That said, I’m officially the third wheel.
Not that I mind, but it feels wrong to sit here and twiddle my thumbs while the two of them look at each other with stars in their eyes and perma-smiles on their faces.
“Adri, you want another?” I rise and shake my empty cup.
She gives me a nod while listening intently to her frat boy, and I make a beeline for the bar. When I arrive, I’m third in line behind a girl ordering four mixed drinks for her and her besties and a guy who appears to be text-fighting with someone. A quick glance over my shoulder assures me Adriana’s still doing fine without my babysitting services.
“Next,” the bartender calls when it’s my turn. I order two more rum and Cokes before spotting an overflowing tip jar on the ledge. Shit. Digging in my bag, I fish out two perfect singles and pray they’re enough. He doesn’t seem to pay attention one way or another. Too busy stepping to the beat as he pours and mixes. And when he’s finished, he places our drinks on the counter and waves the next person up.
Drinks in hand, I turn to head back to Adriana—only to walk straight into some guy in a gray t-shirt and torn jeans.
The drinks spill down both of us—ice and all—before settling in a pool at our feet.
“Oh, lord. I’m so sorry.” I clap my hand over my mouth, eyes flicking to his.
And then my stomach drops.
August.
He stands frozen. People around us begin to take notice, pointing, nudging. I’m sure he’s used to being the center of attention, but not like this.
“I didn’t see you,” I say. To my left, someone trots toward the cabinet by the cabana to retrieve towels. The same towels August handed me last weekend when I emerged from his pool with nothing but my birthday suit on.
The kind attendee returns with two towels, but it only takes a second for me to ascertain that no amount of dabbing is going to salvage my dress or the giant cola stain running down the front.
Several yards away, Adriana and Isaac are in a world of their own. Still enraptured. We haven’t even been here a half hour and she’s just met a cute guy, there’s no way I’d make her leave now.
“Come with me,” August says, nodding toward the house.
“What?”
“Come with me,” he repeats, though it wasn’t that I didn’t hear him the first time. I’m just confused.
Before I can protest, he’s stalking toward the back patio in his wet t-shirt, crumpled towel in hand. I canter after him.
“You’re really a man of few words, aren’t you?” I try to joke with him.
He slides a door open and disappears into the darkness of the house, swallowed into a void. I step in after him. The scent of leather and cedarwood and time fills my lungs. This house is over a hundred and fifty years old. At least that’s what the plaque said by the front gate.
Built in 1869.
It’s been in the Monreaux family since the day someone dug a shovel into its earthy grounds. My house doesn’t have much of a history. It was a tract home built by some fly-by-night builder in the seventies who was trying to cram as many entry-level houses onto one plot of land as he could—hence why I can hear with perfect clarity my neighbors fighting after dinner every night.
He leads me down a dark hallway, to a set of stairs so polished they shine in the dark, and once we reach the top landing, we take a left down another hall lit with hardwired sconces with flickering lights.
“I feel like I’m in a movie or something,” I say, a slight nervous chuckle in my tone. I don’t add that said movie would be a thriller. Something with ghosts and a haunted house. I don’t want to offend him more than I already have.
Within seconds, we arrive at what I can only assume is his bedroom. Or at least it’s a bedroom. There have got to be at least a dozen of them in this house, given its enormity.
August closes the door behind us before flicking on a lamp on a desk. The shades on his windows are pulled open and the moonlight and party from outside illuminates the surroundings. A bed. Two nightstands. A chest of drawers. I’ve yet to spot anything personal. Not a trophy or ribbon. Not a framed photograph or memento.
Strutting into his closet, he returns with a clean t-shirt and a white button down, both of which appear crisp and freshly starched.
“Here.” He hands me the button down.
“Are you sure?”
He exhales. Annoyed, I think. I mean, it is a dumb question. He wouldn’t have led me all the way inside and offered me clean clothes if he wasn’t sure.
“Thank you.” I tug the shirt over my head, unbutton the last few buttons and tie them at my waist. The stain on my dress is mostly covered—even if this outfit combo is insane.
His gaze drinks me in. I can’t tell whether he approves nor can I tell why it suddenly matters to me …
In one fluid movement, he rips his wet t-shirt off, tosses it on the bed, and tugs the clean one on. I force myself not to stare at his chiseled torso or the rippled abs that peek out from the fabric. Without breaking eye contact, he finger combs his messy waves into place.
“This is really kind of you.” I smooth my hand along the front of the white dress shirt. “I’ll have it cleaned and returned to you next week.”
Somehow …
I don’t even know what dry cleaning costs. I’ve never owned clothes that couldn’t be shoved in the washer with a scoop of Gain and hung on Mama’s line.
“What would your parents say if they knew you were here?” He finally breaks the silence.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re Rich Rose’s girl.” It isn’t a question, and there’s a finite layer of disgust in his tone, like muck and mire at the bottom of a sparkling pond.
I nod. “I am.”
“Can’t imagine your parents would be thrilled to know you were here,” he says, adding, “with me.”
“You’re right. They wouldn’t be.”
Quietude hangs between us like a crystal chandelier.
“What about yours?” I ask, before I catch myself. He doesn’t have parents. Plural. He has a parent. Singular. My cheeks burn hot in the dark. There’s no fixing it now.
His gaze narrows. “My father would have his second coronary, that’s for sure. He’d probably disown me. At the very least, disinherit me. And my mother, well, not really sure what she’d say since she isn’t here to say anything … and I think we both know why.”
I cover my heart with a palm. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Are you always so apologetic?” He leans on the footboard of his bed, hands gripping the wood until the veins of his forearms bulge. “All you’ve done since you barged into my life is apologize for every little thing.”
“Just trying to be polite,” I say. “And you give me the impression that I’m bothersome to you. Or maybe you just make me nervous. I don’t know. You have a very distinct … vibe about you.”
He squints. “And what kind of … vibe … would that be?”
I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Lord help me if I unintentionally insult him again.
“Look,” I say. “I shouldn’t have gone for a swim the other night. It was wrong. I’ve never done anything like that before. You see, our AC broke last week and you know we’re in the middle of this heat wave, and the public pool has been closed for maintenance all week and—”