Yeah, that seems like a majorly bad idea. Rays will strictly be enjoyed in their natural habitat. Take only pictures, leave only footprints.
I hurry inside Jake’s house, flip-flops slapping across the hardwood floor. The chill of the AC zaps my body from head to toe and I shiver, goosebumps breaking out down my arms. I hurry around the dining table and plop my big beach bag down on the kitchen island.
Jake has a great house. I mean, he should. He’s a megarich NHL player. Single with no kids, no obligations. He can afford an awesome house. It’s all sleek and modern, very masculine—earthy wood details, warm greys and browns in the sofas and leather chairs, with metal accents that give it an industrial vibe.
I can see little feminine touches, too, most likely added by Rachel. Blooms of flowers rest in vases on the table and island. There are throw blankets on the back of every chair and sofa. Rachel is cold-blooded, I swear to God. I’m always taking off clothes, while she’s always layering them on.
I don’t know what she’s thinking moving in here and hoping no one will notice. And I thought I had a major self-destructive streak. I smile, shaking my head. She can’t help but be who she is, and Rachel Price is lightning in a bottle. I’ve heard the little nicknames the guys use for her. Hurricane. It’s perfect.
She thinks she can hide in the shadows. She thinks people don’t notice her. Like, if she stays quiet and does her job and doesn’t make waves, she can avoid the spotlight forever. But who can ignore a hurricane? I saw that just today down on the beach. All the guys are pulled to her, even the married guys. And it’s not in a creepy way or a sexual way. You just can’t not notice Rachel Price.
Shifting through my beach bag, I pull out my towel and my swimsuit coverup. My flight leaves tomorrow morning, so I need to pop this all in the wash unless I want to bring half the beach back with me to Cincinnati.
I toss my beach hat on the counter and tug my aviators off too. Then I pad across the kitchen and move down the little hall that connects the laundry room out to the garage. Jake’s big black gear bag is in the middle of the floor, his hockey stuff hanging up in a kind of industrial sink area.
A musty smell comes from his bag that has me turning up my nose. I tug open the washing machine door, shoving my towel and coverup inside. Without hesitation, I slip out of my swimsuit too. It’s still a bit damp, so I have to peel it off me. As I do, a little sand falls onto my toes.
“Oh, gross,” I whine, letting my bottoms drop down around my ankles with a soft plop.
Then I undo the hook at the back of my top and shrug it off, wincing as the move stretches my sunburned shoulders. I glance down and break out in a fit of giggles. I’ve got tiny pieces of beachy seashells sticking to my tits.
Sand up my ass crack, crusty shells on my boobs. How does Ariel make this look so glamorous?
Snatching up both pieces of my swimsuit, I toss them into the washing machine and add a little detergent, turning it on. The machine beeps and clicks, door locking, as the tumbler starts to fill with water.
God, what time is it? My friend Charity is coming to pick me up at 5:00 p.m. She’s in town for some dental convention, and we’re going out for dinner in St. Augustine. We met in college, but I haven’t seen her in years. We lived in the same dorm our freshman year, and we both hated our roommates. So, we bonded over bitching about girls who snore and steal our face wash.
I hurry back towards the kitchen, both hands going up to tug my hair tie lose as I turn the corner. My phone sits on the end of the island by my beach bag. I kick my flip-flops off next to the stool as I snatch up my phone and my tumbler of iced tea. I tap the front of my phone and read the time.
4:17 p.m.
Dang, I’m cutting it close.
Taking a long drag from the straw, I sip my iced tea. God, it’s so good. Lemony and refreshing and so icy cool. The feel of the ice on my tongue chills the fire on my skin.
A rustling sound behind me has me turning, phone in hand. The door to the pantry is wide open. Before I can make a move, a man inches out, back still turned, with his hands full of six party-sized bags of chips.
Our eyes meet at the same time. God, his are so pretty, all bright and apple green. It’s Langley, the puppy from the beach who hit me with a soccer ball. Damn, he looks like he just walked off the set of a Frito-Lay commercial. His messy blond hair is windswept, and he has those tanned, cut muscles. Board shorts rest low on his narrow hips, showing off a white strip of skin. I want to lick it. I want to see how far down that pearly white skin goes.
My inspection lasts mere seconds before I’m looking back at his eyes. And that’s when I realize he just did the same thing to me. He just took in my full naked body, standing here in the middle of Jake Compton’s kitchen like I’m doing my own one-woman show: Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus.” All I’m missing is the clam shell to stand on.