Page 3 of Crushed By Love

As if hearing my thoughts, his eyes snap in my direction. My chest burns and I sink further into the darkness. He can’t see me, can he? There’s no way, it’s too dark out here. But his gaze stays pinned to where I stand and I begin to doubt myself. Could he be watching me watching him? With looks like those, he’s probably used to all eyes being on him, but right now, he’s staring at me. I swallow hard but I don’t turn away, not now that his face is trained in this direction, and not a moment later when the woman kisses the tanned column of his neck.

“You don’t have to watch the fun from back here,” a gravelly voice chuckles, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

A man approaches from behind, car keys in one hand and a case of beer in the other. His brown hair is long enough to hang around his chin, with just enough curl that I have the sudden urge to sink my fingers into it. His midnight eyes travel over me with mild interest, the hint of a smirk playing at his Cupid lips. A blush spreads all the way down to the tips of my toes. Is being a ten on the hotness scale some kind of requirement to summer on Nantucket or what?

“You’re welcome to join us,” he says, tone criminally dark.

Is he inviting me to the bonfire? Or is he calling me out for watching the couple and inviting me to do the same thing with him? I don’t know, but I don’t say a word. Not because I don’t want to say anything, but because I physically can’t. My throat is empty and my mouth is as dry as the sand between my toes. Did I trade my voice to a sea witch in exchange for a place here and just forget about it? Because I seriously cannot utter one word.

But maybe that’s because I’m inexperienced in every way. He’s out of my league. I’m not wealthy. Not beautiful. Not outgoing. Too young. Too mortified. And definitely too chicken shit to take this handsome stranger up on his offer.

“Or maybe you like to watch,” he continues with another low chuckle. “I’m not into voyeurism personally, but suit yourself.”

And then he’s gone, invitation revoked, walking away from me and toward the bonfire as if I were nothing but a shadow.

Story of my life.

Hands. Teeth. Tongues. Skin. My eyes fly open and I suck in a heady breath. My entire body is vibrating. A prickle of shame overtakes me when I realize that I was dreaming of sex. The kind with zero inhibitions, like I was made for it and actually knew what I was doing. Part of me wants to sink back into sleep and continue where I left off, to slip my fingers between my legs, but instead I sit up and blink at the bedside clock.

It’s 4:45 a.m. I’m awake an hour earlier than needed. I’ve planned to do a thirty-minute run every morning since running is the only thing that clears my mind. Normally I’d go for an hour but I don’t want to wear myself out too much before working. Then I’m going to shower and get dressed, have a quick breakfast, and start work by 7. It’s the only way I’m going to finish work in time to have any kind of social life in the evenings—once I make some friends, of course.

I rub my face, already feeling the frustration tugging at my eyelids. Frustration because I’m still so tired, and frustration because I want things that I haven’t allowed myself to want before.

I’ve never come close to having sex, which didn’t bother me up until now. In high school, the other girls were either racing to lose their v-cards or holding onto them as if they were precious gifts, but I was hiding mine. I didn’t want to lose it because I didn’t want anyone to get close to me like that. It didn’t matter how attractive a guy was, or how sweet, I refused to entertain the thought of anyone being able to hurt me. As far as I’m concerned, loneliness is better than abandonment. And sex? Sex is intimate. It’s letting someone in both figuratively and literally, opening yourself to heartache on the deepest level, and I’m not ready for that.

So where did that dream just come from?

And who was the man in the starring role?

He didn’t have a face, but his hands were possessive and his lips like crushed velvet. His movements were demanding as his body dominated mine, taking and giving in an addictive cycle. He knew exactly what he was doing. And somehow, despite my lack of actual real-world sexual experience, so did I. If I were a betting woman, I’d put a million dollars on my sex dream starring the man from the swimming pool yesterday. But maybe it was the handsome stranger who’d spoken to me on the beach.

I plop back onto the pillows and groan, clutching the sheets between my needy fingers. My breathing is still fast and my limbs are heavy with lust but I refuse to indulge in this anymore. It’s ridiculous. This isn’t me. I’ve never allowed myself to lust over complete strangers like I did yesterday, like I’m doing right now. Their images are currently a slideshow in my mind despite my pathetic attempts to extract them.

It’s a bizarre distraction and nothing but trouble.

I need to stay focused on the job. I’m already out of sorts here and I’m still baffled as to why I was hired when there must’ve been better candidates. But I’m determined to prove myself and make the most of it, if only for the sake of having a wad of cash and the ability to pay for a better phone and other necessities when I go to college in August.

I need to forget all about the beach bonfire and the bruising longing I felt as I watched the couple. In fact, I need to forget all about men in general. I can date when I get to college. Better yet, I’ll date after I graduate and have a few years to build my career first. That’s probably unrealistic, probably the musings of a shy and anxious girl, but it’s also the only way I know how to protect myself.

Right now, I need to work, so I get up early and begin my duties an hour ahead of schedule, pushing everything else from my mind.

That plan unravels not much later when I’m mopping the kitchen floor and a young woman prances in, her long stick-insect legs bare under an oversized men’s t-shirt and her shiny black hair a mess of sleepy curls down her back. She clearly didn’t have to dream of sex last night. She got to do the real thing. Looking past me, her eyes zero in on the state-of-the-art espresso machine that could very well belong in a Starbucks.

“Would you like something to eat?” Camilla, the chef, strides in from the pantry to address this barely-dressed woman, cans of ingredients stacked in both of her sun-spotted hands.

“I don’t usually eat breakfast.” The young woman yawns and motions to the espresso machine. “But I’ll take a cappuccino and you should already know Cooper’s order.”

“Of course,” Camilla replies, setting to work. She’s Italian and I can’t wait to see what she’s able to create in the kitchen. Based on the food she cooked last night, and the fact that such wealthy people have hired her, my expectations are high.

The young woman turns on me, her scrutinizing gaze roaming from the mop in my hand, to my simple outfit of jeans and white t-shirt, to my makeup-free face. “You. Be helpful and bring our drinks up to Coop’s room.”

Did she just tell me to be helpful while I’m literally mopping?

My jaw tightens and I blink at her, instantly disliking her for treating me like I’m her personal assistant. Do I look like Cinderella? I’m hoping this isn’t what I signed up for, but Mrs. King did say I was to take care of whatever the twins needed, and this girl is clearly sleeping with one of them. I guess today I’m their housekeeper and their coffee delivery service. Not a big deal if I don’t make it into one, except now I have to officially meet them and that makes me want to crawl into a hole.

The woman is staring at me like she expects me to say something. “What’s your name?” Her eyes narrow, scanning me like I’m the competition, which is ridiculous considering she looks like she just strutted off a 2000’s Victoria’s Secret runway. “You’re not the old hag they had cleaning last year. Too bad, she was good.”

Old hag? I have no words for that.

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