Love Song(18)

I shove my sunglasses off my forehead and onto the bridge of my nose. It’s my only defense against the feral look I’m sure I’m sporting. It also lets me watch her apply sunscreen without coming off like I’m openly ogling her as she rubs the cream all over her arms, her collarbone, her stomach, between her tits— Stop looking.

Right. Gulping, I unzip my backpack and rummage inside for my songbook until my fingers collide with the worn leather cover. I need to focus on something other than Blake’s tits. She’s too young for me.

She’s twenty, reminds a voice in my head.

True. And turning twenty-one soon—her birthday is in July. So no matter how much I want to keep viewing her that way, she really isn’t a kid anymore.

Neither am I for that matter. I’ll be twenty-five this fall. Which raises the question: What the hell is up with time? I feel like only yesterday, I was eighteen, telling my parents I didn’t want to go to college and that I was moving to Nashville to launch my music career. Then I blinked and it’s six years later, with no career in sight. Sure, I make a living gigging. I get a decent number of streams on the music platforms and tons of hits on my video channel. But I’m not playing sold-out stadiums or winning Grammys, now am I?

My mom won her first Grammy when she was twenty-five.

I hate that my brain always harps on that fact. I always have to remind myself that Mom’s musical journey isn’t the typical one. Most people don’t land a job with a huge producer right out of college. They don’t get the opportunity to work on an up-and-coming hip-hop artist’s album. To write and produce the hit song that would go on to sweep every awards show that year.

My mother is talented beyond belief, but she also got lucky. Other songwriters don’t have such an easy time of it. Case in point—me.

The irony is I could have it easy. But the one thing I’ll never do is use my mother’s connections to advance my career, even as everyone around me insists I’m a fucking moron not to.

Our boat starts rocking a bit harder. I hear an engine, followed by a wolf whistle that skitters across the water toward us.

“Is that you, Wyatt?” chirps a female voice.

The sleek white speedboat gets closer, revealing three older women in big sunglasses and floppy hats. They’re all wearing skimpy bikinis and all displaying some impressive curves.

Squinting behind my Ray-Bans, I hide a grin when I recognize Liz Brown. She owns a house nearby.

“Hey, Mrs. Brown,” I call out.

“Honey, what did I tell you about calling me Mrs. Brown? It’s Liz.” She lifts her sunglasses to her forehead and peers into our boat. “That’s not Gigi, is it?”

“No, it’s me,” Blake tells our neighbor, waving awkwardly. “Blake. Hi, Mrs. Brown.”

“Blakey? Oh my God. Look how gorgeous you are.” Turning back to me, Liz offers an impish smile. “We’re up here for the week. Girls’ trip—”

“Girls’ trip!” her friends whoop, waving around their plastic wine goblets. It’s obvious they’ve been drinking for…a while.

“But you know you’re welcome anytime, Wyatt,” Liz finishes. “Stop by for a glass of wine.”

“Thanks,” I say noncommittally. “I might take you up on that.”

“You do that, honey.”

I’m grinning as they speed away, their wake sending a sheet of mist into our boat.

“You’re welcome anytime,” Blake mimics.

I glance over. “Jealous?”

“Yes, Graham, I’m jealous that you’re banging women twice your age in Tahoe.”

“Hey, I don’t think she’s even forty.”

“Didn’t deny the banging part…”

“One time. Ages ago.”

“But you never forget your first cougar, right?”

With a laugh, I pick up the tube of sunscreen she left on the chair and flip open the cap. I’m about to squeeze some into my palm when from the corner of my eye, I see her delicate fingers undoing the hot-pink strings at her back.

The two triangles slide loose and—

Plop.

“That’s a lot of sunscreen,” she remarks.

I stare down at my hand to find I’ve squirted nearly half the tube into it.

Jesus Christ.

Don’t fucking look, I tell myself.

Out loud, I direct a sharp order her way, keeping my gaze firmly at eye level. “Put your top back on.”

She eyes me like I’m the crazy one. “No. I told you I want to tan.”

“Do it in your bathing suit.”

“I don’t want tan lines.”

I have no idea how I’m managing to engage in conversation when her bare tits are in my face. Despite my valiant efforts, my gaze dips for a second.

I knew her nipples would be pink.

When I lift my head, she’s smirking like a brat.

“I’m not kidding,” I warn.

“Oh, I know. Neither am I. The top stays off,” Blake says airily. “Deal with it.”

“You’re impossible,” I mutter, staring intently at my feet. I’m worried that if I let myself look one second longer, even just at her eyes, I’ll lose every ounce of restraint I’ve built over the years of pretending I don’t see her.