Page 70 of The Summer We Lie

"Sorry, what was that?" I manage, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, embarrassed by my obvious distraction. My fingers tremble slightly with the movement.

Harper saves me, jumping in with a laugh that sounds like bells against the backdrop of ocean waves. "She's probably exhausted from the sun. Come on, I think Dad's about ready with the food."

We make our way back up to the house, sand clinging to our feet as we climb the steps. When we reach the deck, I see Dom standing at the grill, his broad shoulders and strong back on full display as he expertly flips burgers. The sight of him sends another wave of heat through me. My throat goes dry as I watch his muscles flex beneath his shirt with each precise movement.

"Should we get anything together?" I ask Harper, desperate for something to do besides stare at her father. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, too high-pitched.

"Yeah, come on," she says, and I follow her inside, grateful for the distraction. The cool air conditioning hits my sun-warmed skin as we enter the kitchen, raising goosebumps along my arms.

"Let's get some veggies and buns ready for the burgers," she suggests, heading straight to the fridge while I make my way to the pantry. The tile floor feels cool beneath my sandy feet.

My hand freezes on the pantry door handle. This is where Dom and I... The memory flashes through my mind in vivid detail—his hands on my body, his mouth at my ear, the way he made me feel. I can almost feel the ghost of his touch on my skin, the heat of his breath. I swallow hard before opening the door, half-expecting to find evidence of our encounter, some physical proof that I haven't imagined the whole thing.

Inside, I notice a few things knocked out of place—a box of pasta tilted precariously, some cans slightly disarranged. My cheeks burn as I quickly fix them before grabbing the hot dog and hamburger buns with my shaking hands.

"Should I grab chips?" I call out to Harper, my voice mercifully steady despite the chaos inside me.

"Sure!" she responds, head still in the refrigerator.

I grab bags of regular Lays and sour cream and onion, the foil crackling under my fingertips, then set everything down on the counter. Harper hands me a knife, and I focus intently on the task of slicing tomatoes while she works on onions. The mundane activity grounds me, bringing me back to the present moment. The juicy red flesh gives way easily under the blade, the seeds spilling out onto the cutting board.

We arrange everything on a serving platter, working in comfortable silence. The colorful array of vegetables creates a perfect rainbow against the white ceramic. Harper places the top on the veggie tray, and we wash our hands before carrying the food, buns, and condiments outside.

After setting everything down on the outdoor table, we return for plates and napkins, the stacked plates clicking together with each step.

"Can you bring these out? I'm going to grab a t-shirt," Harper says, running her fingers through her windblown hair. "I can grab you one too."

"Please," I nod, grateful for the offer. My skin feels too exposed, too vulnerable. I carry the stack of plates and napkins out to the table, my eyes immediately finding Dom at the grill, as if pulled by some invisible force.

"Dom, do you need me to get anything else?" I ask, proud of how casual I sound despite the electricity that zings between us when our eyes meet. Dark and intense, they hold secrets only we share.

He looks around at what we've already brought. "No, this is perfect. Thank you," he says, his voice low and intimate despite the ordinary words.

I take a seat while waiting for Harper and that shirt, scanning the area. Logan is nowhere to be seen, while Ethan, Reed and Wren stand talking by the pool, their figures silhouetted against the darkening sky. Wren notices me and starts walking over, but Reed's voice cuts through the evening air like a knife.

"Babe!" he calls, and she turns around, her shoulders tensing visibly. "Put something on and cover yourself up," he demands, his tone possessive and controlling, echoing across the deck.

"I will," she says quietly, her voice barely carrying to where I sit. The sadness in her eyes is unmistakable as she turns back around, but what catches my attention is Ethan's expression as he looks at his son—pure disappointment and barely contained anger, his jaw clenched tight.

Wren grabs her cover-up from her bag, slips it on, and comes to sit beside me. The chair creaks as she settles in. "He's just really jealous," she explains, her voice small, fragile like glass.

I nod but keep my thoughts to myself. She's way too good for him—sweet, smart, and gorgeous. She could do so much better. The words burn on my tongue, unspoken.

Harper returns and joins us, tossing a shirt my way. "Thanks," I say, pulling it on over my bikini top, the soft fabric a welcome barrier between me and the world.

"Alright, come make whatever you want," Dom announces, and we all grab plates and line up at the grill, the scent of sizzling meat filling the air as the evening stretches before us, full of possibility and unspoken promises.

Chapter Thirty-One

Skye

I step out of the shower, wrapping a plush towel around my body while steam billows around me like a personal cloud. The evening replays in my mind on an endless loop—those stolen glances across the dinner table, his dark eyes tracking my every movement when he thought I wasn't looking, the weight of unspoken promises hanging in the air between us like electricity before a storm. Would he actually come to my room tonight? The thought sends a shiver cascading down my spine.

I go through my bedtime routine methodically, trying desperately to calm my racing heart that refuses to settle. Moisturizer patted gently into my cheeks, teeth brushed. Every movement feels deliberate, weighted with an anticipation that makes my fingers tremble slightly.

Walking over to my dresser, I pull out an oversized t-shirt and slip it on, the soft, worn cotton falling to mid-thigh against my freshly showered skin. I crawl into bed with my sketchbook clutched against my chest, tucking my legs beneath the covers. My pencil moves almost on its own as I work on the sketch of Dom I started days ago, adding depth to the shadows around his eyes, defining the strong, uncompromising line of his jaw, capturing that intensity that seems to radiate from him even when he's perfectly still. There's something undeniably intimate about recreating him this way, my fingers tracing his features on paper the way I long to trace them in person, memorizing every plane and angle of his face.

Nearly an hour passes in this artistic trance before I reluctantly set the sketchbook on my nightstand, admiring my work one last time. I switch off the light and slip under the plush comforter, wishing I could somehow roll it up and take it home with me when this summer ends. It feels like a cloud against my skin, nothing like the thin, threadbare blanket on my bed in my apartment.