Her eyes flicker with understanding, features turning from playful to solemn. “I respect that.” She lifts her cup to her mouth, before pausing. “Does it bother you if I drink alcohol?”
“No, but I do have a criminal record, so I can’t be seen with delinquents. Are you twenty-one yet?”
Her lips quirk. “I turned twenty-one on May twenty-eighth.”
Damn. That was just over a month ago. I was already living here at the time, and I had no idea. “Sorry I missed it. I didn’t know.”
She shrugs, taking a sip of her drink. “It wasn’t a memorable birthday, anyway. Allie made me a cake and we ate it in bed. It’s um... It’s been a rough couple of months.” She huffs an exasperated laugh. “But according to Taylor Swift, twenty-two is the year that really counts.”
“Well, that’s good, because I’ve heard nobody likes you when you’re twenty-three,” I say, referencing the old blink-182 song.
She chokes on her drink, coughing with laughter. I can’t stop the proud smile that springs to my lips at her reaction. I know this summer hasn’t been easy on her, battling with her feelings regarding her assault and the heartbreak that fell out from it, but right now isn’t the time to dwell on it.
“Wait...” I grip her forearm as the realization dawns on me. “Zero-five-two-eight is the code to the guesthouse. I’ve been typing in your birthday every day for weeks to unlock my door and I had no idea.”
She snorts, placing her hand over mine where it holds her. “My dad changed the code before you moved in—for your privacy. It used to be my mom’s birthday. Eleven-eleven.”
She laughs again. “You should be careful, Weston. I could break in and watch you sleep now.”
I bite my inner cheek, raising a brow. “Maybe you should.”
She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the flush to her cheeks before she grabs my hand, twining her fingers through my own.If it were any other person, I’d pull away, but with Willow, the gesture is comfort in a distressing environment. “C’mon,” she says. “I want to introduce you to Zander.”
She drags me down the porch steps, weaving us through the crowd. The air is thick with the smell of the grill and the sound of mingling laughter, mixed with Leo’s shitty music drumming in the background of it all. The sun sinks low on the horizon, blinding everything in gold. The way Willow’s hair catches the light almost makes it glow, and I’m sure if I saw her eyes right now, they’d be a blazing aquamarine.
“Did you meet August and Elena yet?” she asks, stopping at the edge of the property. I follow her gaze to the couple sitting together on a lounge chair facing the cliffside.
Both dark-haired and heavily tattooed, she sits between his legs as he props himself on the chair, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. She laughs into his neck as they watch the sunset, as if the raging party going on just a few feet behind them doesn’t exist at all.
“Yeah, I met them briefly when Everett showed me around the boardwalk and introduced me to everyone on my first day.” Elena, Willow’s aunt, owns the bookstore two doors down from Heathen’s, and August, her partner, owns the tattoo shop beside it.
“Okay, great.” She continues on in search of her cousin, Zander, I assume. “She’s the person to go to if you need a good romance book recommendation. You should definitely let August tattoo you before the summer is over too.”
“I don’t read romance, and I’m afraid of needles.”
She halts, whipping around. Stray strands of her hair blow in the breeze as she scowls in my direction. “You should absolutely read romance. Everyone should read romance.”
I pop a brow. “And why is that?”
“All women should read romance so they have a bar to set their standards, all men should read romance so they can learn how to properly please a woman. That’s what Elena says.”
“Hmm,” I muse. “Maybe you can give me a list of your favorites?”
Her eyes flare, cheeks turning the sweetest shade of pink.
“Oh?” I draw my bottom lip between my teeth, grinning. “Or are you a little hesitant to let me see what books you enjoy most, Wills? Are they the real filthy ones?”
What the fuck has gotten into me?
When Willow becomes bashful, it spurs me on. Makes me outspoken and... allured? I’m not sure. It stirs something in my core that I’ve never felt before. A warmth. A hunger.
“I don’t think we’re going to judge my choices in literature when you’re afraid of a little tattoo needle, Weston,” she snaps back, as if attempting to hide how flustered I’ve made her. “And if anything,youcouldn’t handle what I read.”
She’s probably not wrong. I step into her, dropping my head, leaning close enough to whisper against the shell of her ear, “Guess you better get me that list, so we can test the theory, yeah?”
She trembles when I breathe against her skin, and I’m fucking giddy as I brush past her. So much so that I don’t even realize I don’t know where I’m going or who I’m looking for.
Thankfully, an outrageously tall, broad, olive-toned guy around my age rounds the corner of the garage. He lifts his arm, yelling Willow’s name, eyes trained on her behind me, and I assume I’m heading in the right direction.
