Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“Fine. I’m going to the restroom first.” She points a finger at my chest. “Behave. And put a shirt on.”
Gen leaves us standing outside a tacky gift shop. I’m content to keep my thoughts to myself, but it’s Officer Chuckles who speaks up.
“She’s a special woman,” he starts.
That he talks about her like he knows her at all grates my nerves. “Yep.”
“This sounds silly, but even back in high school I had a crush on her.”
Back in high school we were making out in the yearbook darkroom while skipping third period.
“I know what this is,” he announces, squaring up to me like he just found his balls. “You think you can intimidate me or scare me. Well, I promise it won’t work.”
“Dude, I don’t know you.” I remind myself he’s a cop, and that I promised both Gen and Cooper I was done picking fights. Still, he’s got to know I’m not the guy you test. “But if I were trying to scare you off, I wouldn’t be shy or cute about it. I’d just do it.”
“What I’m saying is, I like Genevieve. I intend to keep dating her. And nothing you do is going to change that. Keep crashing our dates, if you want. It won’t make a difference.”
I have to hand it to the guy. Even when putting himself between me and what’s mine, he does it with a Boy Scout smile. Almost polite. Civil.
But it doesn’t erase the fact that I’d step over his bleeding carcass to get to her. However long it takes for Gen to come back to me, I’ve already won this fight. He just hasn’t figured it out yet.
“Then by all means,” I say with a half smile. “Let the best man win.”
CHAPTER 22
GENEVIEVE
These days, not much surprises me. For two months now, my life has become a predictable routine of the nine-to-five grind, with the occasional evening where I find a few hours to have a life. That isn’t so much a complaint as an observation, because I asked for this. I went to great pains to tame my wilder tides.
But Evan, well, Evan Hartley still manages to surprise me. The weekend after the regatta, he picks me up for our date looking all primped and polished. He’s wearing a clean white T-shirt and cargo pants without a single wrinkle in them. He even shaved—an especially rare treat. And where I expected one of his usual hairbrained schemes to get us into trouble on some ill-conceived adventure, we find ourselves sitting down to a late lunch at a modern vegan restaurant overlooking Avalon Beach.
“I have to ask,” I say, enjoying the roasted eggplant pasta. “What made you decide on vegan? I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you eat a vegetable that wasn’t wrapped in meat or cooked in animal fat.”
As if to prove some point, Evan dabs the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “We’re going against the grain, aren’t we? I thought that was the whole point.”
“I suppose.” Not sure I meant we had to apply that philosophy to food, but okay.
“Clean living, Fred.” Evan grins as he pops a bite of gnocchi in his mouth, then washes it down with a glass of water. He’d waved away the drink menu when we sat down. “Anyway, after our last dinner—”
“You mean my date you crashed.”
“I thought I’d show you I can be civilized.”
“You’re not funny.”
He ponders, then nods to himself. “Yes I am.”
It was only a week ago when he barged his way into yet another date with Harrison at the marina, smirking and quite pleased with himself. I might muster up more annoyance if it wasn’t so hard to be mad at him. With those eyes that dance with arrogance and mischief. The upturned corners of his lips that hint at secrets and whisper dares. He’s impossible.
“You know this isn’t what my life is now, right?” I gesture at the elegant table setting. “Dressing up in our parents’ clothes, playing adult.”
He snickers softly. “Not my parents.”
“Or mine, but you know what I mean.”
“You looked pretty comfortable in those clothes with him.”
And we were having such a nice time.
I swallow a sigh. “Do you really want to talk about Harrison?”
Evan seems to consider this for a second, then dismisses the thought. “No.”
“Good. Because I didn’t agree to this date because I want you to be more like him. Try to remember that.”
This, too, feels familiar—the somewhat adversarial rapport. Arguing for the sake of arguing because we like getting a rise out of each other. Never knowing when to quit. Wrapped up in sexual tension so that our fights become indistinguishable from flirting.
Why do I like it so much?
“Tell me this,” he says roughly. “Who are you trying to be?”
Hell if I know. If I had that figured out, I wouldn’t still be living at home, afraid to break it to my dad that he needs to move on without me in the family business. I wouldn’t be dating one guy who I know is about as close to boyfriend material as anyone gets, while guarding myself from the million bad decisions sitting across the table.