CHAPTER 4
CASSIE
“Do you think a six-year-old would like this?” I hold up a red T-shirt that features a purple unicorn riding a surfboard. “What are kids into these days? I have no idea what’s age appropriate.”
My grandmother’s laughter echoes between us. “And I do? I just turned seventy-four, dear. When I was six years old, dinosaurs still roamed the earth.”
I snort. “Seventy-four is not old. And you don’t look it anyway.”
I put the shirt back on the rack. I feel like the colors are too loud. When I saw the girls at Easter, they were both clad in pale pastels. Hmmm. But that could have just been an Easter thing. I know my stepmother, Nia, likes to dress them up for holidays. When I visited this past Christmas, they were in matching red dresses and cute mistletoe headbands.
Ugh. This is way too hard, which only highlights how little I know my half sisters. But I suppose that’s bound to be the result when their mother makes sure I spend as little time as possible with them. Hell, I bet if it were up to her, I wouldn’t even be joining them for the birthday celebrations next month. Poor Nia. She was probably secretly furious when her twin girls were born on my birthday. And, God, the irony of that … Dad’s new daughters born on the same day as his old one, effectively erasing me from his life and—
Silver lining! the voice in my head shouts before I sink any deeper.
Right. I draw an even breath. The silver lining of sharing a birthday with my sisters … One party instead of two. Consolidation is always a plus.
“I don’t know.” My gaze conducts another sweep of the rack of children’s clothing. “Maybe we can go to the board game store instead? The one next to the smoothie place?” Shopping for this gift has become surprisingly daunting.
Grandma and I exit the store and step into the oppressive July heat. I forgot how hot it gets down here in the summer. And what a total madhouse the main strip becomes. But I’m unbothered by both the sweltering air and the crowds. Avalon Bay isn’t just the quintessential beach town with its boardwalk, tourist shops, and annual carnival—it’s my home. I was born here. All my childhood memories are tied to this town. I could be gone for fifty years and that sense of familiarity, of belonging, would still be right here when I returned.
“When are you seeing your father?” Grandma asks as we head down the sidewalk. The air is so hot and humid that the pavement beneath our feet is practically hissing from the heat.
“Friday,” I answer. “I’m going over there for dinner. And then Saturday evening we might take the girls out somewhere. Maybe mini golf.”
“That will be fun. He wasn’t able to see you this weekend?”
Although there’s no judgment in her voice, I can’t help but come to Dad’s defense. “The girls had a whole bunch of birthday parties to attend. I guess their entire social circle is a bunch of July babies.”
And he couldn’t step away for an hour or so and take you to lunch?
Dinner?
Do the girls not have a mother who can watch them for a while?
Isn’t their bedtime eight o’clock?
All valid questions if she’d asked, but Grandma has more tact than that and knows my relationship with Dad is complicated.
In all honesty, I’m used to being an afterthought to him. For years now he’s made a concerted effort to avoid being alone with me if he can help it, grasping on to any opportunity to ensure Nia and the twins are there to serve as a buffer. I’m sure he knows I notice, but he doesn’t acknowledge what he’s doing and neither do I. And so it just keeps growing between us, this mountain of words I can’t say to him. It started off as a tiny little word hill and now it’s a peak of unspoken proportions. Thick with emotion and riddled with obstacles. Little accusations I’ll never say out loud.
Why didn’t you fight for custody?
Why didn’t you want me?
“Are you looking forward to seeing your sisters?”
I push the bleak thoughts away and paste on a sunny smile for Grandma. “I’m always excited to see the twins. They’re so cute.”
“Are they still fluent in French?” she asks curiously.
“Yup. Fluent in French and English.” My stepmother is Haitian and grew up speaking French, so she was adamant that her kids know her native tongue. It’s fun watching Roxanne and Monique converse in French. Sometimes, it’s Roxy speaking French and Mo answering in English, or vice versa, which makes for some hilarious one-sided conversations. I really do adore my sisters. I wish I got to spend more time with them.
Grandma seems to be slowing down, so I match my gait to hers. “You okay?” I ask.
We’ve been shopping for two hours. Not the longest time, but it’s also a hundred degrees out and she’s dressed in silk from head to toe. I’m surprised her clothing isn’t plastered to her body. I would be a sweaty mess. But Grandma is perpetually put-together, even when baking under the sun.
“I am feeling the heat,” she admits. She uncurls the scarf from around her neck and uses a pale hand to fan the exposed flesh. The sun continues to beat down on us. She’s wearing a wide-brimmed hat, but I’m hat-free despite our visit to the hat shop.
“Let’s just hit the board game place and then head home,” I suggest.
She nods. “That’s a good idea.”
We’re nearing the smoothie shop when a traitor appears at the storefront window. Joy taps on the window and waves at me. She holds up a finger to signal she’ll be one second.
“Oh, Joy’s coming out,” I tell my grandmother.
I take her arm and move away from the sidewalk to let a group of pedestrians pass. It’s a never-ending stream of people, Avalon Bay at its prime tourist peak. Families, couples, and groups of rowdy teens are already swarming the streets and filling the beach, and with the carnival having just been set up at the end of the boardwalk, it’s going to be even more packed in the coming weeks. I really missed this place.
Joy exits the shop sucking on the straw of her smoothie. She’s wearing a white minidress that complements her dark complexion, wedge sandals, and oversized sunglasses. Gucci, her go-to designer.
“I’m so glad I bumped into you,” she chirps, brown eyes shining happily. “I was literally about to text and see if you wanted to go out tonight.”
I mock glare at her. “Why? So you can bail on me again?”
She groans repentantly. “Argh, I know, I’m so sorry about last night.”
“What the hell was that about? You twist my arm into going to some townie’s party and then don’t even show?” I grumble.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, but her tone is breezier now, her remorse all but gone. Joy’s been flighty for as long as I’ve known her, and she doesn’t waste much time groveling. Once she apologizes for a sin, she moves on from it with lightning speed. “I left the club and was going home to change for the party, just like I texted, but then I pulled into the drive to find Isaiah waiting on my doorstep.”
Isaiah is the guy she’s been on and off with since we were sixteen. Last time she and I spoke, though, she swore she was done with that. I tsk with disappointment. “Please don’t tell me you got back together with him.”
“No, no. He was just dropping off a box of stuff I left at his place. And there were some photos in there that I’d printed out, so we started going through them, and one thing led to another and—cover your ears, Mrs. Tanner—we fucked.”
My grandmother barks out a laugh. “It’s lovely to see you too, Joy,” Grandma says, before reaching over to lightly pat my arm. “Cass, why don’t I drive back to the house and Joy can take over as your shopping companion?”
“Are you sure?” My brow creases. “You’re okay driving on your own?”
“I drove us here,” she reminds me, offering that dignified one-raised-eyebrow look that translates to don’t question your elders, dear.
I question her anyway. “Yes, but you said you were feeling the heat. What if you have sunstroke—”
“I’ll be fine. Go. You girls have fun. Sounds like you have a lot to chat about.” Eyes twinkling, Grandma leaves us to our own devices.
I watch her go, and her strong gait and straight shoulders ease my concerns. Sometimes it’s hard to remember what a tough broad she is when it looks like the merest breeze could knock her over.
“So what are we buying?” Joy asks.
“I wanted to pop into the board game store to find something for Roxy and Mo’s birthdays.”
“Wow, Nia’s letting you see her precious progeny on their special day?”
“Be nice.”
“Nah, that’s your job. You’re the nice one. I’m the raging bitch in this friendship, remember? That’s why we make a good team.”
It’s an interesting friendship, I’ll give her that. Whereas I met Peyton when I moved to Boston, I’ve known Joy since we were five. She was a summer girl, her family coming down from Manhattan every year to spend June till August in the Bay. We were inseparable as kids, but eventually drifted apart, not reconnecting until I was sixteen and visiting my dad for a few weeks. My sisters were barely two at that point, so Dad had his hands full and very little time for me. I ended up spending most of the vacation hanging out by the country club pool, where I bumped into Joy one morning and the friendship got a reboot.
“Yeah, and where was my teammate last night?” I demand. “I still can’t believe you ditched me. I didn’t know a single person there.” Which isn’t surprising, considering I could probably count the number of townies I know by name on one hand.
The summer kids don’t usually socialize with the locals. They travel in different circles, spending most of their time on expensive family yachts or at the country club, where I anticipate passing the bulk of my time this summer. In my future I predict a lot of lying around on lounge chairs and checking out all the hot preppy boys.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those rich girls who refuses to work. I’ve had part-time jobs since I was sixteen and just spent the last three years of college working as a barista. My work ethic comes solely from my father. Dad, who didn’t come from a filthy-rich family like Mom, always hammered the importance of good, honest work into my head. Grandma, however, refuses to let me get a job while I’m in the Bay this summer, determined to force daily quality time on me. I’m certainly not complaining, though. I prefer Grandma’s company to most.
“I heard it was a good time,” Joy says as we fall into step with each other. She sips her smoothie. “The guy who invited me—Luke? He texted earlier asking why I didn’t show. Poor boy was devastated.” She grins. “I totally would’ve hooked up with him too. He’s cute. But stupid Isaiah. I just can’t stay away from that asshole.”
“It’s a real problem,” I agree solemnly.
“You didn’t talk to anyone at all?” she pushes. “Not even the infamous Hartley twins? I think one of them was there.”
Okay, so I can name those locals. I’m pretty sure everyone, local and summer kid alike, has heard of the Hartleys. The two sinfully hot twins who used to raise hell around town. There was one rumor going around back in the day about a stolen goat, a stolen police car, and a joyride around the Bay that ended with one of the twins in the hospital for a concussion. But that sounds too ludicrous to be true. The tales of their numerous hookups, particularly with the Garnet College girls who arrive every September … well, those rumors I tend to believe.
“I didn’t see them,” I say, searching my memory. I vaguely remember a tall dude with dark hair and tattoos, but, really, that could have been anyone. “I did talk to one guy, though.”
“Ahh! Yes! That’s my girl. Who?”
“Tate.” I try to recall what Grandma called him this morning. Mr.… “Bartlett. Tate Bartlett?”
Joy’s jaw falls open. “Really? Oh, I know all about him.”
“You do?” I’m surprised. Like I said, aside from the occasional illicit tryst, summer kids and locals aren’t too socially compatible.
“Oh yeah, he hooked up with my sister last summer.”
“No! Shut up! Louisa?” For the sheer life of me, I cannot envision Joy’s older sister hooking up with anybody, let alone Tate. Louisa is as prim and proper as they come. I always assumed she was waiting for marriage. “What about her chastity belt?”
My friend snorts. “Someone found the key, and his name was Tate Bartlett. He’s an instructor at the yacht club, like that Luke guy. They’re friends.”
I still can’t wrap my head around Louisa and Tate. “How did that even happen? Him and Louisa.”
“She was feeling adventurous last year. Remember she was going through her awful platinum-blond phase? I texted you a pic of it.”
I nod gravely. “That did not look good.”
“No, it didn’t.” Joy twists the smoothie straw around with her fingers. “So, anyway, they met at the club, he asked her out, and they hooked up. Just third base, I think. Because, you know, it’s my sister. But I’m told he’s a major playboy.”
Not exactly a shock. Guys that good-looking usually have their pick of women.
Hearing he’s a player, though, does dull some of the Tate shine. “So he’s got a rep for being a sleaze?”
“Actually, it’s the opposite. Like, this man hooks up more than a celebrity, yet you won’t hear a bad word about him. Everyone who knows him or who’s been with him gets all starry-eyed when you bring him up. Starts gushing about how sweet and wonderful he is. And great in bed, of course.”
“Of course,” I echo, rolling my eyes. Inside, I’m a bit relieved to hear he doesn’t have a slimy reputation.
“How did you meet him? What did you talk about?” She links her arm through mine. “I want all the details.”
We spend the next hour in town, where I strike out on the girls’ birthday presents. I realize I’m going to have to ask Dad for suggestions, which feels like defeat. Joy drops me off at home and we make plans to return to the boardwalk later to catch some live music. She leaves me with the promise that she’ll grab me at eight and absolutely, one hundred percent not bail on me this time.
At home, I pass the rest of the day reading by the pool and texting with Peyton, then eat dinner with Grandma on the back deck overlooking the quiet bay. I offer to play cards with her afterward, but she wants to turn in early, so we part ways at the top of the staircase, Grandma heading to her room and me ducking into mine.
I always stay in the same room when I visit. Decorated in shades of white and yellow, the bedroom is spacious and airy, with hardwood flooring, a private en suite bath, and a big bay window with a built-in reading bench. Other than the antique desk and armoire, the main piece of furniture is the huge four-post bed that I toss my phone onto.
I need to take a shower, wash my hair, and find something cute to wear into town tonight. Operation Fling may have hit a snag last night, but if I’m serious about finding myself a passionate summer affair—and I am—then it’s time to kick that plan into gear.
Ideally, my super-hot and apparently very-open-to-hookups neighbor would be the one to have a fling with, but I’ve already had two opportunities to make a move, or at least ask for his number, and I’ve blown it both times. Therefore, putting all my eggs in the Tate basket probably isn’t a smart move. I need to be open to meeting other guys. Broadening my fling horizons.
And no better time to start than tonight.
I pull the elastic off and begin undoing my braid, wandering toward the window to preemptively close the curtains before my shower.
Then I freeze. My fingers go motionless, my half-undone braid forgotten.
From my window, I have a clear view of the house next door. And the window next door. The one that faces mine. And since the two houses are separated by mere yards, and there aren’t any trees on the side path that cuts between the homes, I am provided with a clear, unobstructed, perfect, glorious view of Tate as he undresses in the bedroom across the way.
My breath lodges in my throat.
He’s facing away from me, and I practically drool while I watch the sinewy muscles of his back ripple as he tosses his shirt aside. His shoulders are broad, arms well-sculpted. He reaches for the waistband of his swim trunks.
His shorts drop to the floor and I almost choke on my tongue.
Holy fuck. I knew he had a nice butt, but seeing it in all its bare glory is … otherworldly. I can’t take my eyes off it. I feel like a total perv, and I know if the situation was reversed and he was watching me change from his window, I’d be reporting him to the cops. But I’m frozen in place, unable to tear my gaze away.
Turn away, Cassandra.
Turn away.
Stop it.
My mouth has gone completely dry. His body is spectacular. Hard planes and lean muscles and long, tanned limbs all joining together to form one outrageously sexy specimen of a man. I’m breathing hard now. Heart pounding. Tate drags one hand through hair that appears a bit windblown, wandering around the room as if in search of something. Completely naked. Completely oblivious to the fact that his next-door neighbor is ogling him.
Then he turns toward the window.
And he’s not so oblivious anymore.
He’s visibly startled when our eyes lock. His brow furrows. Lips part, just slightly. I catch one brief glimpse of the full-frontal experience before I spin on my heel and dart away from the window. My heart rate is officially in cardiac arrest territory. He caught me looking. What the hell do I do now? What if he reports me or tells my grandmother—
My phone lights up.
“Oh my God,” I moan out loud.
I can barely walk over to the bed, that’s how weak my legs feel. My hand trembles as I reach for the phone. I grab it and dive into the bathroom, as far away from that damned window as possible.
On the screen, someone is trying to AirDrop me a note.
Tate B.
With a shaky finger I hit accept, and the note pops up.
I think we need to talk about this. —Tate
Underneath the message is his phone number.
I’m mortified. But I’m also not dumb enough to think we can sweep this under the rug and pretend I wasn’t watching him undress. And while I’m normally the type of person who runs screaming from all confrontations, this needs to be dealt with ASAP. Otherwise we’re in for a long, awkward summer.
I click on Tate’s number to pull up a new message thread.
Me: I AM SO SO SORRY. I swear I wasn’t spying on you. I was just standing at my window when you walked by and started stripping.
Tate: Uh-huh. I’m sure that’s exactly what happened.
Me: It’s true! I only saw you naked for like three seconds, max.
There’s a short beat.
Tate: Did you enjoy the show?
Me: Ew. No.
Ew no?
What the hell is wrong with me? This is why I’m single. Someone tries to flirt with me, and I respond with ew no. Clearly I have issues.
Me: I mean, I barely saw anything.
Tate: Come back to the window.
My pulse quickens again.
Me: No.
Tate: Just come back. I promise I’m not standing here with my hand on my dick or something creepy.
Wary, I exit the bathroom. As promised, Tate is not being creepy. He’s at the window, a towel wrapped around his waist, a phone in his hand. When he sees me, he gives a cheeky smile and raises his other hand. He’s holding a flashlight.
I narrow my eyes, which prompts him to start typing one-handed.
Tate: What’s Morse code for “peeping Tom”?
Me: OMG stop. I’m already embarrassed enough.
It occurs to me that instead of texting, we could just open our respective windows and call out to each other. Then again, sound travels on the water and I don’t want my grandmother hearing a second of this conversation.
Tate: Look. Cassie. I’ll be honest. You saw my ass. I think it’s only fair that I see yours.
I squawk in outrage. He can’t hear it, but he must know I made some sort of indignant sound because he grins widely.
Me: Absolutely not.
Tate: One cheek?
Me: No!
Tate: Fine. You drive a hard bargain. I’ll settle for your tits.
I know he’s joking. And I think if anyone else had said that to me they’d come off as a total perv. But there’s just something about this guy’s good looks and dazzling smile. No part of him gives off perverted vibes.
Still, I can’t reward him for that kind of talk. Don’t want to set a precedent or anything. So I walk to the window while typing a final message.
Me: You’ll just have to use your imagination.
Then I close the curtains.