JULIA
Ilet out a contented sigh as my waterproof tote hits the soft sand beneath my feet.
“Now this is Heaven,” Aislin comments, throwing her beach towel in front of her to smooth it onto the ground. “It’s no St. Lucia, but…you know.”
“It’s no Bora Bora, either, but we’ll make do,” I tease.
Pulling a claw clip from my tote, printed with strawberries to match my vintage-cut bikini, I twirl my hair and use it to hold the style in place.
Aislin’s suit is a crocheted two-piece that she had custom-made before her honeymoon; one of several options she’d taken on the trip and likely didn’t have the opportunity to wear. Her chaos is often reflected in her packing – or rather, herover-packing.
From her own bag, she pulls a large plastic bottle filled with a ready-to-drink cocktail, along with two disposable cups, which she fills nearly to the brim. The sweet blend of pineapple and coconut send a tingle to the back of my jaw as I take my first sip, settling into a comfortable position on top of my towel.
Aislin sucks down what must be half of her mai tai before letting out a loud, heaving breath, angling her head toward to warm overhead sun.
“Thanks for the extra day off, Mom,” she tells me with a smirk. “Your turn next.”
“I don’t like to take too much time off.”
“No, you’re a total type A control freak who worries too much about what might go wrong when she’snotin control,” she cackles into her cup. “We’re closed today, and you probably still found a way to spend two hours going through the accounts and schedules.”
As her drink empties, she refills it, pushing the bottom of the cup into the sand for support before lying back to soak in the rays.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” she adds, holding a hand above her squinting eyes to shade them. “You’re annoying, and I love you for it.”
Silence falls between us as I reach into my tote bag for a small speaker, pinching my lips together as I avoid her gaze. I hate it when she’s right about me. Ididspend the morning going through accounts for the salon and for my household, and Idefinitelywrote up schedules for the next month, too.
Only a few moments pass after her head rolls in my direction before we erupt into loud laughter, my head shaking as I scroll through my cell phone for a beach-appropriate playlist.
We don’t get to do this often enough together, but I always enjoy spending time at the beach with my friend. It isn’t even about swimming – which we rarely do – or even the conversation that we rarely have. It’s the company of someone who loves you while you quietly share space with each other.
I usually pull up a book on my e-reader, Aislin tends to scroll through social media or take a nap, and we’re happy this way.
The alpha shifter in my book has just knotted inside of his unsuspecting omega mate when my cell phone next to me chimes to alert me to a new message. With a playful groan, I rest my e-reader on my chest as I reach for the phone. When I see Connor’s name on my screen, my body pivots as if I’m hiding evidence of a crime.
I guess, in some ways, I am.
I type out my response as quickly as I can, trying not to alert the best friend who I hope is now asleep next to me.
“What’cha doin’?” Aislin coos over my shoulder, forcing me to click off the screen as my head whips in her direction.
Despite the heart slamming against my chest wall as I startle, I turn to her with an arch of my eyebrow.
“Iwasadding stuff to my Pin-It board, until you scared me to death,” I tell her.
“Type A,” she teases with a shake of her head, rolling her body back into a comfortable position.
I offer a weak chuckle as I carefully slip my phone into my tote bag, pulling a sip from my cup as I performatively bring my e-reader back in front of me.
The alpha and his mate are just going to have to wait for another day.
A creak from the stairs forces a choice, my right hand releasing its loosely-held pair of lacy cheekies in favor of the left’s comfortable boyshorts. Pulling my cover-up over my head to discard it into the laundry bin at my side, I chance a brief look at the bedroom door as Tripp pushes it open.
Almost covertly, he studies me, scanning the lengths of my thighs and the curve of my breasts in as much time as it takes me to blink; and then his focus meets the ground, where his shoes are waiting for him. I slip into the oversized t-shirt waiting for me, letting my features fall.
‘I don’t like how quiet things have been tonight,’my brain begs me to tell him. As he drops onto the mattress and slides his feet into his shoes, though, the only thing that I can manage to get out is, “Are you going out?”
“Yeah,” he tells me, pulling his laces tightly. “I might not be back for a while.”
