Whatever. It’s just one stupid little picture, after all.
And now?
Random men who ghosted me a year ago are suddenly “Hey stranger”-ing their way into my DMs like cicadas crawling out of the dirt. It’s a bit much for me right now.
I swim to the edge, roll out, and grab my towel.
As I dry my hair with one hand, I check my phone with the other.
That’s when I see it.
There’s a text from Colt.
Not a meme.
Not a joke.
Not a casual “hey.”
No. It’s much more demanding.
Colt: I need to see you. Come tonight. Wear that bikini. 11:30 is good.
I freeze.
Every inch of my skin prickles—like someone has slid warm fingers along my spine.
My mouth goes dry, and my pulse leaps.
Oh God.
He’s never texted me quite like that before.
A slow, dark thrill unfurls low in my stomach.
Because the truth—the one I won’t even say out loud to Harper—is that I like when Colt takes control.
Ireallylike it.
Images spark behind my eyes:
His hands on my waist in the shower.
His mouth at my neck.
His voice against my ear, low and certain, like every word is a command he already knows I’ll obey.
I swallow.
Harper floats by on her back, eyes closed.
“You okay? You look like you just got drafted into the NFL,” she mumbles.
“I—uh—yeah. I’m fine. I just… remember I have something to do tonight.”
She peeks at me through one eye, smirking. “You’re acting weird. Is this about your trainer?”
“No,” I lie instantly, too fast. “So weird that you just asked that.”
