“Tap it is,” I say, spinning toward the sink.
Immediately, my eyes latch on Sawyer. He’s standing just through the doorway that connects to a hallway, talking to a guy with a shaved head. I can’t tell if Sawyer has noticed I’m here, much less cares. But he’s here, and that realization ratchets up my heart rate.
He’s just a guy.
A guy I hardly know.
A guy who seems to be an asshole most of the time.
A guy I’m not even sure likes me.
A guy who has Skylar tattooed on the inside of his wrist.
And also, the main reason I’m here.
“Here you go.”
A plastic cup of water is handed to me by the guy whose name I still can’t remember. I thought it was a W, but maybe it was a D? Dale?
Shit. I’m going to have to ask soon. It’ll be more awkward, the longer I wait.
I was distracted by Sawyer at the marina. Just like I’m distracted by him now. He’s still talking to Buzz Cut, but his eyes have shifted to me. He’s noticed I’m here, but I can’t glean any reaction from his expression. Not if he’s surprised or disappointed or annoyed or pleased to see me.Nothing. It’s as thrilling as standing at the edge of a cliff with him was.
Most guys are obvious. They leer or smirk or look at my boobs. For the most part, I don’t care what people think of me. But I’ve always—until now—had some idea.
“So, you staying the whole summer or …”
“Just a few more days,” I answer. “My dad’s work trip got canceled, so we came to stay with my aunt and uncle. My aunt’s mom throws this big Fourth of July party every year.”
“Oh yeah. The Red, White, and Blue thing. My sister was part of the catering staff at a couple of those. Said the food was gross. Oysters and caviar and shit.”
“Sounds right,” I say, sipping some water and hoping I’m imagining the rusty aftertaste.
“Where are you spending the rest of the summer?”
“New York mostly. I’m teaching a tennis camp. And I’ll probably take a trip to California to visit my grandparents. Next weekend, I’m going to Marseille for a friend’s eighteenth birthday.”
“Oh. Uh, cool.”
“What about you? Any summer plans?”
“Pretty much just this.” He waves a vague hand around. “Surfing and working, you know. Hanging with the crew.”
“The crew?”
“Guys at the marina and—hey, Cap!”
A flat, “Hey,” comes from behind me.
I fight the urge to look in every muscle, counting down from ten until I allow my head to slowly turn his way.
When I do, his eyes are on me.
“You showed,” Sawyer states with no intonation.
He would seriously clean up at poker.
“Yep,” I say cheerfully. “Since”—I glance at the guy I was talking to, then quickly away—“you guys made it sound fun.”
