Then I call Dawson.
He answers, “Hey,” in his sexy voice.
“Hey, so I was thinking about heading your way.” I try to sound happy. I try not to cry.
“Already?”
Already? Is he not ready for me to come? Does he not want me to come?
“Uh, well, I mean, if you still want me.”
“Oh, I want you,” he teases.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah I do, and I’m pumped! I didn’t think you would be able to come so soon. We’re gonna have some serious fun. Oh, wait, what happened with the guy? You okay?”
“Let’s just say that he and I are very finished.”
“What happened?”
“Basically, he’s an idiot. No, wait, I’m the idiot. I’ll tell you about it later. After you’ve made me one of those amazing drinks you’ve been bragging about.”
“I’m sorry if he hurt you. I know how that feels. But still, I’m excited and can’t wait to see you. It’ll probably take you, what, at least a couple of hours with the weekend traffic?”
I smile thinking about the helicopter. “I might be there a little sooner than that.”
I just gave you goosebumps.
2pm
He’s waiting for me outside a huge, rambling colonial mansion.
A different driver drops my bags. Dawson grabs them and leads me into the gorgeous house.
“So um, lots of people showed up, so, um . . .”
He’s acting funny.
“What? Why are you all nervous? Do you have an old girlfriend here or something? Oh, no. Is Whitney here?!”
“No. Hell, no.” He shakes his head at me. “What I was gonna say—well, ask—is if it’s okay if we bunk up together. I wanted you to have the master bedroom. It’s the nicest room in the house. But then some extra people showed up and all the beds and couches are full.”
“So I’ll be sleeping with you?” I tease.
“Yeah, but, I mean, there's a couch in there. I can sleep on it if it’s okay with you. It’d sure be more comfortable than the floor.”
I smile at him. He’s seriously so sweet.
“Okay.”
I follow him into the master bedroom. I've stayed at some incredible five-star resorts, on yachts, and our Malibu house was photographed for Architectural Digest, but this room is stunning. Huge colonial four-poster bed. Sweeping ocean views. Private deck out a multitude of French doors, which are open, causing the gauzy white sheers to flutter in the breeze.
“Wow. This room is beautiful. I may never leave.”
He gives me a sexy smile, drops my bags onto the floor, takes my purse off my shoulder, then peels off my gauzy white shirt.
He drops it on the bed and stands back, scrutinizing every inch of my bikini clad body.
All he manages to mutter before he kisses me is, “Damn.”
We kiss for a bit and then he says, “Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the house.”
The rest of the house, the view, the grounds, are almost as breathtaking as the bedroom. As we walk through the big white kitchen, he says, “Ready for the Kool-Aid?”
He pours me a glass and I take a drink.
“This is just Kool-Aid. I thought you said it was special? Like had alcohol in it. Or is it too early?”
“On the beach, it’s never to early. And you’re not supposed to taste the alcohol. It takes skill to mix it properly. My older brother, Cam, and I invented it last summer and perfected it this summer. Our parents have tasted it and don’t know it’s loaded with alcohol. Well, they do now, cuz we got them drunk on it one night.”
We walk out to the pool, drinks in hand, and he introduces me to everyone I don't know, and I say hey to the ones I do. Riley, Dallas, Tyrese, and Ace. The rest are a combination of their cousins, school friends, and old friends.
“I didn’t sign up for a sausage fest,” Tyrese says. “Let's hit the beach.”
Besides me, there are only two girls in the group.
Ace agrees. “We need to take a bunch of that get-drunk-and-screw punch with us.”
“Naw,” Riley says, “that's not how it’s done. You bring them back here and then let them drink the Kool-Aid. But we can take some for ourselves.”
Dawson gives me a piggyback ride down to the beach.
And wow. He's so tall and strong. Cush used to give me piggyback rides, but I sometimes felt like I was as big as him. I feel small compared to Dawson, and I love that. I throw my arms around him and snuggle into his neck.
Dawson is lying on his side in the sand next to me. I just finished telling him all about my failed reunion with Brooklyn. Although I did leave out the part about Vincent being there. About being scared to death. About getting chewed out by Garrett. And I must be a pretty good actress because I’ve been able to make him think I’m just mad at Brooklyn and that’s all that has me upset.
“Wow, that's pretty low,” he says. “Especially since he wanted you to spend the weekend. It’s, like, fucked up.”
“Sounds like something your brother would do.” I watch Riley out by the water talking to three very pretty girls. “Does he know those girls?”