atop his head. “I’m about to go for a run. I can walk with you, and then I’ll do my morning workout.”

I turn to Dean, then my dad, and I’m about to say, Sounds good, when another voice cuts in.

“I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

It’s Theo. I peer behind me. He’s bolt upright, running a hand through his bed head.

Why does he look so sexy right now? Oh, wait. Because he’s sleep-rumpled, and I bet he has morning wood.

Holy smokes. I did not just think about my pretend boyfriend’s potential erection in front of my father.

Oops. I did it again.

Brain, shut down all dirty thoughts stat.

A blush the size of California spreads across my face. I try to slam the door shut, but my dad wedges his foot in it.

“Why don’t you take your time? Show Theo downtown,” my dad says; then a smile crosses his lips, and he glances past me at my pretend beau. “Sound like something you’d enjoy, Theo?”

That’s the first time I’ve heard my dad use his name.

“Absolutely,” he says, in his scratchy morning voice.

“Show him all the shops and cafés and the dock, too,” my dad continues, and I understand him completely. He’s switched tactics. He came up empty serving vinegar to Theo, so he’s sweetening with sugar now. I suspect he and my mom hatched a new plot overnight—if they can’t scare him off, they’ll make him fall in love with Wistful, and woo me back through him.

They’re relentless, my parents.

“I’ll be the best tour guide ever,” I say; then I slam the door shut and step back into my room, my heart racing as I turn around and look at the object of my deep thoughts.

Deep. He could totally go deep right now.