“You’re mine, Wendy Winslow. If we do this, I won’t share.”
No man has ever claimed me like that. Adam told me he loved me constantly, but his actions never matched his words. Carter and I have known each other for two weeks, and he’s already suggesting I become his and only his, just for the summer.
He was possessive and so fucking hot, and I squeeze my thighs together, thinking about what would’ve happened if I’d stayed.
I walked away to prove I still had some control because it disappears when we’re close. He was shocked, like he hadn’t thought I had it in me. Maybe no woman has ever made him work for anything in his life—and with a face and body like that, I’d bet my retirement on it.
He makes me want to take risks, say fuck it, and be with him.
I pick up my phone and glance at the time. It’s midnight, and my self-control is nearly gone.
How dare he be so fucking sexy?!
I groan and pull the sheet to my chin, close my eyes, and try to count sheep, which somehow all look like him.
I remember his breath on my ear and how he whispered, “You’re cruel.”
The heat of him through the thin fabric between us. His fingers digging into my hip, like I’d slip away if he let go.
My eyes open, and I throw the sheet off because I can’t take this anymore. My feet hit the floor, and I’m standing before I’ve made a decision. The fear is real. If I have too much fun, I’ll get hurt again. But Carter isn’t Adam, and this is just sex. Nothing more.
I run through the list of cons, which includes getting caught, or us deciding we actually dislike one another and being stuck living together—or even worse, he leaves early and requests a refund for the nights not used. Oh, and one of us getting attached, falling in love, or dealing with a broken heart when August 3 comes.
Carter lives in New York. I live in Coconut Beach. We couldn’t be more opposite from one another. But still, the mutual attraction pulls us together.
I stare at my doorway, wishing I had a crystal ball so I could see the future of both scenarios. Being with him is a risk. Is it one I’m willing to take?
A couple checked into the Seahorse Room this morning, but they went to bed before eight. Maybe Carter is asleep, too, but if he is, I’m waking him up.
My pajama shorts are thin, and my tank top isn’t much better, but I’m not trying to impress him.
I tiptoe in the dark up the stairs to the third floor. A thin strip of low light leaks from underneath his door, which means there’s a very high probability that he’s awake and on the balcony.
I knock softly enough that it won’t wake him if he’s asleep. I tell myself I’ll count to one hundred, and then I’ll go back to bed and pretend he never crossed my mind.
This is the ultimate test. If he doesn’t open his door tonight, the answer is no.
The door opens before I make it to five. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and nothing else. His hair is messy, and his eyes are tired but alert, like he’s been lounging in the dark.
“Took you long enough,” he says, leaning against the doorway.
When he looks at me, like he’ll devour me in an instant, heat rushes through me. “You were expecting me?”
“You can’t tell me no.” He steps to the side, creating room for me to enter.
“Don’t make me prove you wrong,” I whisper, memorizing him, knowing that if I cross the threshold, our relationship will never be the same. “Why do I feel like I know you?”
“I’ve been wondering the same,” he admits. “Meeting you has been déjà vu.”
Unfortunately, Carter is right. I can’t tell him no.
I step in, and I can tell it pleases him. “So,” I say.
“So,” he repeats back.
The balcony doors are open, and the string lights are on. His bed is a mess, sheets pulled back and pillows shoved to one side. A half-empty glass of what looks like whiskey sits on the nightstand, next to one of his thriller books.
“Would you like a drink?” He moves to his dresser, where it’s been transformed into a bar.
