“Wouldn’t that be fun?” she says. “Oh, good. We’re here. Thank you so much for showing me to my bungalow.”
I look around.
Then look around again.
Nearest other bungalow is a whole building’s length away, and Laney’s trying to step around me to my porch. “If you’ll just excuse me—”
“You lost?”
“No, this is my bungalow.”
“Don’t think so.”
“The Plumeria Bungalow. Says so right here on my key card envelope.”
She flashes the little paper envelope holding her key card, andno.
That’s what it says.
Butno.
I cross my arms, letting my dripping, half-melted flamingo costume fall off my hips and leaving me standing there in nothing but my black briefs, which is a dangerous place to be.
My brain is slowly catching up to the fact that Laney’s hot as fuck right now in ways that she shouldn’t be. And not just because the strength she put into shoving me into the pool would’ve been a turn-on had any other woman done it.
But now she’s strong-hotandwet-hot at the same time.
Brown mousy hair all messed up. Expensive shirt sticking to her skin. Nipples puckered under the performance fabric, the clean outline of her plain-Jane bra visible too. Linen pants clinging to her hips and showing off her panty line. Dark lashes clumped together over bright blue eyes. And her sneakers still squeaking.
“While I don’t mind sharing my room with a pretty lady,” I drawl, ordering my dick to not have a reaction to this wet woman standing in front of me, “I also don’t think I’m the kind of roommate you’d be into.”
“Guess you’re wrong,” she chirps in response as she sidesteps me and bounces up the three stairs to the porch. “Because this is my bungalow too.”
I blink.
Then blink again.
Then I get pissed, and getting pissed makes me more pissed since I hate being pissed.
Hatebeing pissed.
Make it a life rule to avoid it, in fact.
But Delaney Kingston is an annoying, insufferable, rule-following, Prudy McSnooterson who wouldneverlower herself to sharing a room with a guy whose favorite Saturday night activity is pulling harmless pranks with friends that sometimes end with all of us a little too happy tomake good decisions.
Trust me.
I’d know.
Spent too many years wishing shewouldlower herself. Wanting to see what she looked like with her hair down and her inhibitions gone.
And she just saidmy bungalow too.
Like sheknowsthis is my bungalow.
And if she knows this is my bungalow—fuck.
Happy Theo has left the whole damn Pacific Ocean. Everything is suddenly clicking into place.
