Samara.
This time, I watch her with jealous interest, the way her jeans cling to her perfect ass and toned stomach; tanned, of course; the way her hair teases the curve of her back and the sway of her hips as she moves.
I hate her, yet it’s entirely ridiculous.
I bet Crane is watching her.
My mouth dries up as Samara laughs with the barista, turning back to her table.
Perfect lips.
Great tits.
Shame washes over me as I remember brushing Crane off, when he probably just felt sorry for me.
Here I am, stuck in the same town, with a jock we all used to hate as my boyfriend.
So fucking what, Sierra?
I focus on the glossy images before me, forcing myself to scribble notes in the margins of the page.
One hotel in particular catches my eye, and I grimace at the price tag.
It’s a little over budget, but I know it will be Lorena’s style.
Maybe Lorena’s mom will know somewhere similar for less.
Colourful cabanas by a crystal-blue pool command my attention, and I lean on my hand as I read the description.
An oceanfront oasis in the heart of Miami, situated steps away from the white shores of Miami Beach.
Laughter floats over to me from Samara, and I close my eyes, wishing they’d leave already.
Why aren’t they in the bedroom fucking?
That’s what I’d be doing if I was with him.
I slap a hand to my mouth, gasping at my filthy thoughts.
Don’t think about fucking Crane.
You’re with Declan.
Clamping my legs together, I ignore the rush of warmth to my core at the memory of thatonetime.
“Hey.”
I jolt once more, my hand knocking my coffee cup almost off the table when Crane reaches out, stopping it in time.
His eyes twinkle with amusement as he chuckles.
I’ve forgotten how beautiful he is.
I can smell him from here, that fucking scent heowns.
“Hi.”
Samara joins him, her eyes moving between us with surprise.
