Page 28 of The Summer We Lie

"Right," I say and walk into the room, but as I get past him, he grabs my wrist. My mind flashes back to the night I met him in the restaurant when he grabbed me like this. I look up at him, at war between anger and horny again. God, why does this man affect me so strongly? It's like my body betrays my brain whenever he's near.

"Thanks for not telling her about us meeting," he says, his thumb unconsciously brushing against my pulse point.

"I didn't do that for you," I say, willing my voice to stay steady. "I did it for her. I didn't want to make everything awkward or upset her. I love her."

"Either way," he says, "it's best she doesn't know." His fingers are warm against my skin, sending little electric currents up my arm. I wonder if he can feel my pulse racing beneath his grip. "Do you think we can forget about that night too and start over?" he asks.

"You mean how you were a dick to me or how you wasted my time meeting you when you were just going to back out of the deal?" I ask with what I hope is an angry look, but he makes me nervous, and I just hope it doesn't show. My nose ring suddenly feels too tight, and I resist the urge to fidget with it.

"I can explain that," he starts, but I interrupt him, afraid of what he might say.

"It's already forgotten. Don't worry about it," I say and shake off his hand. "Let's just try our best to get along for Harper," I say, walking into the room. But when I turn back and look at him, I feel so guilty for my tone—after all, he's letting me stay in this amazing house all summer. He's giving me a chance to escape my real life for a while.

"Okay," he says and turns to leave, his shoulders slightly tense.

"Mr. Grayson," I say, stopping him, the formality feeling safer somehow.

"Yeah?" he says, turning back around, one hand resting on the doorframe.

"I really appreciate you letting me stay here and for the plane tickets and everything. I'll pay you back," I say, and then he looks angry. He walks back to me, into my room, each step deliberate and controlled.

"Don't," he says, voice dropping to that deep tone that makes my stomach flutter. "Don't insult me by offering to pay me back. You're Harper's friend—family, practically. I'm not keeping a tab."

His presence fills the space, making the spacious room suddenly feel small. He's close enough that I catch his scent—something expensive and woody that makes me want to lean closer, to breathe him in more deeply.

"I just don't want to be a burden," I say, hating how small my voice sounds. How young and insignificant I feel standing in his perfectly designed home.

His expression softens slightly. "You're not a burden, Skye. Harper has been talking about this summer all month—having you here makes her happy." He pauses, those dark eyes studying me in a way that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and protected. "And making Harper happy is what matters to me."

The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. Not "Cherry," but "Skye"—my real name in his mouth feels intimate somehow, like he's peeling back a layer I hadn't meant to reveal.

"Still," I insist, unable to let it go, "there must be something I can do to help out around here." I'm not used to taking without giving something back. That's not how my world works.

A flash of something crosses his face—too quick for me to identify—before his expression returns to neutral. "Just enjoy your summer. That's all I ask."

He turns to leave again, then stops at the doorway without looking back. "Harper's probably already waiting for you." Then he's gone, leaving me alone with my racing heart and a suitcase full of questions about how I'm supposed to survive a whole summer under his roof.

I hurry and dig out my only bathing suit from my luggage. A little triangle top black bikini—we don't swim much in Pennsylvania, maybe once or twice in the summers, but a couple of times before my dad left, we visited Myrtle Beach in South Carolina for a few days in the summer. I undress in the bathroom and throw on my suit, then I pile my hair up in a high bun and leave the room in search of Harper.

She's standing in the kitchen holding towels, looking like she was born to be in California with her flawless skin and confidence. I feel suddenly self-conscious in my simple suit—it's nothing special, just something I picked up on clearance.

"I didn't grab shoes. Do I need them?" I ask, walking into the kitchen, feeling the cool tile under my bare feet and immediately noticing how beautiful the marble is.

"Nah, I didn't put any on either," she says, kicking a foot out to show me, her toenails painted a perfect coral that matches her bikini top. She grabs two waters out of the fridge and hands one to me, a fancy glass bottle with some Italian name I can't pronounce.

"Come on, we have a few hours before it gets dark," she says, walking over to the massive wall of windows and glass doors facing the ocean. The view is even more spectacular from this angle—endless blue stretching to the horizon, the sun creating a path of golden light across the water, like something straight out of a travel magazine or one of those Instagram accounts that makes you hate your own life.

When we walk out onto the deck, I can't get over how beautiful it is. The house sits at the perfect vantage point, with a deck that extends out toward the cliff edge, and below, a pristine stretch of private beach. The stone feels warm and smooth beneath my feet, clearly expensive and maintained to perfection, just like everything else in Dominic Grayson's world.

"I didn't know you were this rich," I say, gesturing towards everything—the infinity pool to our right that seems to melt into the ocean beyond, the perfectly landscaped native plants arranged in artistic clusters, the outdoor kitchen area that could host a party for fifty with its built-in grill that looks like it's never been used.

"I mean, I guess I don't even think about it," she says, leading me toward the stairs. "I live with my mom most of the year, and she's not rich at all. But Dad pays for everything I need, so I guess I'm like half money, half not."

I laugh. "You're so weird," I say as she leads me over to the stairs that were built into the cliff like they were always here, stone blending with the natural rock formation in a way that makes it seem organic but is obviously the result of careful planning. "Your dad designed this place?" I ask, running my hand along the smooth railing, imagining his hands sketching out these curves, these angles.

"Yeah," she says, her feet light on the steps as we descend. "He's kind of a big shot in the world of architecture."

"I believe it. This place is amazing. If his others are like this, then... just wow," I say, taking in how each turn of the staircase reveals another stunning angle of the coastline, each view more beautiful than the last, like he designed it to unfold like a story.