CHAPTER 3
TATE
It takes a second to realize the cute redhead on the porch is the same one from the party last night. She was right—her hair is more copper than ginger. I guess the bonfire made it appear lighter. My gaze then darts to her chest, just a quick peek to confirm I hadn’t fallen into some teenage-boy fantasy yesterday. But nope, didn’t dream it. Her rack is objectively spectacular. Sue me for noticing. I’m a man. I always notice a great rack.
She’s wearing a short sundress that falls mid-thigh and clashes with the red-painted toenails poking out of her strappy sandals. And she’s staring at me as if she’s not quite sure what to make of my presence.
“Mr. Bartlett, what brings you here this morning?”
My gaze shifts to the older woman next to Cassie. “Morning, Mrs. Tanner.” I flash an easy smile that my friends tell me could disarm a dictator. Not that Lydia Tanner is a dictator. She’s a perfectly nice lady, based on the interactions we’ve had when I was housesitting the place next door. This is my fourth summer staying at Gil and Shirley Jackson’s luxury waterfront property. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks.
“Just wanted to stop by and let you know I’m watching the Jackson place again for the summer,” I tell her. “So if you see lights on at random hours, or, you know, handsome guys walking around in the nude, don’t be alarmed … and feel free to keep looking.” I wink.
Cassie snorts out a sarcastic laugh.
“Cassandra,” Lydia chides. “Let the boy think he’s charming us.”
“Think?” I mock good-naturedly. “You know you love me, Mrs. Tanner.”
“As I told you last year, you can call me Lydia. This is my granddaughter, Cassandra.”
“Cassie,” she corrects.
“Actually, we met last night,” I inform Lydia. “Ran into each other at a party. How’s it going, ginger?”
“Do not call me that.” Cassie glowers at me.
Lydia turns to her granddaughter. “Well, there you go, dear. We were just discussing your lack of friend options, and look, now you’ll have a friend right next door. And he’s already given you an amusing nickname! This is wonderful.” She reaches out and pats Cassie on the arm, as if placating a distressed puppy.
Cassie’s cheeks redden. “You are the worst,” she grumbles at her grandmother.
Chuckling, Lydia descends the steps of the wraparound porch. “I’ll go start the car.”
“She said that on purpose just to embarrass me,” Cassie mutters. She narrows her eyes at me. “I have friends.”
I blink innocently. “Sure sounds like it.”
“I have friends,” she insists, a growl coming from the back of her throat.
I choke down a laugh. Fuck, she’s cute. Like, ridiculously cute. I have a thing for chicks with freckles. And ones who blush when I smile at them.
“Does that mean you don’t want to be my friend?” I ask, eyeing Cassie in amusement.
“Friendship is a huge commitment. We should probably just stick to being neighbors. But you’re in luck, because that means we can do lots of fun neighborly things.” She pauses. “I’m not quite sure what. Maybe stand at two windows that face each other and use flashlights to send Morse code messages?”
“Is that what you think neighbors do?”
“I don’t know. My dorm window looks out at a brick wall, so nobody’s sending any covert messages to me, unless you count the drunk frat boy who always gets lost on his way to Greek Row and stumbles around shouting that the moon isn’t real. And I’m not friends with any of the neighbors at Mom’s house in Boston. Not that you and I are friends. I mean, I don’t even know you. We’re total strangers. Although, I did see you get dumped, which was equally upsetting for both of us, and that kind of shared humiliation leads to a forced kind of intimacy that nobody should ever have to experience—” She cuts herself off. “You know what? I’m just gonna go. Grandma and I are going into town. Goodbye, Tate.”
My lips twitch in a difficult attempt to suppress a grin. “Uh-huh. Cool. See you later, neighbor.”
She huffs, and my smile springs loose as I watch her march off. My gaze lowers, resting briefly on her ass. Damn, a great rack and a great ass. She’s on the shorter side, though. I’ve always been drawn to taller girls. At six-one, I don’t want to break my neck bending down to kiss someone. Cassie’s five-two, five-three tops, but something about the set of her shoulders and the way she walks gives her more stature. And she’s funny. A little strange. But funny. I was already looking forward to these next eight weeks at the Jackson house. Having Cassie next door for the summer is the icing on an already delicious cake.
The white Range Rover heads for the end of the circular driveway with Mrs. Tanner behind the wheel. I watch it disappear, then head next door. Because the homes on this stretch of the waterfront are situated on a slope, there isn’t a lot of space between the houses, at least not on the street-facing side, which means you’re always seeing your neighbors. But the high, westerly location also means spectacular views of Avalon Bay, and unparalleled sunsets.
The Jackson house took a few hits in the last storm, but Gil instantly hired a contractor to fix it up and a landscaper to haul out all the fallen trees and debris. All that remains now are the moss-draped oaks and other mature trees that have stood strong and proud for decades. The property is loaded with charm. It blows me away every time I stay here.
I step through the graceful white columns onto the covered porch and let myself in through the front door. Inside, I give the immaculate main floor a long once-over. I always get paranoid housesitting this place, afraid of breaking something priceless or spilling beer all over their expensive rugs. I wander into the chef’s kitchen toward the longest island I’ve ever seen. My fingertips skim sleek oak, painted a nautical blue. The housekeeper, Mary, was here yesterday, so everything is clean and dust-free. The smell of lemon and pine mingles with the familiar salty scent wafting in from the back doors. The first thing I did when I got here was open the three sets of French doors that make up the entire rear wall of the living room. My mood is always a thousand times better when I can smell the ocean.
My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket to see a message from my mother.
Mom: All settled in?
I tap out a quick response.
Me: Yup. Unpacked and ready for two months of freedom. You guys were really cramping my style.
Mom: Yes, I’m sure all that home cooking was a real drag.
Me: Shit. Fine. I’ll miss that part. But Gil added a Fountain Lightning to his private fleet, so I think that might make up for all the greasy takeout I’ll be eating.
Mom: I’ll drop off some frozen lasagnas. Grease poisoning is no joke.
Me: How are my children? Do they miss me?
Mom: Well … Fudge just took a four-hour nap, and Polly just ate a bug. So I’m gonna say … no?
Me: Nah, sounds like coping mechanisms for missing me. You should let them sleep in your bed while I’m gone so they don’t feel lonely.
Mom: Sure won’t!
I grin at the phone. My parents are sadists who refuse to let our family dogs sleep in their bed. I’ll never understand it.
Me: Anyway, I gotta go. I’ll message you tomorrow.
Mom: Love you.
Me: Love you too.
I don’t care if it makes me the biggest loser on the planet, but sometimes I think my mom is my best friend. Hands down, she’s the coolest chick I know. And I tell her nearly everything. I mean, sure, I keep my sex life to myself, but there’s very little else I won’t confide in Mom about. Dad, too. In fact, I think he might also be my best friend.
Christ, maybe I am a huge loser.
Leaving my phone on the counter, I amble toward the French doors and peer outside. Beyond the stone dining patio, grill, and outdoor fireplace is a short wooden staircase leading to the upper deck. Beyond that is the path that takes you to the lower deck and the Jacksons’ long, private dock, complete with an electric boat lift and a covered pierhead. I focus my gaze on the end of the dock, admiring the two boats currently moored there. Gil’s prized Hallberg-Rassy, the Surely Perfect, is moored at the yacht club marina, but he keeps his high-performance powerboat and Boston Whaler Sport Fisherman at the house for the season.
A shiver runs through me as I gawk at the red-and-white powerboat. The Lightning. Christ, I’d kill to take her out, but she’s ludicrously expensive and I’d never dream of asking Gil if I could use her.
I seriously envy this man’s life. A real estate developer who’s worth millions, Gil owns several properties around the globe and pretty much an entire fleet of boats. He and Shirley are spending the next two months in New Zealand, where they’re looking to add another house to their portfolio. And, knowing Gil, another sailboat. Lucky assholes. Their life sounds like pure heaven to me—sailing around the world, exploring new places …
The sailing part, in particular, is what really gets my blood going. Being a part-time sailing instructor at the club doesn’t feel like enough to me; for years I’ve longed to be out on the water full-time, but that’s simply not feasible, not when I also need to put in the hours at Bartlett Marine, the family business. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a bad gig. And it’s always astonishing to see how much money people are willing to drop on their boats. But still, I’d rather be on a boat than hand over her keys to somebody else.
Since I have the day off—and Gil’s permission to use the Whaler and the Sea-Doos—I grab my phone from the kitchen counter. The weather’s perfect for a day on the water, and I scroll through my message threads trying to decide which one of my boys to text.
I’m pretty sure Danny, a fellow instructor at the club, is working today.
Luke should be home, but I have a feeling he’ll be too hungover from the party last night. When I left around 2 A.M., he was still doing tequila shots with our friends Steph and Heidi.
I’d ask my buddy Wyatt, our local tattoo artist, but things are kind of weird between us. Not on my account, though. I was just going about my business, hanging out with Alana here and there, when Wyatt broke up with his longtime girlfriend and suddenly decided he had a thing for Alana too. Next thing I know, I’m in a love triangle I never wanted to be part of, over a woman who doesn’t actually want either one of us.
I text Luke first, who responds without mincing words.
Luke: Bro, I’m so hungover. If I go out on the water I’ll puke all over your ugly face.
I try Evan Hartley next, though I’m pretty sure he told me last night that he and his brother Cooper were at one of their construction sites today. I message him anyway, because he’s the twin more likely to shirk his responsibilities and go day-drinking on a boat with me.
Evan: Can’t. We’re so fucking behind on this stupid job.
Damn. Guess I’m on my own today.
Evan: But we’re grabbing beers with Danny later. Rip Tide. Around 7. You in?
I quickly shoot off a response.
Me: I’m down. See you there.