A guy with shaggy blond hair spots me first. He smiles, eyes scanning my exposed skin appreciatively, but there’s nothing lascivious in his expression. My instincts aren’t screaming,Run.
Other heads turn my way. I spot curiosity and surprise, but no creepiness. In my experience, the most dangerous people tend to appearinnocuous at first. These guys might be unkempt and stoned—sweet smoke swirls in the air—but not threatening.
“Hey.” Shaggy speaks first, raising a hand to shade his eyes from the setting sun as he squints at me.
“Hey,” I reply, scanning the small clearing they’re standing in and spotting the start of stone that must lead to the rocky outcrop I’m planning to leap from.
“Country club is in the other direction, princess,” another guy calls out, prompting scattered laughter among the group.
My molars grind. Not because I’m bothered by his childish comment. More annoyed he can tell I’m not a year-round resident based on my appearance and one word. What about a navy one-piece announcesI’m rich?
“I’m not lost,” I state, then continue toward the ledge.
More wild growth surrounds it, aside from an opening a few feet wide that’s been cut or kept open by use. Once I’m through it, I’ll be out of sight. It shouldn’t take me more than ten minutes to swim back to shore, then walk to my car. I’ll be late to meet everyone, but none of them will be surprised by my tardiness. My mom refers to my schedule as its own time zone.
“That’s a dead end,” Shaggy calls out.
“That’s”—I hook a thumb over one shoulder toward the opening—“why I’m here.”
Watching shock blanch across a few faces is somewhat satisfying.
“If she wants to jump, let her,” the woman says.
I think she’s older than me, but it’s hard to tell for sure. Her face is scrubbed free of any makeup, freckled nose pink from too much sun recently.
I’m not sure if I should be grateful for her intervention. Her tone isdismissive, moreI don’t give a shitthanYou go, girl! Be independent.
Whatever. I don’t need—or want—permission.
I turn back toward the opening, right as two more guys trample through the shrubbery, coming from the direction I’m headed in.
I spare the newcomers a quick glance. One’s shorter, stocky, and smiling. And the other … the other requires a longer look.
Most people are easy to read. A cursory scan is usually enough to form a solid opinion. Since Third, I’ve become almost obsessive about it, trying to train myself not to miss whatever I missed with him.
But this guy? Every time I tell myself to look away, to stop staring, I notice something else. His appearance filters in slowly, each new observation catching my attention all over again.
He’s wearing a pair of green swim trunks, so saturated with water that they’re still dripping. A few tattoos are scattered across his bare chest, a couple more on his left arm. I can’t decipher shapes from this distance or what’s hanging from the silver chain around his neck.
His face is especially captivating, a contrast of precise angles and imperfections. A white scar splits the center of his chin. There’s a bump on the bridge of his straight nose, like it’s been broken at least once before. His eyebrows are dark, angry slashes, interrupting a carefully controlled expression.
I force my eyes to look away, annoyed by my own fascination.
He’s hot. So what? So was the lifeguard I flirted with this morning who told me about this spot.
“Cap!” Shaggy shouts, loud enough for anyone in a mile radius to hear.
Shaggy and the entire group he’s part of have gravitated closer to the new arrivals. Like they were waiting for them. Which, I realize, watching a towel get tossed to the shorter guy, wasexactlywhat they were doing.
Shaggy’s talking to the guy I was staring at—Cap—who has his head bent to listen.
Turns out, the guy wrapping a towel around his waist isn’t that short. Cap is just really tall.
With a shake of my head, I pick up my pace across the clearing.
No more distractions.
Since I left my phone behind, I have no idea how long the walk up here took. I still have a decent drive to the bar where I’m supposed to meet my friends. If I take too long to show and I’m not answering my cell, someone might call the house. If Rory—or worse, one of my parents—answers, I’ll wind up grounded for the foreseeable future.
