Listen, I love the beach as much as the next girl. I’ll take literally any excuse to rock a supercute sunhat and some high-waisted bikini bottoms. I especially love lounging on a beach towel with a gallon of iced tea, watching as an entire team of sexy hockey players kick a soccer ball around. Hot men oiled up with sunscreen, those rippling muscles flexing in the bright afternoon sun? Not a bad way to spend the day.
Here's what I don’t love about the beach: the sand. I mean, enough with the sand already. It gets everywhere! Between your toes, under your boobs, up your booty crack. I made the colossal mistake of putting on some chapstick, and then I was licking tiny little grains off my lips for the rest of the day.
Don’t even get me started on the status of my hair. I bet I’ve got half the beach hiding in my curls. Testing my theory, I give my thick ponytail a little shake. I groan as I feel a dusting of sand hit my shoulders.
Yeah, fuck you, sand.
Hopping up the back steps of Jake Compton’s house, I shift my beach bag on my sunburned shoulder with a wince, reaching out to tap in the security code. Rachel and the rest of the Rays are still out at the beach, but I’ve had about all I can take of this feeling of sand creeping up my ass. I’m ready to shower.
And my poor ginger skin needs a break from the relentless sun. I can already feel the heat radiating off me. A few hours from now, I’ll be crawling onto Rachel’s lap with a bottle of aloe vera, begging her to ease my suffering.
Or maybe I can find a strong, sexy Ray to rub aloe into my skin…
Down, girl.
I put on a good show earlier, relentlessly teasing Rachel about how I was going to start a humane society for homeless Rays. But I wasn’t serious…okay, I wasn’t entirely serious.
Fine, I was serious, but purely as a thought experiment. No action. Nope. No sex for Tess this weekend. As much as I might enjoy the idea of a night of debauchery with an insanely handsome and ripped professional hockey player, Rachel Price is my best friend. I don’t want to do anything to upset her balance here. And hooking up with one of her players? One of her patients?
Yeah, that seems like a majorly bad idea. Rays will strictly be enjoyed in their natural habitat. Take only pictures, leave only footprints.
I hurry inside Jake’s house, flip-flops slapping across the hardwood floor. The chill of the AC zaps my body from head to toe and I shiver, goosebumps breaking out down my arms. I hurry around the dining table and plop my big beach bag down on the kitchen island.
Jake has a great house. I mean, he should. He’s a megarich NHL player. Single with no kids, no obligations. He can afford an awesome house. It’s all sleek and modern, very masculine—earthy wood details, warm greys and browns in the sofas and leather chairs, with metal accents that give it an industrial vibe.
I can see little feminine touches, too, most likely added by Rachel. Blooms of flowers rest in vases on the table and island. There are throw blankets on the back of every chair and sofa. Rachel is cold-blooded, I swear to God. I’m always taking off clothes, while she’s always layering them on.
I don’t know what she’s thinking moving in here and hoping no one will notice. And I thought I had a major self-destructive streak. I smile, shaking my head. She can’t help but be who she is, and Rachel Price is lightning in a bottle. I’ve heard the little nicknames the guys use for her. Hurricane. It’s perfect.
She thinks she can hide in the shadows. She thinks people don’t notice her. Like, if she stays quiet and does her job and doesn’t make waves, she can avoid the spotlight forever. But who can ignore a hurricane? I saw that just today down on the beach. All the guys are pulled to her, even the married guys. And it’s not in a creepy way or a sexual way. You just can’t not notice Rachel Price.
Shifting through my beach bag, I pull out my towel and my swimsuit coverup. My flight leaves tomorrow morning, so I need to pop this all in the wash unless I want to bring half the beach back with me to Cincinnati.
I toss my beach hat on the counter and tug my aviators off too. Then I pad across the kitchen and move down the little hall that connects the laundry room out to the garage. Jake’s big black gear bag is in the middle of the floor, his hockey stuff hanging up in a kind of industrial sink area.
A musty smell comes from his bag that has me turning up my nose. I tug open the washing machine door, shoving my towel and coverup inside. Without hesitation, I slip out of my swimsuit too. It’s still a bit damp, so I have to peel it off me. As I do, a little sand falls onto my toes.
“Oh, gross,” I whine, letting my bottoms drop down around my ankles with a soft plop.
Then I undo the hook at the back of my top and shrug it off, wincing as the move stretches my sunburned shoulders. I glance down and break out in a fit of giggles. I’ve got tiny pieces of beachy seashells sticking to my tits.
Sand up my ass crack, crusty shells on my boobs. How does Ariel make this look so glamorous?
Snatching up both pieces of my swimsuit, I toss them into the washing machine and add a little detergent, turning it on. The machine beeps and clicks, door locking, as the tumbler starts to fill with water.
God, what time is it? My friend Charity is coming to pick me up at 5:00 p.m. She’s in town for some dental convention, and we’re going out for dinner in St. Augustine. We met in college, but I haven’t seen her in years. We lived in the same dorm our freshman year, and we both hated our roommates. So, we bonded over bitching about girls who snore and steal our face wash.
I hurry back towards the kitchen, both hands going up to tug my hair tie lose as I turn the corner. My phone sits on the end of the island by my beach bag. I kick my flip-flops off next to the stool as I snatch up my phone and my tumbler of iced tea. I tap the front of my phone and read the time.
4:17 p.m.
Dang, I’m cutting it close.
Taking a long drag from the straw, I sip my iced tea. God, it’s so good. Lemony and refreshing and so icy cool. The feel of the ice on my tongue chills the fire on my skin.
A rustling sound behind me has me turning, phone in hand. The door to the pantry is wide open. Before I can make a move, a man inches out, back still turned, with his hands full of six party-sized bags of chips.
Our eyes meet at the same time. God, his are so pretty, all bright and apple green. It’s Langley, the puppy from the beach who hit me with a soccer ball. Damn, he looks like he just walked off the set of a Frito-Lay commercial. His messy blond hair is windswept, and he has those tanned, cut muscles. Board shorts rest low on his narrow hips, showing off a white strip of skin. I want to lick it. I want to see how far down that pearly white skin goes.
My inspection lasts mere seconds before I’m looking back at his eyes. And that’s when I realize he just did the same thing to me. He just took in my full naked body, standing here in the middle of Jake Compton’s kitchen like I’m doing my own one-woman show: Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus.” All I’m missing is the clam shell to stand on.
“Where the hell did you come from?” I cry, slapping my left arm over my naked breasts. I drop my right hand down, still holding my phone, trying and failing to cover the kitty.
Langley’s pretty green eyes go even wider. Mouth moving like a fish, he finally blurts out the only thought he can hold in his head. “Why the hell are you naked?”
RYAN
Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh shit.
Doctor Price’s friend is standing in the middle of Compton’s kitchen bare ass naked. Fuck, she looks amazing. I’m salivating. I’m sweating.
I mean, I’ve been checking her out all day in that sexy red swimsuit. Especially when she arched back on her elbows and rubbed sunscreen all over her tits. She had her eyes closed, soaking in the sun like a mermaid on a rock. Not gonna lie, it gave me a semi. I had to pretend I wanted to swim just to go dunk my head in the cold water.