Page 95 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Blake wasn’t going to push.

Partly because she’d just come out to someone, and it felt so fucking good that she wanted to run laps around the parking lot in celebration.

“My turn,” Holland declared before asking, “Now, does your realization have anything to do with Monroe Lockhart?”

Heat rushed through Blake at the sound of Monroe’s name. “She’s . . .” Blake pursed her lips, trying to find the right words.

What was Monroe to her? She was way more than a friend, but she also wasn’t Blake’s girlfriend. Even if just thinking the word sent an excited spark down her spine.

“I think there’s something there,” Blake confessed, her heart beating a little faster.

Holland nodded knowingly. “I usually have excellent gaydar, and Monroe pinged mine right away. You get good at reading subtext in Hollywood.” She looked at Blake again. “But you, I was not expecting.”

Blake hadn’t realized, until that moment, how much she liked surprising people. All her life, she’d tried to fit conventional standards and not ruffle feathers.

But this—the look of surprise and awe on Holland’s face—was such a rush.

It had been even better with Monroe, she remembered, the first time that she’d kissed her. When she’d leaned across the space between them in this very parking lot.

Blake grinned. “I’m glad that I could provide your entertainment for the day. Do you want to grab coffee and get over to the swimming hole? The rush has probably already started.”

Holland unbuckled her seat belt and said, with a hint of amazement in her voice, “Lead the way.”

On a Saturday in late July, Blake already knew that the swimming hole would be crawling with people. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t even noon yet.

The resort—if you could really call it that—owned the bank along the river, and for a nominal fee, guests could get a slice of the great outdoors all while bathrooms, a bar, and water sport rentals were in close proximity.

It was a cloudless day, and the sun, high in the sky, was already beating down. Blake wondered how long it would take before she threw herself off her paddleboard and into the water.

They drove onto the grounds, and Holland took the worn road leading to the resort slowly. To the left of it was a large parking lot, where they managed to snag a spot.

Blake had come here as a kid, before her life had become all about private country clubs and gated communities and only being seen with the “right” kind of people.

This, just like the drive-in, was true Cypress Falls. A mingling of people from the surrounding towns and tourists looking for a fun weekend getaway to escape the heat.

It was big enough that she wouldn’t get looks from people who knew her and small enough that she felt comfortable, even in a crowd.

She grabbed her backpack from the back of the SUV and slung it over her shoulder. Her phone and keys had been locked in the glove compartment, along with Holland’s phone.

They met at the back of the vehicle and started the gentle slope toward the water’s edge. “Did you come here growing up?” she asked Holland, who was carrying a similar backpack.

“My parents aren’t exactly outdoorsy people, but I had a friend and her family that I came with a lot.” Holland sounded surprisingly nostalgic. Whether about her friend or her childhood or some combination of the two, Blake didn’t know.

“Anyone I know?” Blake’s sister, Grace, was only a year older than Holland, so it was very possible that the name would register.

“Wren Marshall. Her dad owns the vet practice near the studio,” Holland answered as the parking lot dissolved into patchy grass and dirt.

The name sounded familiar, but she definitely hadn’t been one of Grace’s friends. Blake clicked her tongue before saying, “I don’t think that I know her. Does she still live in town?” Plus, Blake’s dad was allergic to dogs and cats, so they’d never been able to have a family pet growing up.

And Noah had thought that pets were a waste of time and energy and money.

Of course, something that only really provided loyalty and love wouldn’t have appealed to him.

Blake refocused on the conversation at hand when Holland shook her head. “No. She lives in Seattle now.”

“Is it as rainy as they say?” Blake asked as the path opened wider. Near its end, over to the right, was a bar situated near the water’s edge and then the beach itself, sprawling along the bank of the creek.

She’d felt like it was a fair question—Blake had never even been to the West Coast—but Holland gave her a strange, almost annoyed, look before telling her, “I don’t know.”