CHAPTER 7
CASSIE
The Hartley twins live in a Low Country–style beach house with a huge front porch and not a neighbor in sight. It isn’t at all like my grandparents’ house, which was built in the last couple decades and has a more modern feel. This is a house that’s been in someone’s family for a hundred years. Old, rambling, and oozing charm, a testament to time and the elements. The roof looks new, however, and the covered porch has clearly been painted recently, hinting that the residents are in the process of upgrading.
The front door creaks loudly when Mackenzie opens it to let me in. “Hey!” She looks delighted to see me. “You made it!”
“Thanks for having me.” I awkwardly fiddle with the belt loops of my denim shorts. Despite my mother’s negging earlier, I’m wearing a cropped T-shirt that shows a sliver of midriff, and black flip-flops that Mackenzie tells me to leave on.
“We’re going out back,” she says, leading me through the living room and country-style kitchen toward a set of glass sliding doors.
Out back is a massive deck that overlooks the ocean, with a winding, wooden staircase that goes down to the sand. The view alone is worth a million dollars, and my eyebrows soar as we step onto the deck.
“Whoa,” I remark. “That view is sick. I’m surprised developers haven’t tried to snatch this place up. Build a little condo community or something.”
“Oh, they’ve tried, but we’re never selling,” Cooper Hartley says, appearing behind us. He steps out of the kitchen, shirtless, barefoot, and clad in red swim trunks. He’s sporting two full sleeves of tattoos and rock-hard abs, and I get a little starry-eyed just looking at him.
Then I blink and a second Cooper appears to my left from the rickety stairs. Also shirtless, except this Cooper is wet, as if he’d just come from the ocean. His tall, muscular body drips seawater all over the deck floor as he strides up.
“Oh wow.” I glance at Cooper, then his twin. “You guys really are identical.”
“Nah,” the twin says. “I’m way better looking.”
“Bullshit,” Cooper argues.
Rolling her eyes, Mackenzie introduces me to Evan, Cooper’s twin, who flashes a sexy grin before disappearing into the house.
“Come on,” she says, touching my arm. “Everyone’s already on the beach.”
We head down to the sand, where several loungers and Adirondack chairs are arranged in a haphazard circle around the fire pit. The fire’s not yet lit since the sun hasn’t set, and it’s still so hot out that a bonfire feels almost redundant.
On one of the loungers, a platinum blonde sits in the lap of a guy who, even sitting down, looks massive. Six-five at least, with huge muscular arms that could probably bench-press everyone here. A gorgeous brunette in a black string bikini is sprawled on the neighboring lounger, scrolling on her phone, while another girl with a high ponytail and dusky complexion stands at a plastic table laden with drinks, pouring liquor into a tall plastic cup.
Mackenzie quickly runs through some more introductions. Table girl is Steph. The couple on the chair are Heidi and her boyfriend, Jay. The brunette is Jay’s sister, Genevieve, who also happens to be Evan Hartley’s fiancée.
That startles me. “You guys are engaged?”
“Sure are,” Genevieve answers. She narrows her eyes at me in a challenge. “And don’t give me that you’re too young BS. I hear it from my brothers on a daily basis.”
“You’re too young,” her brother grumbles as if on cue.
“I wasn’t going to say that,” I assure her. “It’s just so rare to find people who want to get married in their early twenties.”
“Well, I mean, we gotta tie that knot ASAP if we’re going to start pumping out kids. We’ve decided we want at least six. Isn’t that right, Hartley?” she calls up at the deck.
Evan appears at the railing above us. “Seven,” he calls back. “That’s my lucky number.”
“Do you want a drink?” Mackenzie heads over to the table, where I greet Steph with a tentative smile.
“Here, let me make you what I’m having,” Steph says, reaching for another plastic cup. “I’m experimenting with a new recipe. I picked up some of that vanilla-flavored vodka and I’m mixing it with raspberry lemonade. It’s either going to be vomit-inducingly sweet or the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted.”
“Can’t wait to find out,” I say with a snicker.
As I wait for her to mix the drink, I glance toward the deck, where the twins are laughing about something at the railing. I guess Tate isn’t here. Neither is the redhead from the party last week, I note. Alana. For some reason that triggers a tiny prickle of jealousy. What if they’re both gone because they’re hooking up again?
I ignore the tight knot in my belly and accept the drink Steph hands me. I’m thirsty, so I take a big gulp and it isn’t until after I’ve swallowed that I realize what I’m in for. The liquid burns a fiery path to my stomach and induces a bout of coughing.
“Too sweet?” she frets.
I gape at her. My eyes water as I let out a final cough. “I can barely taste the lemonade,” I squawk. “This is, like, ninety percent vodka.”
Steph grins. “So?”
“So I wasn’t expecting that. Jeez. Warn a girl next time.”
We rejoin the others around the unlit fire pit. Steph settles in one of the chairs, while Mackenzie and I share a lounger. I take a teeny sip of my potent cocktail. This time I anticipate the vodka burn and make a conscious decision to pace myself. One cup of this stuff is liable to get me sloppy drunk.
Mackenzie and her friends aren’t much older than me, yet for some reason I feel like a kid next to them. Maybe it’s because they’re all so gorgeous. Genevieve is basically a supermodel—long legs, toned body slick with tanning oil, sunglasses resting on her pert nose. Beside me, Mackenzie looks like she stepped off a yacht, a striped T-shirt hanging off one tanned shoulder and dark hair loose and cascading down her back.
Mackenzie glances at Genevieve. “Gen, so Cassie is Lydia Tanner’s granddaughter.”
“Oh, are you?” Gen exclaims. “I was obsessed with your grandmother when I was a teenager.”
“Really?” I laugh.
“Oh yeah. I used to see her around town all the time in those big sunglasses and silk scarves. She always wore a scarf, even in the summer.”
“She still does. It’s her trademark.”
“She was the most elegant woman I’d ever seen in my life,” Gen says wistfully. “I wanted to be her when I grew up, and it was my dream to work for her at the Beacon one day. Joke’s on me. Now I’m stuck working for this one.” She jerks a thumb at Mackenzie, but her sparkling eyes tell me she’s joking.
“You work at the Beacon?” I ask.
“I will be when we open in September. I’m going to be the general manager.”
“Wow. That’s a lot of responsibility,” I tell her. “I remember our old manager, this British guy. James De Vries. Grandma flew him in from London, after poaching him from some five-star hotel near Buckingham Palace. He always wore this navy-blue blazer with a gold—”
“—bowtie,” Genevieve finishes, snickering loudly. “Oh, I remember the man. Remember him, Heidi? Mr. De Vries?”
“Oh my God. Yes.” Heidi’s laugh is a bit evil. “We used to hop the fence into the pool area and try to steal people’s cabanas, and De Vries would appear out of fucking nowhere.”
“And every time,” Gen picks up the story, “every damn time he’d greet us with this bland smile and politely ask if we were guests of his fine establishment, even though he clearly knew we were a bunch of delinquent teenagers breaking the rules.”
“He never chased us out, though,” Steph pipes up. “Dude was classy. He’d escort us out through the front doors, then watch us leave while giving one of those stiff Queen of England waves, all distinguished like.”
I laugh, totally picturing what they’re describing. James was the epitome of a well-mannered Brit.
“Meanwhile,” Genevieve says to me, snorting in amusement, “you were probably there legally, sunbathing poolside and watching us being marched past your lounge chair.”
“Actually, we never stayed at the hotel,” I admit. “Before my parents got divorced, we lived in a house on Sycamore. And after that, we stayed at Grandma’s house whenever we were in town for a visit. I would’ve killed to spend an entire summer at the Beacon.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” Mackenzie says cheerfully, “because you now have a room there for life. Free of charge.”
“No way,” I protest. “I could never accept that offer.”
“Seriously? I can,” Genevieve declares. “I totally want the free room.” She shouts up at the deck again. “Hey, Evan, we have a permanent suite at the hotel.”
“Nice,” he shouts back.
“Oh,” Mackenzie says suddenly, glancing at me. “I forgot, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yeah?” I shift self-consciously and take another sip of my vodka lemonade, aka vodka and a teaspoon of lemonade. I’m already feeling the alcohol, my blood buzzing from it.
“Beach Games is next month,” she says. “You’ve heard of it, right?”
“Yeah, of course. It’s a tradition.”
Beach Games is an annual event in Avalon Bay, where teams representing local businesses compete in, well, beach games. It’s a two-day affair, and I think there’re gift certificates and trophies in it for the winners, but most of the competitors do it for the glory. The honor of being dubbed Best Business on the Bay.
Last time I attended a Beach Games celebration was a few years ago, right before freshman year of college. I went with my dad, and we had a blast watching the various activities. The tug-of-war event that year got real ugly. I remember the old ladies from the bakery brutally heckling the dudes from the mechanic shop. I believe the phrase You’re going down, motherfuckers was uttered more than once. Afterward, Dad and I got ice cream and walked along the boardwalk. It was nice. Maybe he’ll want to go again this year.
“We missed out last year,” Mackenzie says, “but now that the Beacon is back in business we need to put together a team. Your grandmother and I were talking about it this morning and she mentioned nobody in your family ever competed in the Games. She thought you might like joining us on Team Beacon.”
“Me?” I say, startled.
She nods. “You’d be our fourth. Right now it’s me, Gen, and our activities director, Zale.”
“I’m sorry—Zale?” Genevieve’s brother guffaws. “That’s gotta be a fake name.”
“It’s not,” Gen says with a grin. “I questioned it too, so he showed me his birth certificate.”
“Those can be forged,” Jay insists.
“Zale is hilarious,” Mackenzie tells me. “You’ll love him.”
I’m still trying to wrap my head around the offer. “You really want me to be your fourth? Did my grandmother force you into this?” I ask suspiciously.
“Not at all. Like I said, she just mentioned it’s something you might enjoy.”
Apparently Grandma’s going to foist a friend group on me come hell or high water. It’s baffling. I mean, seriously. Why does she believe I’m an antisocial loser? I don’t know what signals I’m giving off to make her think I’m some tragic shut-in, but I might need to have a talk with the lady.
“All right. Then, sure,” I relent, because even if it was my grandmother’s idea, it does sound like fun. “I’m down for Beach Games.”
“How are your sandcastle-building skills?” Gen demands.
I mull it over. “Above par?”
She nods, pleased. “I’ll take it. Mac and I have a little wager going with the twins.”
“You mean the winners,” comes Evan’s smug voice, and he’s projecting some serious swagger as he descends the deck steps. Scampering at his feet is an eager golden retriever with a bright orange ball in its mouth.
Evan hurls the ball down the beach and the dog takes off like a rocket, paws kicking up sand.
“You haven’t won a damn thing yet,” Gen retorts.
“But we will.” He offers a broad smile. “Aka you will lose. Badly, and with no mercy from us.”
Laughing, I glance between them. “What are the stakes?”
“Well, I’m glad you asked, Cassie,” Evan says solemnly. “When we win, my beautiful fiancée here, along with my brother’s okay-looking girlfriend—”
Mackenzie gives him the finger.
“—will be serving us a home-cooked dinner…”
“That’s not so bad,” I tell the girls.
But Evan isn’t finished. “… in French maid uniforms.”
I bite back a laugh. The others do not display such tact. Jay, Heidi, and Steph are doubled over, practically howling.
“Nah,” Gen argues. “When we win, my smartass fiancé here, along with his obnoxious brother, will proudly be holding up signs advertising the Beacon Hotel on the boardwalk…”
“That’s not bad,” I say to Evan.
“… in neon-pink G-strings.”
I sigh.
“Yeah, no. Never gonna happen,” Cooper announces as he joins the group. He’s put on a shirt and is holding a beer.
Someone else follows him down the steps, and my heart skips when I realize it’s Tate. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, khaki shorts, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. For some reason his hair always looks a little windblown, pushed away from his face to emphasize his cheekbones. He’s so good-looking it makes my throat run dry. I try to remedy that by gulping my drink, remembering only at the last second that it’s basically pure vodka.
My coughing draws Tate’s attention. An easy smile curves his lips. “Ginger,” he drawls. “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight.”
I respond with a self-conscious shrug. “Uh, yeah. Mackenzie invited me. And stop calling me ginger.”
“I will when your hair is no longer ginger.”
“It’s copper,” I growl.
“You two know each other?” Mac’s wary green eyes shift from me to Tate.
“We’re neighbors,” I explain.
“Just for the summer,” Tate adds. He grabs one of the Adirondack chairs and drags it closer to our lounger.
“Oh right. You’re housesitting for the Jacksons,” Evan pipes up. “Fuck, I love that house. Remember the rager we threw there a couple summers ago?”
Tate makes a sardonic noise. “Oh, you mean the night you did body shots off Gen’s ass on the custom-made hand-carved coffee table Shirley Jackson had specially shipped from Denmark?”
Evan’s eyes glimmer as he winks at his fiancée. “That was a good night.”
Genevieve’s eyes are equally ablaze. “Such a good night,” she echoes, and the two exchange a sultry look loaded with so much heat I have to turn away. They might as well be having sex in front of everybody—that’s how potent their chemistry is.
“Yeah, well, there won’t be any repeat performances of that,” Tate warns his friends. “I had to pay for an army of cleaners to come deal with the mess you guys left behind. Never again.” He sips his beer, watching me over the lip of the bottle. “Has Mac given you a tour of the hotel yet?”
“Did that today,” I confirm.
“And Cassie just agreed to join our team for Beach Games,” Gen tells him.
“Oh yeah?” He cocks his head at me. “That officially makes us archenemies, then.”
“You’re competing?” I demand.
“Of course. Someone’s got to represent the yacht club. Plus, this is the twins’ first year competing, and I never miss an opportunity to kick their asses at something.”
“Is your uncle going to be on your team?” Steph asks the Hartleys. “Because I’d pay to see that.”
“We asked him, but he said no way in hell,” Cooper says. “So we’re using our foreman, Alex, and this guy Spencer who’s on the crew.” From his chair across the pit from us, he flashes a cocky smile at his girlfriend. “Be prepared to get murdered, princess.”
She presses one hand to her heart. “You’re so romantic.”
Cooper just chuckles.
The rest of the evening flies by, much to my surprise. But the conversation is lively and the various personalities are so entertaining that three hours pass before I know it. I’m having a great time. Mac’s cool. Gen’s hilarious. Heidi’s kind of bitchy, but after a while you get used to it. At some point Steph plants a fresh cup of vodka lemonade in my hand, while Evan and Cooper, who are literally identical from head to toe, start arguing about which one of them is better looking. And the entire time, I’m shooting sidelong looks at Tate and wondering how it’s possible for someone to be so hot. Like, criminally hot. Every now and then my gaze flicks toward his abdomen, because whenever he runs a hand through his hair, the bottom of his shirt shifts upward and I catch a flash of his abs.
God, I just want to lick him.
Annnd the second vodka lemonade has officially gone to my head.
In fact, my knees are a bit wobbly as I stand up and head for the drinks table. I rummage around in one of the mini coolers in search of water. I need to hydrate. My mind is too foggy with thoughts of Tate’s abs.
“Hey, neighbor.”
I jump at the sound of his deep voice. I didn’t even notice him come up beside me, but here he is, less than two feet away, a hint of a smile on his face.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. He brings his beer to his lips, taking a long swig. “You having a good time?”
Before I can answer, Steph shouts, “There she is!”
“Finally! Bitch, where’ve you been?” Heidi now.
I turn to check out the newcomer, faltering when I realize it’s Alana. She saunters up to the group, bright red hair loose around her shoulders, eyes gleaming from the light of the fire that Cooper lit about an hour ago. I don’t miss the way her gaze flicks toward me and Tate before focusing on her friends.
Gulping down some water, I move away from the table. Tate follows along beside me.
“Should I go introduce myself?” I ask, giving a discreet nod in Alana’s direction. I feel like I should, but she’s chatting with her friends and, what, I’m going to interrupt them just to say, Hello, my name is Cassandra, what’s your name, like some awkward fool?
“Nah,” Tate says to my relief. “She’ll make her way over here eventually.”
“Or she’ll avoid you because she thinks you’re pining over her.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not pining. And she knows me better than that.”
“So you’re over it?”
“I’m over it,” he confirms.
“Come on, you must still be a little into it,” I push, sneaking another peek at Alana. “She’s gorgeous.”
“The view’s not bad,” he agrees, nodding. “But neither is this view.” He slowly rakes his gaze down my body. Not even trying to hide the fact that he’s checking me out.
A part of me is now like, fuck, because I’d debated this crop top earlier and now I’m doing it again. Not only does it cling to my boobs, but it shows a lot more skin than I’m used to.
But another part of me really, really enjoys having those appreciative blue eyes on me.
“You’re staring,” I accuse.
“Yes.” He takes another sip of his beer. I wonder if he’s drunk. His eyes have a hazy shine to them that tells me he might be. But he’s not slurring or stumbling.
Still, I say, “You’re drunk.”
“No. Just buzzed.” He shrugs, a lazy smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “I feel good. You look good. Life’s good right now, Cass.”
I laugh. And then, because they’ve gone dry all of a sudden, I lick my lips.
He doesn’t miss that. “Fuck.” He groans softly.
My forehead creases. “What?”
“You licked your lips.”
“Yeah, and? They were dry. So I licked them and now they’re moist—oh my God, what a horrible word. Moist. Isn’t it horrible?” I shake my head in dismay. “I’m sorry I said the word moist.”
Tate chokes out a noise. A cross between a laugh and a sigh. “Man, I swear, it’s like you go out of your way to kill a mood.”
“What mood?” I ask, and my lips are suddenly bone-dry again. “Was there a mood?”
His shoulders quake with laughter. “Yes, Cassie, there was a mood. We were having a moment.”
I blink. “We were?”
“Well, I thought so.” Now he sounds exasperated. “In case you didn’t notice, I was about to kiss you.”