Our biggest setback came in July, when our sponsor’s boat capsized in a storm and I lost three months of footage in the process. Nobody got hurt, which is a lot to be thankful for, but I’m feeling the pressure. Morale is at an all-time low. With my own funds depleted, I have no clue how I’m going to wrap this project up without begging.
I haven’t begged for years.
I peel myself off the front door, find my duffel bag with my clothes, and soft-foot it to the room Evan told me to use. It shares a bathroom with my usual bedroom, which is the last room in the corridor. Lexi’s room for now. What is she even doing here? She’s a big-city, career-focused woman, and I haven’t seen her in years. She’s been climbing that corporate ladder with a determination that would give most people vertigo, and working hours other teenagers and students would scoff at.
Jesus Christ, that’s going to be an awkward reunion—one I’ve always kind of avoided. It was easier. On her. On me. On how fucking crap I still feel years down the line.
I close my bedroom door softly and head straight for the closet and my clothes. I pick a clean T-shirt from the neat pile Evan’s housekeeper—no doubts there—has stacked them in and press it to my nose. Nothing screams land to me more than the scent of fabric softener. I know. Deep down I’m a baby, but it’s the small things that make me feel at home. My toiletries are in a plastic bag, and I reach for them as I look over at the closet’shanging space, eyeing my suits and business shirts, which have been ironed to perfection.Begging clothes.
It’s going to have to happen before Christmas or else I’m totally fucked. Everything in me revolts at the idea. With a groan I reach for a pair of worn jeans. I might take a day off first. Eat some fresh salad and healthy shit. And steak. A Tomahawk should do the trick. Catch an actual nap in a bed that doesn’t sway with the waves. Not that I’ll fall asleep easily; there are always a few days of adjustment.
I slip into the bathroom and close the door softly. Signs of Lexi are everywhere. A row of beauty products on the vanity shelf, a pink toothbrush, a hairbrush with a tangle of blonde strands. A purple bikini hung to drip-dry in the shower. It’s still wet, so I hang it over the bath’s faucet.
Nothing about this is new, strange, or abnormal. Only…this stuff ishers.
I turn on the shower, giving it a moment to start steaming before I strip. I aim to toss my clothes in the laundry basket, only to hold back at the last millisecond because it’s almost full. A pair of dark blue lace panties clings to life on the edge, half in, half out. A matching bra is hooked over the rim, one boob in, one boob out.
Things I don’t need to see. A reaction my body isn’t supposed to have.Fuck it.I suppress a groan and step under the shower, relishing the sting of the heat on my skin, the way it almost scalds and zaps the inappropriate thoughts of Lexi straight from my head.
Except the message doesn’t make it all the way south. It’s been too long.
I palm my erection. I was looking forward to this—a moment without an audience at such close quarters you can smell each other. Sometimes a guy just wants to savor the release, but itisn’t going to be today. I’m done in record time and brace against the tiled wall, letting the hot water wash away the evidence.
All showered, I wrap a towel around my hips and swipe at the steamed-up mirror with my palm. I get busy shaving, but it’s slow. My beard is thick, and I’m busy rinsing the blade under the faucet when the bathroom door swooshes open.
I freeze and glance at the door.
Lexi, eyes still half-shut in sleep, bedhead galore, moans. “Evan, jeez, I thought you’d left the faucet running. I’ve got to pee. Are you done yet?”
She looks up at me, and it’s as if the gears in her head click over one at a time, speeding up in alarm as she realizes her mistake.
“Hey, Lexi. Long time no see.”
“Oh, holy hell.” She wipes at the sleep in her eyes, then scrunches them closed as a blush blooms on her cheeks. She takes a deep breath and schools her face. “No worries, Tristan. Take your time.”
“I’m done.” I keep my voice steady as I force my gaze away. Her light-blue silk cami-and-shorts get-up needs a robe. “It’s all yours.”
I put the razor down, rinse the basin and my face. Still dripping wet but making do, I take my clothes and walk out of the bathroom, having to twist sideways as she’s sort of still blocking the door in surprise, and there’s no way I’m touching her if I can help it.
Her eyes, big and blue, are wide open now as she stares at me. I could sink into them, like the bottom of the deepest ocean. But Lexi is one hundred percent awake now, her gaze arctic cold and calculating, and her full lips pressed in a line.
“Thanks,” she says once I’m out of the way, following it up with words I’m not supposed to hear. “I’m going to kill Evan O’Reilly.”
The bathroom door closes with a bit of a bang, and I shrug as I walk into my room. Whatever beef Lexi has with Evan, I’m not getting involved. By the look of it, we’re both his guests. I have no clue how long Lexi will be here, but her presence might put a cap on my own stay.
Fuck. As if things aren’t dire enough.
In my room I dry and dress, trying to block the visual of Lexi dressed in something so adult, so unexpected and sexy. Our five-year age gap has gone up in a puff of smoke, like a magic trick. None of that matters. She’s still Evan’s sister. There’s one friendship I won’t fuck up.
Dammit. Light blue is a problematic color. Especially in silk. Nipples were hinted at. So were the contours of her breasts. Her wavy blonde hair is long and unruly, but it didn’t cover anything up, and like any normal man stepping out of the cave of self-deprivation, I was able to take in the whole lot with one glance. And right there lies the problem: she revealed nothing, yet just enough to push my imagination into overdrive. Blocking her image doesn’t help, so I file it in the wank bank as a temporary solution.
Jesus Christ.I drag my fingers through my wet hair, glad I got off when I did.
Those cold eyes told me everything. She definitely held a grudge against me five years ago—I mean, she’s been avoiding me like the plague—but time doesn’t heal all wounds. Sometimes it takes a simple cut and makes it fester, until what’s left is a nasty scar, always there to remind you how things ended.
I’ve always suspected, but now it’s confirmed: Alexandra O’Reilly hates me.
And things are about to get really awkward.
