JULIETTE
Boys always notice tits. Always.
I think you underestimate how invisible I am to this guy.
JULIETTE
You weren’t invisible the night he mauled you on the kitchen counter like a horny Santa.
Might as well have been. He doesn’t remember it even happened.
A pang of anxiety tugs on my stomach as I play out the rest of the summer in my head. Sharing meals with him. Seeing him on the dock, in the water, sprawled on the couch. This is a big house, but I won’t be able to avoid him every second of the day. We’ll be practically on top of each other, and not in a sexy way. The wordsexyisn’t in Wyatt’s vocabulary where I’m concerned.
I can’t spend the summer with him, Jules. And he was SUCH a dick yesterday. Snapping at me and acting all annoyed, like I purposely showed up here to ruin his plans.
JULIETTE
You need to stop giving this asshole so much power over you.
She’s right. I care way too much about what Wyatt Graham thinks of me.
But I’m no longer the pathetic teenager with stars in her eyes. I’m turning twenty-one soon. I’m an adult, a grown woman who doesn’tneed to beg for a man’s attention. And if Wyatt wants to be a dick to me, I can be a dick right back. I’m not interested in impressing him anymore. Which is probably a good thing, because breaking down and crying in his arms last night isn’t the way to impress anyone.
But hey, at least I finally cried. Guess I’m not a robot after all.
JULIETTE
Oh btw I went to your building yesterday and grabbed that box like you asked. Isaac left it downstairs with the doorman.
I perk up. Finally! I’ve been messaging the cheater every week for the past month, bugging him to box up some items I’d forgotten at the condo.
Thank you. I love you so much.
Hot Boi’s finally back where he belongs!
JULIETTE
So. About that.
I have bad news.
Incoming.
A photo pops up, triggering an outraged gasp.
Oh my God. Thatasshole.
I’m already typing a new message, this one directed at Isaac, as I climb out of bed. I hit Send, then pad into the hallway on bare feet, my bad mood only getting worse. If I was in theblueroom, I’d have an en suite, but thanks to Wyatt, I’m forced to use the hall bathroom.
Teeth brushed and bladder empty, I grab my phone and go downstairs, walking into the kitchen to the sound of a very pissed-off Wyatt. The french doors sit wide open, letting the cool morningbreeze waft inside. Our house faces east, which means we wake up every morning to the Sierras catching the morning light. It’s gorgeous.
Wyatt is standing on the deck with his back to me. Shirtless.
God, why does he have to be shirtless?
With the sunlight slanting just the right way to catch the strong lines of his back, I can’t help but admire him. Fine, ogle him. Everything about Wyatt’s body, every fucking inch of him, is ogle-worthy. Wide shoulders, narrow waist. Defined muscles that ripple beneath his suntanned skin with every move he makes. He wanders closer to the railing, and his hair now catches the sun’s rays, making it appear more gold than brown.
The way he’s cut, you’d think he was an athlete like his father and not a tortured, chain-smoking musician. Gigi told me he quit smoking, but evidently not. A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, lending him a dangerous air. And his hair is longer from the last time I saw him. It keeps falling onto his forehead, making my fingers itch to sweep it away.
