“Yeah, why?” I narrow my eyes at him because I don’t get where he’s going with this.
“You see? This has all been a misunderstanding. My nickname for you is a completely different GG.”
“Oh yeah? ’Cause it sure sounds the same.”
He shrugs those broad shoulders. “You can’t always believe your ears. Mine is just G-G. Simple.”
“Is that right?” I say, folding my arms across my chest.
He gives a distinct nod. “Yep, GG.”
He’s saying it as many times as he can to drive me crazy. And it’s absolutely working.
“And do those Gs stand for something?” I’m determined to push him until he admits he’s being the world’s most annoying cop.
“Gemma Girl,” he says as if it should be obvious.
I stare at him without a ready response, wondering why I just got butterflies.Gemma Girl. It’s a dumb nickname. So, why do I kind of like it?
“Hey,” Tristan calls, jogging up to us, a bit breathless. “Sounds like I chose the wrong time to leave for two hours.”
“Or the right time,” Beau says. “Can you hold on a few minutes? I’m just taking GG ho?—”
“You don’t need to,” I say, recovering my composure. “I’ll walk.”
Beau’s brows go up. “In the middle of the day?”
“Yep,” I say, consigning myself to half an hour of utter misery without a second thought. It’ll be good for me—I could use some time away from Beau. And a few more reminders of how terrible this place is. I’ve been enjoying the air conditioning and the windswept speed of Beau’s golf cart too much. It’s time to trudge through hell. “That way you don’t have to leave and come back.”
“I don’t mind,” Beau says.
“I can wait a fe?—”
I cut Tristan off. “No, no. You have an important conversation awaiting you. Right, Beau?”
He chuckles. “Right. Fine, then. I’ll come to your place after I finish up here.”
“Actually,” I say, walking backwards to reaffirm my choice to walk home, “I’ve got some work stuff tonight.” And bywork stuff,I mean that I need to have a come-to-Jesus talk with myself. Because today, it feels like I’ve been running straight for Satan.
By the timeI shuffle up the driveway of Grams’s house, I have cursed Sunset Harbor and Beau Palmer in every language I know. Which is one. But I have utilized that one language to the fullest.
I step inside and run a hand down my ponytail, cringing. The bottom half is wet from clinging to the sweat on the back of my neck. You could wring me out right now. And I could wring Beau’s neck.
I realize it’s not his fault I insisted on walking home. But it kind of is. He’s been infiltrating my Sawyer defenses and provoking me and calling me Gemma Girl.
It’s all getting a bit out of hand, and I need to batten down if I’m going to spend more time with him before I leave. Not because I’m in actual danger. It’s just a matter of redirecting my thoughts a bit. Trying to keep the plethora of flaws present in my mind instead of getting distracted by theveryfew things he has going for him.
What things, one might ask? Excellent question. My brain seems to be multiplying them when there truly aren’t many. In fact, it might be beneficial to make a list. That way, my brain can see just how little there is to admire, and those things can be off-limits.
After a few gulps of cold water, I grab the notepad on the counter by the fridge and start writing, cracking open the gate of my Sawyer defenses to allow in—just for a minute—the imageof Beau Palmer. I narrow my mental eyes at him and the way the imaginary sun glints off his teeth.
I set my pen to that notepad.
1.That freaking smile. It’s a trap.
Granted, it will be tricky to ignore because it’s pretty much omnipresent, but I’ve got to shoot for the stars here.
I let my eyes travel downward, and suddenly, he’s not wearing the cop uniform but swim shorts and nothing on top. I clench my eyes shut.
