Crushed (11 page)

He pauses in the process of pouring a glass of wine for himself. “You’re Chloe’s friend in addition to her trainer, right?”

Only because she seems determined to give me no choice.

“Yeah,” I say, cautiously.

“Then don’t call me Mr. Bellamy. It’s Gary.”

I nod. “Sure.”

“Speaking of my youngest daughter, where is she?” he asks.

Great question.

After setting me up with a beer and introducing me to her parents and a couple family friends, she’s disappeared.

“Actually, for that matter, where’s my other daughter?” Gary asks, taking a long sip of wine. “You’ve met Kristin, right?”

“Yeah. She takes tennis lessons from me.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he says, shaking his head a little and staring at his wine. “Chloe said that. Maybe I should slow down on this, huh?”

I shrug and take a sip of beer.
Whatever.

I used to be good with parents—better than this. But that was back when I cared.

“We’re so glad to see Chloe is getting more active,” he says. “We’ve always been reluctant to push, because, body issues, you know? We’ve read the parenting books. But it’s hard to watch someone with as much energy and vibrancy as Chlo shy away from healthy habits.”

Yeah, okay. I’m not having this conversation.

“Can I take over the burgers?” I change the subject.

“Nah, go play,” he says, pouring himself just a bit more wine. “I’ve told some of the other old guys they’ve got ten minutes to get over here and help.”

I start to open my mouth to ask if one of the guys is Tim Patterson, but I stop myself just in time with another sip of beer.

My eyes have been scanning the small crowd the entire time I’ve been here, but there’s no sign of him.

It’s just as well.

I’m not ready for that.

After Mr. Bellamy jokingly reaffirms that I’m twenty-one and that I’m not driving, he pushes another beer into my hands, which I gladly accept before heading down to the dock.

I should probably look for Chloe, but since I’m guessing she’s in animated small talk with one of the half dozen aunts and uncles she introduced me to, I head to the dock instead.

Chloe’s twin cousins, Marlie and Molly, or something like that, give me a flirtatious invitation to join them in the hot tub when I pass by. They’re cute and already sporting Chloe’s dreaded red, white, and blue bikini. They’re freshmen at UT Dallas, if I’m remembering correctly, and, once upon a time, freshmen sorority twins would have been a jackpot of sorts.

Except . . . I’m pretty sure these girls know it, and their smug awareness of their appeal strikes me as unappealing and far too easy.

So instead of joining them and their skimpy suits, I continue toward my original destination of the dock.

After three hours in a car with Chloe I could use the solitude.

I kick off my flip-flops and lower my feet to the water. I can’t say I’m a big fan of Texas in the summer, but Texas in the summer by a lake?

Not so bad.

The Bellamys have neighbors, none so close as to feel crowded, but nearby enough to catch the sounds of happy families, tipsy friends, and the smells of a half dozen BBQs.

For a second, I feel something that might be homesickness.

It reminds me of summers in the Hamptons, back when I’d belonged. Back when it had been
my
family hosting the barbecues,
my
friends playing music too loud, laughing too much.

For one brutal moment, the loneliness threatens to surface.

I shove it back, partially because it’s futile, partially because I hear footsteps behind me.

For once, I’m actually eager for the distracting presence that is Chloe Bellamy.

Hell, I’m even tempted to confide in her. Somehow I suspect that if anyone understands being lonely in a crowd it’s her.

But it’s not Chloe who settles beside me on the dock. Not Chloe who swings her legs over the side and dangles her feet over the water.

It’s not Chloe who sits with a hip touching mine, even though there’s plenty of room on the dock.

It is a bikini-clad Kristin.

Neither of us says anything, but she reaches over and plucks the beer bottle from my hand, tilting it back to her lips. It’s probably supposed to be a sexy, casual move, but there’s something artificial about it, as though she’s hoping someone is watching.

Say, perhaps, her boyfriend?

“Wasn’t expecting my tennis pro to show up at my parents’ lake house,” she says.

“I’m not your tennis pro this weekend,” I say, turning my head just slightly to look at her. “I’m Chloe’s friend.”

I can tell by the way her nose scrunches up, just slightly, that she doesn’t like this. She takes another sip of my beer, and this time it’s less contrived. Like she needs it to wash a bad taste out of her mouth.

“She’s lost weight,” Kristin says, handing my beer back and leaning over just slightly to watch her feet swing back and forth over the water.

Her parents had said the same thing—not in Chloe’s hearing—but whereas Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy had said it with delight, Kristin’s tone is something else entirely. Not quite begrudging, but definitely thoughtful.

“She’s lost a few pounds.” I roll my shoulders and set the beer aside.

Kristin’s nails tap against the wood of the dock. “How many?”

Why does it matter?

I crack my knuckles. “It’s not about the weight loss.”

She gives me an incredulous look, and I don’t think it’s my imagination that she straightens a little to better display the full impact of her slim frame. As Chloe promised, Kristin is wearing the red, white, and blue bikini.

And she’s wearing it well.

Her smug smile shows she knows it.

“Chloe’s got killer curves, whatever the weight,” I hear myself say.

Kristin’s smile slips.

It’s not that Kristin doesn’t have curves in all the right places; she does. But for some reason I want her to know that some guys might prefer Chloe’s hourglass figure.

“You sound like a chick,” she snaps. “What’s next, a girl-power anthem?”

I smile and lift my beer. I’ve been goading her for weeks now, knowing it piques her interest, but today is different.

Today I’m goading her because her tone when she talks about her sister pisses me off.

“Where is Chloe?” I ask, very deliberately fueling the fire. “She was supposed to meet me down here.”

“For what?” she asks. “Is this like a friends-with-benefits thing?”

The specification is an insulting one, and I turn to look at her, pinning her with a gaze that’s sharper than before. “How do you know we’re not dating?”

She opens her mouth but clamps it shut again when she sees the expression on my face.

Despite her silence, I think I know full well what she isn’t saying.

It wouldn’t occur to her that I could be interested in Chloe for real. I mean, I’m not . . .

But a big sister should be standing up for her younger sibling, not tearing her down.

I grind my teeth in irritation. I think I’ve known all along that Kristin doesn’t exactly have a heart of gold, and I haven’t given a shit. My thing with Kristin is purely about the challenge.

And yet, looking at her perfect features, I’m suddenly having a hell of a time remembering why I found her attractive in the first place.

My need to defend Chloe is fierce and uncomfortable, and I’m about to deliberately give Kristin the wrong idea—that I do have a thing for her sister, when I realize the lie won’t help Chloe’s cause.

Chloe doesn’t care whether
I
discover Kristin’s true colors; she cares that Devon does.

I take another sip of my increasingly warm beer, and just as I’m firmly ordering myself to stay the fuck out of this stupid melodrama, I remember the carrot I dangled in front of Chloe earlier.

Her wearing that ridiculously tiny swimsuit tomorrow in exchange for my help with Devon.

I still don’t know why I offered, but what the hell . . . might as well get a head start.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” I ask Kristin.

She’s recovered some of her composure and gives me a tiny, secret smile. “Why so interested?”

I shrug. “Just figured wherever he is, I can find Chloe.”

Once again, her smile pulls a vanishing act.

This is almost fun.

“What do you mean?”

I lift a shoulder. “They’re tight, aren’t they? I see them talking all the time at the club.”

“They’re friends.” Her voice is cautious.

I nod, as though I’m thinking this over. “Did they ever, you know . . . date?”

“God! No!” She lets out a little laugh. “Why would you even think that?”

I shrug. “Just checking.”

At first I think my less-is-more approach is going to backfire, but she takes the bait after all.

“They used to be super-close,” she says, almost more to herself.

“Used to?”

“Well he has me now, so they’re not all BFF like before. But sometimes I think . . .”

She breaks off, and I don’t fill the silence.

“I should probably go find Devon,” she says abruptly, climbing to her feet.

“Sure,” I say, as though I don’t give a crap whether she stays or goes. Which is easy, considering I don’t. “Send Chloe when you find them.”

My phrasing is deliberate and her smile shows she’s irritated that I clearly assume where she’ll find one, she’ll find the other.

My brief surge of triumph is dampened only by the strange realization that, all games aside, I really do hope she sends Chloe down.

Strange how I miss that girl when she’s not around.

Chapter 12

Chloe

“Chloe?”

The knock at my door has me diving for the cover-up, which I struggle to pull over my head.

“Go away, Beefcake.”

The doorknob rattles.

With another glance in the full-length mirror to ensure that all the wobbly parts are completely concealed, I open the door.

And damn it, the sheer attractiveness of Michael St. Claire takes my breath away, just a little. I mean, not that I’m attracted to him, of course. Just in sort of a
damn, that’s a fine piece of work
kind of way.

I’d warned him that most of the guys wear swim trunks since it’s generally in and out of the boat all day, and he’s already wearing navy trunks with a long-sleeved form-fitting white shirt that confirms what I’ve always suspected: eight-pack.

Annoying.

“Happy Fourth.” He gives me a once-over, looking a good deal less impressed by me than I am by him. “Where’s the suit?”

I roll my eyes and start to close the door, but he moves inside, shutting the door behind him like he belongs in here.

“I’m wearing it. But nobody will be seeing it.”

“What about our deal?”

“Oh, you mean the one where you help me steal my sister’s boyfriend? I’m not doing that. It’s tawdry.”

He lifts an eyebrow.
“Tawdry?”

I rummage around in my makeup bag, searching for my waterproof mascara. “Yes, you know, like sleazy.”

“I know what
tawdry
means. I’m wondering what caused the change of heart.”

Oh, I don’t know. . . . How about the way my boobs bulge out over the top of this stupid bikini top? Or the fact that my stomach doesn’t even know the meaning of
flat
? Or the way my hips are, like, twice the size of Kristin’s?

I say none of this as I lean over the dresser toward the mirror and swipe on the mascara.

“Chloe—”

“What?” I snap, giving him a dark look as he moves up behind me, arms crossed.

“Let’s see the swimsuit. I’ll tell you whether it’s a go or no-go.”

“No!” I say. The very thought of disrobing in front of Michael is unthinkable.

“Come on, I’m not asking as a
dude
. I’m asking as your personal trainer.”

“Oh, gosh, well, in that case, let me just go ahead and get naked,” I mutter, pulling out my bronzer compact.

He rubs a palm over his jaw thoughtfully as he watches me. “Who was that guy yesterday?”

“What guy?”

“The skinny one. Tall, reddish hair. Wouldn’t stop looking at you?”

I frown as I think. “Scott? He’s my dad’s partner’s son. They have a house a couple houses down. We grew up together.”

“Well, Scott has a thing for you.”

I turn around to stare at him. “He does not.”

Nobody ever has a thing for me.

Beefcake shrugs and flops backward onto my bed. I notice he keeps his feet just off to the side, not putting his boat shoes on the comforter. Seems there’s a bit of a gentleman beneath all that cocky alpha.

He picks up the romance novel on my bed. It’s one with a black cover and a mostly naked couple on front. He glances at me and wiggles his eyebrows.

I stomp over, grab the book, and push his legs aside with my hand to make room for me. I sit beside him on the bed and stare.

“What do you mean Scott has a thing for me?”

“Maybe I’m wrong. You just assured me that he didn’t, right?”

I pinch the skin above his knee. Hard.

“Ouch, Jesus. I just noticed that he went out of his way to sit by you, stand by you, fetch you drinks, stare at you . . . and I’m pretty sure he was sporting wood.”

I start to pinch him again, but he bats my hand away.

“Scott’s just a friend,” I say.

“Well, then, I’d say he has the same
friendly
thoughts about you that you have about Patterson,” Michael says, his expression as bored as ever.

I chew my lip. Scott Henwick is a nice enough guy. Sweet, considerate . . . and I’m not attracted to him.

At all.

Still, it would be nice to be wanted for a change. . . .

Michael sits up. “No way, Bellamy. Don’t even think about it.”

I give him a wide-eyed innocent look, and his narrowed gaze tells me he sees right through it. “Don’t
settle
for this dude.”

“Then why’d you bring him up?” I mutter.

Beefcake sighs. “You’re clueless.”

“Enlighten me.”

“God, you’re hopeless,” he mutters. “Okay, take notes or whatever, because I’m not going to chat for hours about this, but guys can be possessive.”

I lean forward, waiting for more, but he doesn’t continue, and I sigh. “Can you please just spell it out for me? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly beating off guys with my eyelashes, so any help is, well,
necessary
.”