Isabel squeezed the salt water out of her hair and threw her board on the sand. The last time she’d been to Ditch Plains, all she’d seen were the pebbles and the rocks and the drainpipe that stuck out in an unsightly way from under the dunes. But today the beach looked beautiful. Surfers bobbed on the surface of the dark blue water as haze from the salt spray swirled in the air. Groups of teenagers and young people hung out on faded blankets and plastic beach chairs. An against-the-rules black Lab trotted happily down the beach with a Frisbee in its mouth. And there was Mike, coming out of the water with his board under his arm and sending a lightning-quick shiver all over her skin.
“What do you think?” he said, shaking the water out of his hair. “You up for one more?”
“Sure. One more.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but you’re better than I thought.”
“I told you,” she replied, throwing him a smile as she set off toward the water.
She threw herself belly-down on her board and paddled out. Behind her, Mike slammed onto his board and started racing her to the lineup.
He liked her. He didn’t say too much, but every chance he could get he talked to her, complimented her, gave her some advice on her form. There hadn’t been much time for any personal questions yet, which was just fine with her. There was so much she wanted to know about him, though. She didn’t even know how old he was. Or where he lived. Or how many girls he was currently hooking up with. Chill out, she thought. You have to relax. She hadn’t had to tell herself that in years.
When they reached the lineup, they sat astride their boards waiting for a wave. He was the one to start asking questions. “So… you’re in high school, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What year?”
“I’ll be a senior.”
One of his feet kicked hers under the water.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“I’m twenty,” he said. “Too old?”
“Too old for what?” she asked.
He smiled at her. “I get the feeling that you always date people safe.”
“Safe? Are you about to tell me that you’re an ax murderer or something?”
“I mean, guys you know. Guys you can control.” He grinned. “Am I right?”
“I get the feeling that you take a lot of girls surfing,” she said.
“I don’t take people surfing,” he said, with such a dead-serious expression that she looked away and pretended to scan the water.
When her wave came, it took everything she had to concentrate, especially because she knew that he was watching her. She got to her feet at just the right moment and stood, one foot in front of the other, her arms straight out, with her gaze on the swiftly approaching shore. Luckily she didn’t fall. And as her board flew over the water, she thought, I really don’t want this day to end. I want to be riding this wave for the rest of my life.
Back on the beach she unzipped her wet suit and dried herself off with one of the beach towels Mike had in his car. Gulls squawked overhead. It had to be after three by now. She thought of Darwin and Thayer picking at their Georgica salads, scanning the patio for her arrival. She tried to imagine either of those girls sitting here with a guy like this. At Ditch Plains, no less.
She watched Mike ride his wave in, curving the board back and forth. He was definitely good. Better than any of the guys at school.
He walked up the beach when he was done, threw his board on the sand, and sat down on the towel. “So how does a lobster roll sound?” he asked.“If you still have some time.”
“I have some time,” she said, trying to sound casual. “And I love lobster.”
“Good.” He leaned toward her. She leaned into him, expecting a kiss, but he only grabbed an extra towel he’d left next to her and dried off his hair. “Let’s go then,” he said.
“Uh, sure,” she said, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
At the car he held a towel at his waist as he changed out of his wet suit. She tried not to look. But at one point, she turned her head just as the towel fell an inch or so, enough to give her a thrilling view of the skin below his navel. She got inside the car before she started to stare. Why was she being so weird around this guy? It was as if she’d never been around a member of the opposite sex.
Her phone chimed softly from within her bag. Thayer had texted her:
WHERE R U??
Isabel smiled and put the phone back in her purse.
Mike opened the car door. “So where are we going?” she asked.
“Buford’s,” he said, sliding in behind the wheel in a white T-shirt and shorts. He smelled like fresh laundry. “You’ve been there before, right?”
“Actually, I haven’t.”
“You’re kidding,” he said, leaning close to her as he shifted into reverse. “How is that possible?”
Because my mom thinks it’s a dump, she wanted to say, but didn’t. All she did was shrug and give him her best mysterious smile.
They drove down the highway until the faded pink walls of Buford’s Lobster Shack came into view. Buford’s looked like it belonged on a back road in Jamaica or some other Caribbean island, not just outside a preppy summer town. Mike pulled into the small, crowded lot, right next to two twentyish surfers getting out of an old van with boards strapped to the roof. She recognized them from the water.
“Hey, Mike!” one of them yelled as they got out of the car. “Your lady can shred!” The guy had a shaved head and wore a T-shirt with the F word printed loudly across the chest.
“I know,” Mike said proudly. “Did you guys meet Isabel? This is Brad and Matt.”
“Hi,” she said, suddenly shy.
Brad, the one who’d spoken, gave Mike an approving look. “See ya inside, man,” Brad said.
As they walked through the lot, Mike waved to two more surfer guys, and then two more when they joined the line waiting to order.
“You must come here a lot,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” he said nonchalantly. “It’s one of my places.”
Mike stepped up to order, but instead reached out and grasped the hand of a grizzled-looking man in his fifties behind the counter. “Wassup, bro?”
“Mikey,” the man said, bumping Mike’s fist with his own. “How’s your dad? How come he never comes by anymore?”
“He’s been pretty busy this season,” Mike said. “But here’s someone else for you to meet. Buford, meet Isabel. Isabel, this is Buford Giles.”
“Hello,” Isabel said, extending her hand.
“He’s a softie, this one,” he said, pointing to Mike. “I know he doesn’t look it, but he is.”
“All right, that’s enough,” Mike said, unlocking Isabel’s hand from Buford’s grip. “We’ll take two number eights with extra mayo and sweet-potato fries. And two virgin coladas,” he said with a wink.
“You got it.” Buford winked back and disappeared behind the counter.
“You really do come here a lot,” she said.
A moment later, he handed them two foamy drinks with straws and tiny umbrellas. Isabel took a sip of hers. It was definitely not a virgin colada. The rum burned her throat.
“Thanks, man,” he said to Buford, then grabbed her hand to take her around to the patio. “They’ll bring us the food,” he said. “Come on, let’s find a place to sit.”
It was only about four o’clock, but almost every table was packed with surfers or people who looked like surfers, eating from baskets of fried clams and sipping tropical drinks. The smell of Malibu rum mingled with the tang of salt and grease. Reggae played over the PA. Everybody looked older than Isabel and Mike, but Mike moved across the patio like a celebrity, exchanging bro-shakes and high fives as people yelled out his name.
“What are you, the mayor of Montauk?” Isabel asked as they sat down at the only open table.
“I grew up out here,” he said, stirring the foam of his drink.
“In Montauk?”
“The North Fork.” He smiled. “You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course I have.” She’d never actually met anyone from the North Fork before. She’d only been there a few times, usually to take the ferry to Block Island to see her aunt. Lots of farmland, small shingle homes, and homey seafood places near the harbor were all she remembered of it. “How does Buford know your dad?” she asked, changing the subject.
“We have a vegetable farm and a stand near Wainscott,” he said. “He keeps Buford in corn and tomatoes all summer long.”
“And he keeps you in piña coladas,” she said, picking up her cup.
“You could say that.”
“Do you work on the farm?” she asked, hoping that this didn’t sound offensive for some reason.
“In the summers I do. During the rest of the year I go to Stony Brook.” Mike leaned back in his patio chair, slipped off his flip-flops, and propped his tan feet on the arms of an unused chair.
“So what are you studying?” Isabel asked. It made sense that Mike would be in college, given his age, but she couldn’t quite picture him in school.
“The usual stuff,” Mike said cryptically. “Nothing that interesting. Let’s talk about you. What were you trying so hard to get away from? The other day, out in the water?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I just wanted to swim.”
“Far, far away from your beach club. Which most people would do anything to belong to.”
“Wait. Where are you going with this?”
He laughed and leaned closer to her, so close that she could see a faint stripe of sand near his jawbone in the fading light. “I guess I just want to know why you’re out right now with a guy from the North Fork when you could be sunning yourself at the Georgica Club.”
“Maybe I’m bored,” she said.
“Maybe you are.”
“And I could ask you the same question. What are you doing out with a girl who’s never been to Buford’s Lobster Shack?”
Without taking his eyes off her, he picked up his drink and took a long sip. She’d never seen a guy who said so little and yet communicated so much at the same time. And right now his smile seemed to say, Because you are the sexiest girl I’ve ever seen, and I can’t wait to kiss you.
The pause was broken by Buford delivering their food. “Here you go,” he said, setting the paper plates down on the table. “Two lobsters. Extra mayo. Enjoy.”
As he walked away, Isabel looked down at the lobster roll nestled beside a mountain of salty sweet-potato fries. “This looks incredible.”
“Yup. I’d say this would be my last meal.”
She picked up the sandwich and took a messy bite. “Wow.”
He nodded as if this was just what he’d expected to hear. “What’s your last meal?” he asked.
“Maybe this.”
“Last dessert, then?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Strawberry shortcake.”
He laughed.
“What?” she asked. “Why is that funny?”
“Strawberry shortcake?” he asked skeptically.
“Have you ever had it?” she asked.
“It’s amazing,” she said with conviction. “And I can make it.”
“You can make it?” he asked.
“Yeah. My mom doesn’t usually let me do stuff in the kitchen, but whenever I bake, I’m awesome.”
He looked like he was trying hard not to laugh again. “Wait. Why doesn’t your mom let you do stuff in the kitchen?”
“Because we have help. Why would my parents want me to cook?”
“I don’t know, maybe to teach you how to take care of yourself?” he asked with a glint in his eye. He dipped a fry into the mayo. “You should make me some one day.”
“Only if you’re really, really nice to me.” She pulled away from him and let some hair fall over one eye. “Now let me ask you something. How many girlfriends do you have?”
“Have or had?”
“Have. As in, right now.”
The beat of the music changed and bloomed into something slow and sexy. A song she’d loved last summer.
From the very first time I rest my eyes on you, girl
My heart said follow through
But I know now that I’m way down on your line
But the waiting feel is fine
The rum was starting to make her feel dizzy. She closed her eyes and swayed a little with the beat of the music, until she felt Mike’s fingers creep stealthily over her hand. She opened her eyes and saw that he was looking right at her.
“Just one. But I’m still working on it.”
Rory leaned against the mountain of bed pillows and looked at the cell phone in her hand. Three missed calls, all from Lana McShane. Her mom never did like to leave voice mails. Instead, she liked to call over and over again and hang up, which always succeeded in making Rory feel both guilty and panicked.
At least tonight had been quiet. She’d eaten dinner with Fee, Bianca, and Erica, the new chef. Petite but strong, with a mass of light brown curls, Erica insisted on whipping up a separate dinner of pappardelle with spring vegetables and ricotta just for the four of them. The food was delicious, but Bianca barely touched it, as she was too engrossed in an episode of Downton Abbey to pay attention to any of them. Afterward Rory had taken a long bubble bath in the sunken marble tub, then wrapped herself in the silk and chenille bathrobe that hung on the back of her bathroom door and got into bed. It was nine forty-five and all she wanted to do was go to sleep. But if she didn’t call back, her mom would probably call again. Might as well get this over with, Rory thought as she dialed.
Her mom answered after one ring. “Hullo?” It was only one word, but Rory could hear the wine in it.
“Hey, Mom, it’s me. Sorry I missed your calls.”
“Oh. Did I call you more than once?”
“I think so. How’s it going?”
“Not so good.” There was a muted sniffle. “I think Bryan and I broke up.”
“Oh,” Rory said, feeling a twinge of guilt. She hadn’t seen that one coming—at least, not this soon. “I’m sorry.”
“Honey, I need you,” her mom half pleaded, half ordered. “I need you to come home. Now.”
“Mom, I can’t. I just got here.”
“Rory, please. And they turned off the cable yesterday on top of everything, so I can’t even watch TV—”
“I put the bill on the fridge. Didn’t you see it?”
“I was just a little late with it,” her mom said, annoyed. “Tell Aunt Fee you’re very sorry but that I need you. She’ll understand.” There was another sniffle. “You’re all I’ve got, honey.”
Rory squeezed one tiny blue-and-white-speckled throw pillow. She could feel the familiar vines of guilt creeping through the phone line and wrapping themselves around her, tighter and tighter. “I can’t,” she finally said. “I just got here. It would be really bad for me to leave right now. Just go to bed. Everything will be better tomorrow. I promise.”
There was a click and then silence.
“Hello? Mom?”
She’d hung up. Rory looked at the dark face of her cell phone. Her mom had ended their phone conversations like this before, but Rory had never felt this annoyed by it. Screw you, she thought. She turned off the ringer and put the phone in the top drawer of the bedside table, where she wouldn’t even hear it vibrate. If her mom called back, she didn’t want to know.
She pulled the covers up to her chin and sank into the plush mattress. Maybe coming to East Hampton hadn’t been such a mistake after all. Nursing her mom through her latest breakup was starting to get old. And her mom was an adult, as Sophie and Trish were always telling her. She could take care of herself. She wasn’t supposed to be the mom, they would tell her over and over again.
But what if you don’t know anything else? she wondered.
“Wait here,” Isabel said as they pulled up in front of the iron gates. “I need to punch in the code.”
Slowly she let go of Mike’s hand—the one that had been holding hers all the way home from Buford’s—and got out of the car. She wavered for a moment, then put her hand on the door to keep her balance. The ground teetered up and down. Buford’s not-so-virgin coladas were exacting their revenge. Focus, she thought. She steadied herself, then walked around the front of the humming car and over to the intercom.
So far, the entire day had been perfect, except for one thing: Mike hadn’t kissed her yet. She knew that he wanted to. At Buford’s they’d moved their plastic patio chairs closer and closer to each other while they talked, until their faces were so close together that once or twice she’d buried her head into his shoulder and laughed. Then they’d gotten into his car in the dark, still laughing (she more than he—she’d had half of a second piña colada; he’d had a Coke), and she’d leaned her head back and looked at him and thought, Okay, now. Now he has to do it. Now he has to kiss me. But all he’d done was turn on the car and take her hand and say “I should probably get you home.”
“Okay,” she’d said, a little stunned. And it had only made her want him more.
She leaned over the intercom box, trying to remember the code, when she heard Mike say, “Maybe I should just drop you off here.”
She turned around. The ground teetered again. “Why?” she asked.
“Because it’s a little late.”
“Are you afraid of my parents?” she teased.
Mike laughed and shook some hair out of his eyes. “This just might not be the best time to meet them.”
Isabel looked past the gates, at the long, softly illuminated drive. She didn’t want to say good-bye to him here. She was already out of the car. How could he kiss her if she was out of the car? “Hold on,” she said. “I have a better idea.”
Rory bunched the pillow up under her head and grabbed the remote control from the nightstand. The night before, she’d had no problem falling asleep, but tonight she was as wide awake and alert as if she’d had two mocha lattes after dinner. This was the last time she’d call home before bed. Dealing with her mom this late at night was guaranteed insomnia.
A scratching noise sounded at the window. She looked up. Was it a raccoon? Did they have raccoons out in the Hamptons?
The noise sounded again. She sat up. This time it wasn’t so much a scratching as it was a shuffling or a straining, hands grasping at the frame. Something—or someone—was trying to open the window.
Finally the window came loose and rose with a loud squeak. As Rory sat in bed, too frightened to move, she watched a guy slowly climb into her room, one leg at a time.
She screamed and turned on the light.
“Sorry!” he yelled.
It was the sexy guy she’d seen outside the house that morning. Except this time he didn’t look nearly as cool. “Sorry!” he whispered, both of his hands up as if he’d just been arrested. “Sorry!”
“What the hell are you doing here?” she yelled, pulling the covers up to her neck.
The guy blinked and slowly put his hands down. “Isabel told me—”
The doorknob turned, and as the guy scrambled back through the window, Bianca Vellum charged into the room, clutching a striped silk robe to her chest. “What is going on here?” she demanded, blinking at Rory in the light.
Rory watched as Mike’s right flip-flop disappeared over the windowsill and into the night. “Nothing,” she said.
Bianca glanced at the window and then looked back at Rory. From the irate look on her face, Rory knew she’d seen Mike’s foot, too.
“That was—it’s not what it looks like—” Rory began.
“I’m only going to say this once,” Bianca said, almost trembling with anger. “This is someone else’s home. Not yours. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” Rory breathed.
Bianca wrapped her robe tighter around herself. “Good night,” she said with palpable disgust, and closed the door.
Rory sat by herself in the empty room, feeling as if a hurricane had just swept through. This had to be Isabel’s doing. She’d told him to come in this way—she was sure of it. She seemed determined to get her kicked out of here. And at this rate, it would be a miracle if she didn’t.
Upstairs, Isabel lay on her bed as the floor listed to the left and right in a nauseating way. She’d just heard what sounded like a scream in the room below, then the sound of Mike tearing across the lawn, followed by Bianca chewing somebody out. Somebody had caught Mike sneaking into the downstairs guest room, and it wasn’t Bianca. Who had it been?
Rory. Rory had caught him.
And by now she would have told Bianca that he was Isabel’s friend, and that would be it. In the past four years that she’d been house manager, Bianca had never missed an opportunity to bust Isabel for any and every little thing. She seemed to take pleasure in updating Lucy on all of Isabel’s misdeeds. By the time she woke up tomorrow, her mom would know all about her sneaking some guy into the house and she’d be lucky if she wasn’t grounded for the rest of the month. Oh well, she thought, closing her eyes. Let them ground her. She had no doubt that she would see him again. And next time, no matter what it took, she’d make sure he kissed her.
The next morning, Rory woke up at dawn. Birds chirped madly in the trees as gray light filtered through the blinds. She stretched and yawned, taking her time to wake up, until the memory of last night came back to her. With a shot, she sat up in bed and clutched the sheets to her chest. This morning everyone would know some guy had tried to sneak into her room. The Rules would be furious. She had no explanation. Telling them it was Isabel’s new boyfriend wasn’t an option. She could handle the Rules being mad at her, but not Isabel. She was scary enough already.
She finally got out of bed and into the shower. When she stepped into the hall in her favorite pair of jeans and her prettiest cotton tank, the house was still. Apparently Sunday was the one day that the Rules slept in.
She walked down the hall and pushed open the swinging door. Thankfully, the only person in the kitchen was Fee, who was bent over the open dishwasher, unloading glasses.
“Good morning,” Rory said as brightly as possible.
Fee barely glanced at her as she wiped the glasses dry with a towel. “G’morning,” she said tersely. “How’d you sleep?”
She knows, Rory thought. Of course she knows. “Fee, last night isn’t what you think,” she said. “In case you heard.”
“You can’t be sneaking boys into your room,” Fee said slowly, still not looking at her. “That’s the one thing, Rory. You just can’t be having romances here.”
Just tell her who’s really having a romance around here, she thought. But she couldn’t. She reached down and pulled a heavy painted platter from the dishwasher. “Do the Rules know?”
“I begged Bianca not to say anything,” Fee said, taking the platter from Rory’s hands. “And she actually said she wouldn’t. Of course, now I’m obligated to the stuck-up cow, which is the last thing on earth I wanted.”
“I’m sorry about that. But thank you for asking her not to say anything.”
“I just don’t understand it,” Fee said. “I didn’t think you were like that.”
I’m not, Rory was about to say when the kitchen door swung open. Rory turned around, expecting to see Bianca’s disapproving face, but instead Isabel staggered into the room, looking like she’d hardly slept. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin looked sallow, and her hair hung in messy clumps around her face. Hangover, Rory thought. Big-time.
“Is there any more of that green juice that Eduardo used to make?” she asked in a raspy voice.
“I think some’s in here,” Fee said, opening the refrigerator and rummaging around. She seemed not to notice Isabel’s hangover. Or she was used to it.
Rory took the opportunity to shoot Isabel a look, but Isabel staunchly avoided her eyes.
“Here you go,” Fee said, handing an unmarked plastic bottle of green sludge to her. “You feeling okay?”
“I think I might have the flu,” Isabel said.
Flu? Rory thought, glaring at her. Puh-leeze.
“Oh, well, in that case you better get right back to bed,” said Fee.
“Thanks.” Isabel shuffled out, pushing the door with the tips of her fingers.
“Something must be going around,” Fee murmured as she turned back to the dishwasher.
“I’ll be right back,” Rory said. She pushed through the swinging door. She couldn’t let Isabel get away with this.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?” she asked as soon as she and Isabel were alone in the hall.
Isabel turned and gave Rory an annoyed look.
“So, can we talk about the guy who snuck into my room last night?” Rory began. “The one I took the blame for?”
Isabel’s expression betrayed nothing.
“I was just curious if you have a reaction,” she said.
“Thanks,” Isabel said in a toneless voice. “Is that what you want me to say? Thank you so, so much for covering for me? And just so you know, I had no idea you were staying there. And I wouldn’t call it ‘your room.’ It’s the guest room. And you are a guest.” She turned back to the stairs.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I got kicked out of here, but I need to be here,” Rory said. “I’m sorry if you have a problem with that.”
“I don’t have a problem,” Isabel said over her shoulder. She stomped up the staircase, out of sight. A door closed upstairs.
Rory took a deep breath, clenching her hands into fists. For the first time she understood the impulse to punch something. This girl was terrible. She was a snob. She was spoiled. And she had absolutely no scruples, whatsoever. From now on Rory would do whatever she could to avoid her. She’d also try to convince Bianca and Fee that she wasn’t clueless, reckless, or immature enough to ask guys to sneak into her room, though she doubted that was possible now.
When she walked back into the kitchen, Fee was gone. She looked around at the shiny counters and glistening appliances and felt the sudden urge to flee. She needed some fresh air. And then she remembered the beach. She still hadn’t even seen it. We don’t stand on ceremony, Mr. Rule had said. And yet, she got the distinct impression that the staff at this house didn’t spend too much time sunning themselves on the Rules’ private strip of sand.
She walked out of the house, through the rose garden, and out onto the flagstone patio. At the far end, past the two pools and the line of chaise longues with spotless white cushions, an American flag snapped in the breeze. She walked toward the flag until the grayish-blue ocean came into view. Feeling excited, she followed a pathway of wooden planks that led over some grassy dunes, down to the sand. She slid off her flip-flops. She couldn’t believe how clean it was down here. No beer cans or empty suntan-lotion bottles or even footprints. And there was nobody in sight on either side. It truly felt like her own private island.
It was low tide. Tiny birds waddled in the wet, suedelike sand. A wave gathered momentum and crashed. She walked to the edge, and an icy span of water covered her feet. She turned and looked at the chimneys and dormer windows of the mansion next door, just visible over the dunes. Did that family ever come down to the beach? Did any of them ever get outside their own heads to notice any of this? Why did the Rules belong to a country club when they had this all to themselves? Someone like Isabel Rule obviously didn’t appreciate this house, but she wondered if any of the Rules did.
After countless minutes of staring at the ocean, she turned back. Bianca was probably looking for her. She climbed up the sun-warmed planks, feeling the burn in her hamstrings and a strong sense of defeat. No doubt Bianca was still going to be a little disgusted with her. She’d have to brace herself for another lecture.
When she arrived at the patio, she saw that it was no longer deserted. A swimmer cut through the surface of the lap pool, doing a perfect crawl.
It was a guy—that much she could see. Connor Rule, she thought. The swimmer. Had to be. She slipped on her flip-flops and set off across the flagstones, hoping to walk right by him. Then she heard the chime of a cell phone. She spied the iPhone lying on one of the cushioned chaises, right next to a fluffy towel and a burgundy sweatshirt. She looked back at the swimmer, still doing his crawl. Before she really knew what she was doing, she’d picked up the phone and walked back to the pool.
“Um, excuse me?” she called out. “Your phone! It’s ringing!”
The swimmer darted his head up from the water. Goggles looked back at her. “What?”
“Your phone!” she said.
He swam to the side of the pool, and she leaned over to hand it to him. But their hands didn’t quite meet. A moment later, there was a soft plunk. She watched his phone sink straight to the bottom of the pool.
“Oh my god,” she said.
Without a word, he dove down, retrieved the phone, and swam back to the surface.
“Oh my god… I’m so… I’m so sorry,” she said.
He didn’t hear her. With a splash of water and a ripple of triceps, the guy hoisted himself out of the pool and got to his feet. For a moment, Rory thought he was naked, but then she saw his navy Speedo. His very tiny navy Speedo.
“No worries,” he said, whipping off his goggles. “I was getting sick of it anyway.”
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “That was so clumsy of—”
“Really, don’t worry about it,” he said, running a hand over his wet hair. “I’m Connor, by the way. And you are—”
“Rory.”
“Right,” he said. He put out his hand, and she shook it, trying not to be too taken by his greenish-blue eyes. “My mom said you’re staying with us for the summer.” He tossed the phone on the chaise as if it was already forgotten and grabbed a towel. “How’s it going so far?”
The same nerves she’d felt in front of Steve were amplified a thousand times by the sight of blond, tan Connor Rule in his very tiny Speedo. “Good. Except for all the phones I’ve thrown in the pool,” she joked.
“Well, like I said,” he said, drying his shoulders, “you’ve just done me a big favor.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“It’s just nice to get a little break once in a while,” he said. “I don’t always like being reachable.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” she said.
“Oh yeah?” he asked. “Is there someone you’d like to avoid?”
“Sometimes, yeah.”
“So who’s that?” he asked, and he actually sounded as if he really wanted to know.
She thought about telling him the truth and then decided against it. “Nobody you know,” she said.
He smiled as he dropped the towel on the chaise. “My mom drives me nuts, too,” he said.
Rory laughed.
“So I was right, huh?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” she said. She felt the flutter of something electric and unsaid pass between them, a type of connection being made. This guy wasn’t just cute. He was funny and nice and easy to talk to. Almost on instinct, she stepped back toward the house. “Thanks for being so cool about the phone. I’m sorry again.”
“No problem,” he said, snapping on his goggles. “Next time I’ll make sure everything’s nailed down out here.”
She laughed again and then hurried back to the house, feeling like she was being watched. Turned out, she was.
“We need you to go to Dreesen’s,” Bianca said in a sour voice when Rory walked back into the house.
“Sure thing,” Rory said. “I’ll just get my bag.”
“And another thing,” Bianca said. “Staff aren’t supposed to be down at the beach after nine. Or on the patio.”
Before Rory could respond, Bianca turned and walked back to the kitchen.
