She’s wiggling out of her shorts now. I avert my eyes. Then I unavert them, because I’m a man and I have no willpower when it comes to this girl. Her body is so fucking tight. Perky ass, long legs, cute tits. And those freckles. They’re everywhere. I want to map them out with my tongue.
I shove my sunglasses off my forehead and onto the bridge of my nose. It’s my only defense against the feral look I’m sure I’m sporting. It also lets me watch her apply sunscreen without coming off like I’m openly ogling her as she rubs the cream all over her arms, her collarbone, her stomach, between her tits—
Stop looking.
Right. Gulping, I unzip my backpack and rummage inside for my songbook until my fingers collide with the worn leather cover. I need to focus on something other than Blake’s tits. She’s too young for me.
She’s twenty, reminds a voice in my head.
True. And turning twenty-one soon—her birthday is in July. So no matter how much I want to keep viewing her that way, she really isn’t a kid anymore.
Neither am I for that matter. I’ll be twenty-five this fall. Which raises the question: What the hell is up withtime? I feel like only yesterday, I was eighteen, telling my parents I didn’t want to go to college and that I was moving to Nashville to launch my music career. Then I blinked and it’s six years later, with no career in sight. Sure, I make a living gigging. I get a decent number of streams on the music platforms and tons of hits on my video channel. But I’m not playing sold-out stadiums or winning Grammys, now am I?
My mom won her first Grammy when she was twenty-five.
I hate that my brain always harps on that fact. I always have to remind myself that Mom’s musical journey isn’t the typical one. Most people don’t land a job with a huge producer right out of college. They don’t get the opportunity to work on an up-and-coming hip-hop artist’s album. To write and produce the hit song that would go on to sweep every awards show that year.
My mother is talented beyond belief, but she also got lucky. Other songwriters don’t have such an easy time of it. Case in point—me.
The irony is Icouldhave it easy. But the one thing I’ll never do is use my mother’s connections to advance my career, even as everyone around me insists I’m a fucking moron not to.
Our boat starts rocking a bit harder. I hear an engine, followed by a wolf whistle that skitters across the water toward us.
“Is that you, Wyatt?” chirps a female voice.
The sleek white speedboat gets closer, revealing three older women in big sunglasses and floppy hats. They’re all wearing skimpy bikinis and all displaying some impressive curves.
Squinting behind my Ray-Bans, I hide a grin when I recognize Liz Brown. She owns a house nearby.
“Hey, Mrs. Brown,” I call out.
“Honey, what did I tell you about calling me Mrs. Brown? It’s Liz.” She lifts her sunglasses to her forehead and peers into our boat. “That’s not Gigi, is it?”
“No, it’s me,” Blake tells our neighbor, waving awkwardly. “Blake. Hi, Mrs. Brown.”
“Blakey? Oh my God. Look how gorgeous you are.” Turning back to me, Liz offers an impish smile. “We’re up here for the week. Girls’ trip—”
“Girls’ trip!” her friends whoop, waving around their plastic wine goblets. It’s obvious they’ve been drinking for…a while.
“But you know you’re welcome anytime, Wyatt,” Liz finishes. “Stop by for a glass of wine.”
“Thanks,” I say noncommittally. “I might take you up on that.”
“You do that, honey.”
I’m grinning as they speed away, their wake sending a sheet of mist into our boat.
“You’re welcome anytime,” Blake mimics.
I glance over. “Jealous?”
“Yes, Graham, I’m jealous that you’re banging women twice your age in Tahoe.”
“Hey, I don’t think she’s even forty.”
“Didn’t deny the banging part…”
“One time. Ages ago.”
