I follow her gaze.
And there he is.
Tristan Vale.
Of course.
He’s standing closer to the water with a few of the basketball guys, one hand in the pocket of his board shorts, the other holding a bottle of something imported and overpriced. Dark hair falling over his forehead the way it always does, like even gravity wants to touch him. Tall, lean, tan, all that polished East Coast prince bullshit the cameras love.
Pretty bastard.
And she’s looking at him like she already knows it.
That annoys me immediately.
Not because I’m territorial.
Because she hasn’t even looked at my way.
I take one last pull of the beer, set it down on the nearest table, and head over.
No strategy.
No game plan.
I’m not that kind of guy.
I’m a route runner, not a poet.
You see a thing you want, you cut hard and get open.
That’s how life works.
Or should.
By the time I reach her side of the beach, one of her friends is laughing too loudly at something and the other is pretending not to check whether the basketball boys are checking them.
Texas notices me the second I step into her orbit.
Her eyes slide over me once.
Up.
Down.
Back up.
Not appreciative.
Assessing.
I grin.
“Evenin’.”
One brow lifts.
“You have nice feet for a neanderthal. Did you get a pedicure just for this party?”
