“Friend from back home.” The lie spills out of me before I can think about it, and I grab her arm, pulling her back toward the DJ. “Come on. Let’s dance.”
It’s 3:00 a.m. by the time I make it home, sober but exhausted. I grab my bag out of the trunk of my car and head inside the house, confused when I see the light on by the pool. Setting my bag on the floor in the kitchen, I peer through the window, not expecting to find Landon’s long, dark form asleep on one of the lounge chairs.
A thought immediately pops into my head.
Did he…wait up for me?
No. No way. He had a hard day. His ex moved out, and she practically ransacked the place. He probably drank a bottle of bourbon and crashed out there by accident. It had nothing to do with me.
Slipping off my heels, I step quietly outside, but I don’t see a liquor bottle this time. Just a glass of melted ice and a book lying open on his chest. I spend too much time watching him sleep, eyes roaming over his gorgeous features as I debate whether I should wake him up and save him from an inevitable crook in his neck.
But he looks so darn peaceful, so eventually, I leave him be, padding back inside to grab the blanket off the couch. I guess I’m not as quiet as I think I am, though, because when I head back out, he’s hunched over on the lounge chair, elbows braced against his knees, scrubbing his hands down his face. I’m not sure why, but I creep back inside, returning the blanket and setting my purse in plain sight on the kitchen island…just so he’ll see it on the off chance he did wait up for me.
Because wouldn’t that be something?
TWENTY-SIX
As excited as I was for Florida and all things sun and sand, I forgot to prepare myself for the inevitable hurricane season. In the days leading up to Hurricane Emery, it’s all anyone can talk about at the club. Employees and members alike obsess over the potential path of the storm, the possible category, and the likeliness for evacuation, and while Brit assures me that it probably won’t be as bad as meteorologists are predicting, I’m not convinced. The forecast seems to shift every hour, and if I’m being honest, it’s kind of freaking me out.
On Tuesday, the day before Emery’s highly anticipated arrival, I ask Landon if we’re going to have to evacuate for about the millionth time. In typical Landon fashion, though, his only response is to spew out all sorts of scientific data on wind speeds and radar imagery and barometric pressure that goes straight over my head.
“In English, please,” I say, and he shoots me the patentedhow-have-I-not-strangled-you-yetlook over the rim of his coffee cup.
“No. For the last time, Violet, we don’t have to evacuate. Emery is going to hit as a category one at worst. It will be a tropical storm by the time it makes it here. It shouldn’t be too bad.”
“But what if the power goes out?” I cry, my usual positivity taking a backseat to the ensuing panic. “What if we run out of food? What if a tree falls on the roof or the windows blow out or the canal overflows into the house and we drown in our sleep?”
“Then we die,” Landon says with a shrug.
“Landon!”
He blows out a sigh. “We’re not going to die. It will be fine.”
“If you say so,” I mumble under my breath.
“What happened to that insufferable optimism you’re always preaching?”
“It’s a little difficult to think optimistically when I’m worried about being blown away like Dorothy.”
The corner of his mouth twitches up in amusement. “That was atornado, Violet.”
I roll my eyes. Tornado. Monsoon. Hurricane. There’s just something about natural disasters that scares the shit out of me, probably because I have very little experience dealing with them. Positivity can do a lot of good in this world, sure, but it doesn’t stand a chance against ninety-mile-per-hour winds or a terrifying storm surge. An upbeat attitude does shit all against mother nature. “Oh, whatever.”
At work, my friends tell me that they’re not evacuating with the nonchalance of people who have been through this before, though I catch them obsessively checking the radar during every break in case anything changes. The day is impossibly slow, and at the end, Rachel informs us that the club will be closed for the next two days, maybe longer, depending on damage or power outages caused by Emery. While I’m happy about the time off, this information does nothing to quell my nerves.
Landon and I arrive home at the same time—early for him, late for me—to find Eli’s truck parked in the driveway. He hasn’t been by in a while, too busy with mystery girl, I guess, but I welcome his bubbly presence, especially at a time like this.
Landon pulls his car into the garage, but when I park on the street like I usually do, he flags me down and waves me into Mel’s old spot.
“I wasn’t aware I’d earned garage privileges,” I say, stepping out of the car.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he warns. “It’s only for the duration of the hurricane.”
“Gee, you really know how to make a girl feel special,” I mutter, which he blatantly ignores.
Heading inside, we step into the kitchen to find Eli standing at the island with his broad back to us. But he’s not alone. Nope. Some woman’s extremely tanned legs are wrapped around his waist, and they’re hard-core making out. Like, seconds away from clothes coming off, making out.
“Oh…my,” I say.
