Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“Be nice.”
“Nah, that’s your job. You’re the nice one. I’m the raging bitch in this friendship, remember? That’s why we make a good team.”
It’s an interesting friendship, I’ll give her that. Whereas I met Peyton when I moved to Boston, I’ve known Joy since we were five. She was a summer girl, her family coming down from Manhattan every year to spend June till August in the Bay. We were inseparable as kids, but eventually drifted apart, not reconnecting until I was sixteen and visiting my dad for a few weeks. My sisters were barely two at that point, so Dad had his hands full and very little time for me. I ended up spending most of the vacation hanging out by the country club pool, where I bumped into Joy one morning and the friendship got a reboot.
“Yeah, and where was my teammate last night?” I demand. “I still can’t believe you ditched me. I didn’t know a single person there.” Which isn’t surprising, considering I could probably count the number of townies I know by name on one hand.
The summer kids don’t usually socialize with the locals. They travel in different circles, spending most of their time on expensive family yachts or at the country club, where I anticipate passing the bulk of my time this summer. In my future I predict a lot of lying around on lounge chairs and checking out all the hot preppy boys.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those rich girls who refuses to work. I’ve had part-time jobs since I was sixteen and just spent the last three years of college working as a barista. My work ethic comes solely from my father. Dad, who didn’t come from a filthy-rich family like Mom, always hammered the importance of good, honest work into my head. Grandma, however, refuses to let me get a job while I’m in the Bay this summer, determined to force daily quality time on me. I’m certainly not complaining, though. I prefer Grandma’s company to most.
“I heard it was a good time,” Joy says as we fall into step with each other. She sips her smoothie. “The guy who invited me—Luke? He texted earlier asking why I didn’t show. Poor boy was devastated.” She grins. “I totally would’ve hooked up with him too. He’s cute. But stupid Isaiah. I just can’t stay away from that asshole.”
“It’s a real problem,” I agree solemnly.
“You didn’t talk to anyone at all?” she pushes. “Not even the infamous Hartley twins? I think one of them was there.”
Okay, so I can name those locals. I’m pretty sure everyone, local and summer kid alike, has heard of the Hartleys. The two sinfully hot twins who used to raise hell around town. There was one rumor going around back in the day about a stolen goat, a stolen police car, and a joyride around the Bay that ended with one of the twins in the hospital for a concussion. But that sounds too ludicrous to be true. The tales of their numerous hookups, particularly with the Garnet College girls who arrive every September … well, those rumors I tend to believe.
“I didn’t see them,” I say, searching my memory. I vaguely remember a tall dude with dark hair and tattoos, but, really, that could have been anyone. “I did talk to one guy, though.”
“Ahh! Yes! That’s my girl. Who?”
“Tate.” I try to recall what Grandma called him this morning. Mr…. “Bartlett. Tate Bartlett?”
Joy’s jaw falls open. “Really? Oh, I know all about him.”
“You do?” I’m surprised. Like I said, aside from the occasional illicit tryst, summer kids and locals aren’t too socially compatible.
“Oh yeah, he hooked up with my sister last summer.”
“No! Shut up! Louisa?” For the sheer life of me, I cannot envision Joy’s older sister hooking up with anybody, let alone Tate. Louisa is as prim and proper as they come. I always assumed she was waiting for marriage. “What about her chastity belt?”
My friend snorts. “Someone found the key, and his name was Tate Bartlett. He’s an instructor at the yacht club, like that Luke guy. They’re friends.”
I still can’t wrap my head around Louisa and Tate. “How did that even happen? Him and Louisa.”
“She was feeling adventurous last year. Remember she was going through her awful platinum-blond phase? I texted you a pic of it.”
I nod gravely. “That did not look good.”
“No, it didn’t.” Joy twists the smoothie straw around with her fingers. “So, anyway, they met at the club, he asked her out, and they hooked up. Just third base, I think. Because, you know, it’s my sister. But I’m told he’s a major playboy.”
Not exactly a shock. Guys that good-looking usually have their pick of women.
Hearing he’s a player, though, does dull some of the Tate shine. “So he’s got a rep for being a sleaze?”