Wet (The Water's Edge #1) (27 page)

“Mmmm, pancakes,” I whispered, more to myself than to her.

Rue elbowed me in the ribs.

I made my eyes big and pleading and then hit her with the full force of my puppy dog expression, sticking my lower lip out for emphasis. “He made coffee and bacon and pancakes. Can’t we bend the rules just this once?”

She looked at me flatly, then clomped to the coffee pot, pouring herself a mug and dumping several spoonfuls of sugar in it.

Turning from the stovetop, he squinted in her direction. “Someone,” he started, “did not have a good evening. Unlike the rest of us.” He tossed a wink at me over his shoulder, and I held the back of the couch to keep from melting into the floor.

“Someone,” she mimicked, “didn’t think I would mind waiting while he used his vacuum pump to prepare himself last night.” She snorted in disgust and shook her head, as if trying to rid herself of that particular memory.

I gasped, my eyes widening, and covered my burgeoning laugh with my hand.

She shot me a dirty look and grunted before taking a big swallow of coffee and mumbling something that I couldn’t catch but had West shaking his head.

“It’s not fucking funny,” she insisted, but a grin had started to work on one corner of her mouth.

I walked to her side and laid my head on her shoulder, curling my arm around her waist for a quick squeeze. “Yeah, it kind of is.”

Working the griddle like he’d been doing it for years, my shirtless date drizzled batter onto the hot pan, making some kind of abstract design. I made my way over to the counter for my own cup of coffee, and by the time I’d added an ice cube to cool it down and taken my first few sips, he was sliding the fresh pancake onto a plate and handing it to Rue.

She took the plate, added a few strips of bacon, and sat on a barstool at the island in the middle of the kitchen. Her sudden burst of laughter startled me, the coffee cup almost slipping from my hands, and I set it down to wipe a few stray drops from my fingers with a paper towel.

“What’s so funny?”

She tilted her plate in my direction, showing me the penis-shaped pancake sitting on it, complete with a bulbous mushroom head and two oversized balls.

My gaze flew to West, where he stood grinning to himself as he flipped more pancakes.

He shrugged, sensing my scrutiny “Everyone should be able to start the day with a big dick. This is the best I can do to help her out.”

I didn’t think my eyes could widen any farther as I was caught between horror and mirth, my lips unsure whether they should tip up or down. Without a word, I snagged the bottle of syrup and walked to her plate, adding a sticky stream of maple from the tip, down the exaggerated erection, and oozing over the balls.

She chuckled as she took her fork, viciously cut off the tip, and shoved it in her mouth. “This is so much better than what was offered to me last night,” she whined around the food in her mouth. She sent me a look that told me I was forgiven, at least this time, for breaking the rules.

I grinned back at her, helpless to stop myself from imagining more mornings like this, just hanging around the cottage with my bestie and my…

Okay, well, I didn’t know what to call him yet, because it seemed way too soon for boyfriend, but friend didn’t work either. My mind shuffled through some other possible labels until a plate was dropped in front of me.

With my own penis pancake.

Grabbing the syrup, I helped my breakfast find its own happy ending.

Rue perched on her stool, drinking her second up of coffee and scrolling through her phone, while West and I cleaned up the kitchen — which would’ve gone faster if I could make myself stop staring at his rippled muscles as he towel-dried the pans, but I wasn’t complaining.

His hip bumped mine as I scrubbed the skillets in the sink, and suds sloshed over the edge, dripping to the tiled floor. I watched the path the bubbles were making down the cabinet but didn’t move to catch it right away, instead giving him a questioning look.

“I have clients booked all week, but are you free next Saturday?”

I shook my head, my wavy strands falling in my face. “I’m shooting a wedding that morning. I won’t be done until late afternoon.”

West’s face fell. “I wanted to try to take you paddleboarding. I think you’d like it. We could go for a short ride before it gets dark if you get done in time.”

I took a deep breath. The man did
not
know how to ask.

“I’ve never done that before,” I said.

“You’ll love it,” he promised. “We’ll stick to the creeks where there are no waves. It’s a good place to see dolphins too.”

“We’ll see if I get done in time.”

“I’ll wait so you can come with me,” he countered.

I laughed. “I think you already took care of that last night.”

Rue slapped the counter. “I can hear you, you know.” She shoved her empty coffee cup next to the sink, pausing next to me. “
This
is why we have rules!” Shooting a final glare at the bare-chested man next to me, she stomped off to her room, shutting the door. Loud music thumped from that side of the cottage a minute later.

I twisted my lips. “I don’t think the pancake penis was enough.”

He slanted me a wary look. “I ain’t offering her any other kind. She looks like she might bite.”

“Mmm. I wouldn’t mind giving you a little nibble.”

Reaching across me, he turned off the faucet and started pulling me back toward my room, the expression on his face saying it all. I barely noticed my soap-covered hands leaving a trail of puddles behind me as he tugged on the hem of the oversized t-shirt — his shirt — that hung around my thighs. I locked the door behind us and turned up my radio too.

Yeah, rules were made to be broken.

Apparently, so were dates.

I frowned at my phone, looking at the text from West on Friday.
Sorry, babe, something came up. We’ll have to reschedule paddleboarding.

The whole week had been an awkward series of mixed signals.

Monday morning, I’d found a paper airplane tucked under my windshield wiper, along with a Starbucks gift card. Unfolding the notebook paper, I’d read his sweet message:
Wish I was there to make you breakfast this morning again. This is the best I can do.

I’d texted him a thank you but had gotten no response. All day. I texted him twice the next day. Same thing.

Radio silence.

Annoyed, I’d put him out of my head on Wednesday, squeezing in another boudoir photo shoot after work for the wife of the president of the local hospital. She’d looked fabulous, but I’m guessing that’s one of the perks of having friends who were plastic surgeons.

I assumed Aubrey was responsible for that referral, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask the precious older lady how she’d gotten my name. Betty had been adorable, though, feisty and irreverent and more than willing to follow my directions. She’d even brought along a naughty nurse’s outfit, and her outrageous personality shined through the poses. It was too bad I couldn’t use the boudoir images for advertising purposes — some of my best work recently had come from those bookings.

As I’d slipped into bed late that night after editing Betty’s session, a familiar rapping on my window had my pulse skyrocketing. West slipped into the room and joined me for a sleepover, looking exhausted. He’d stripped to his boxers and then pulled me close, holding my back to his front. Mumbling an apology about the texts, he explained that he didn’t get a signal that far offshore and had just found my messages and come straight over after prepping the boat for tomorrow. He’d barely gotten the words out of his mouth before he’d fallen asleep, his thigh pinning me down and his hand cupping my breast. When I’d woken up a few hours later, he was already gone, another paper airplane left behind on his pillow.

You’re fucking gorgeous when you’re asleep.

I didn’t text him this time, knowing he wouldn’t see it. Instead, after work I found his truck at the marina and left a paper airplane of my own for him.

Google it: Marine wi-fi extender.

Friday morning, I unfolded another paper plane, discovering a creased Amazon invoice, his order for the long range device due for delivery next week. I’d smiled all day about that.

Until I saw his text, cancelling our date.

Unsure what that meant, or where to go from there, I kept my distance. I did the wedding shoot on Saturday, which went better than I expected, and had a girl’s night in with Rue, drinking her spiked lemonade, watching Ryan Gosling movies, and talking until the wee hours of the morning.

I refused to think about him that night, even as I stayed on the side of the bed that had become mine, leaving half of it empty.

On Sunday, after texting with my parents and brother back in Tennessee, I logged onto Facebook to check out the video of a new singer they were working with when I noticed a friend request from Aubrey.

Unsure what to think, I stared at it. That little request seemed loaded, and my gut warned me to ignore it, to go back in time and unsee it.

I watched the video, left a comment, scrolled through my feed, and came back to the friend request. I clicked accept, knowing I did owe her for all the photography referrals and couldn’t really afford to snub her.

Curiosity drove me to check out her page. Her cover image was a tasteful shot of her and her parents in Italy, the Leaning Tower of Pisa tipping in the background. The most recent post on her feed was from last night, a shot of her posing next to a palm tree, the ocean in the background.

With her arm around West.

I enlarged the image, dissecting the picture, my stomach churning. Was his stance friendly or affectionate? His mouth was turned up on one side, and he was wearing sunglasses, hiding his eyes, his little smirk the only thing I had to go on. She was leaning into him, showing her teeth, her other arm resting possessively on his chest. West stood straight, no lean. Did that mean something? Nothing? Is
this
why he cancelled on me?

Yes.

Clearly, it was. I refused to be stupid about this.

I scrolled farther down. Aubrey was a big fan of the selfie. And the toothy smile. And the tilted head.

There. Two weeks ago. Another shot with West — at a deli along the boardwalk.

I bit the inside of my cheek, feeling hot tears sting my eyes.

It was happening again. West was turning out like Asshole, hiding another life from me.

Except — was he? Two weeks ago, we hadn’t even been on a date yet. Maybe I had misread the situation, but I’d felt like things were building up between us.

That picture, though, her putting her hands on him like she had a right to, him letting her…it hurt. I closed my laptop, pushed it across my quilt, and curled into a ball. The faint scent of West lingered on the sheets that I hadn’t changed since last week when he’d rubbed aloe and his tongue all over me. I held on to that memory, even as I wondered where he had slept last night.

Because it hadn’t been here with me.

Four more days passed without a word from West.

I changed my sheets.

Took photos of kids with first birthday cakes smashed on their faces. Shot images of a couple celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary, their hands never letting go of each other. Captured stills of two foolish teenagers getting engaged far too young, thinking they had some clue about what love was and how to hold onto it forever.