This Summer Will Be Different(26)

My gaze slunk down his body, snagging on the fly of his jeans. “If we do this, it’s the only time.”

Felix’s eyes blazed. But he didn’t reply.

“Wolf? We need to get it out of our systems, okay? Just this once.”

His chest rose and fell. “I’ll agree to that. I have one condition, though.”

I nodded, businesslike, but I was squeezing my thighs together. “Let’s hear it.”

He stepped into me. His lips drifted over my ear. “When you come, I want you to call me Felix.”

He drew back, opening my towel and dropping it on the floor. His eyes traveled the length of my body—the blush on my sternum, the curve of my breasts, the swell of my stomach and lower. He swallowed, then reached out, thumb brushing over a tight pink nipple.

We stared at each other for three long seconds, and then Felix’s mouth was on mine, his hands cradling my face. The kiss was urgent, demanding, and when I ran my tongue over Felix’s lip, a groan rumbled from his chest. I grabbed at the bottom of his shirt, pulling at it clumsily. His laugh tasted like salt and Tic Tacs. He tilted back, tugging the thing over his head. I saw the narrow trail of dark hair that ran over the smooth plane between his belly button and his waistband, but then his lips were back on mine, palms sweeping over my shoulders. He held them firm, then turned me around so I was facing the vanity. He swiped a hand over the steamed-up mirror, and our eyes met in the glass. We watched each other as he unfastened his jeans. I heard them hit the tile. I heard him open a foil packet.

His hand sailed over my rib cage. “Are you sure about rule two?” he asked, voice thick, fingers coasting down to my hip, my stomach. Lower.

“Right now, I have no idea which one that is.”

A knee came between my legs, coaxing them farther apart. “Are you sure you don’t want to do this again?”

A finger circled with the barest of pressure, and every nerve in my body assembled in the apex of my thighs. I closed my eyes. I felt swollen and heavy, and I wasn’t sure. Not at all.

“Positive,” I told him.

I felt Felix hot and hard against my backside as he pressed his lips to my ear. “I have another condition,” he said, circling again, just a little harder.

“Okay,” I breathed.

“Look at me.” His fingers halted. I opened my eyes, finding Felix’s in the mirror. “And hold on, Lucy.”





13





Now

Seven Days Until Bridget’s Wedding





Bridget is still in her room when I awake. I can hear her gentle snores through the door. When we lived together, she’d sleep in on weekends, and I’d sip my coffee to the tune of her little snorts. At first, I found her snoring hilarious, but after a few months, I stopped noticing it. The sound became the white noise of my Saturday mornings. I hadn’t realized it before now, but I miss that sound. I miss our routines. Her Sunday evening ironing sessions. Our weekly treks to my aunt’s house. Face masks, Thai takeout, and a movie—our Wednesday night plans for years. I miss the globby mashed bananas on toast she asked me to make for her when she was sick. So gross. I miss having someone to come home to.

I need a heaping dose of fresh air in my lungs and caffeine in my veins, so I fix myself a coffee and step onto the deck.

Felix is lounging outside with a mug of tea and a book, both legs flung over an arm of the chair, feet bare. He’s wearing track pants and a T-shirt, and another version of Lucy peels away from me and drapes herself on his lap. The part of my brain that screams more whenever I’m near him hasn’t faded overnight like I hoped.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were out here.” I turn to go back in the house.

“Stay,” Felix says, glancing up from the page. His stare is deadly in the daylight. He takes in my hair. I’ve let out the braids, and it falls in waves to just below my collarbone. And then my nightgown, which is sheer in the sun apparently. He swallows.

“I think we can handle being in the same room,” he says, voice rough from sleep. “Or on the same deck.”

Considering how we ended up pressed together in the bathroom last night, I’m not sure I agree. But it’s better if Felix doesn’t know that. So I curl into my usual spot at the end of the sofa and take a stab at normal adult conversation. I should be able to do this.

“What are you reading?” It’s not the same book he had at the airport.

Felix holds it up. Pride and Prejudice. Is he kidding me?

“What?” he says.

If I didn’t know Felix, I’d assume he was setting a thirst trap. But he’s not aware his degree of hotness plus a Jane Austen novel is pornographic.

He swings his legs around and sits upright, facing me. He’s so comfortable in his skin. You can see it in the ease of his movements. I remember the second summer I visited the island. Felix wore his confidence like a white tuxedo—a highly visible flex. I’d wondered if it was something of an act. But there’s no faking the assured way Felix carries himself. There’s no art to it. He’s simply Felix. Genuine. Strong. True.

“You’ve read it before.”

“I’ve read it more than once,” Felix says. “I grabbed it when I was packing yesterday.”

“How was the thriller?”