Page 170 of Holding On To Good

Oh, sure, at first it’d been fine. She’d hopped up onto the kitchen counter, her bare legs swinging against the lower cabinets, and scrolled through her feed, double tapping and leaving cheerful, complimentary comments and heart-themed emojis.

Until she came upon McKenna’s latest post.

The pic was of McKenna in a barely-there white bikini top and a pair of very short cutoffs, her back to the lake, the wind lifting the ends of her long, dark hair. The sun was setting over the water, the sky a blend of rich orange and brilliant red, the fading rays casting her in seductive shadows.

Making some early fireworks. winky face emoji, heart eyes emoji, #lakelife #summer #meandbae

Just in case a person was dumb enough to miss the extreme unsubtlety of McKenna’s comment and emojis—honestly, Verity was surprised she hadn’t added the eggplant and peach emojis—McKenna’s heavy-lidded expression and sly, pleased grin made everything crystal clear.

McKenna had just had sex.

Now, normally, Verity would’ve scanned the pic and given it a quick double tap because… good for McKenna and all that. Verity may be a virgin, but she was all for young women owning and exploring their sexuality in whatever consensual way they chose.

Except this moment in time wasn’t normal. It was surreal.

Actually, nothing about this entire summer so far had been normal.

And while she was honest enough and had enough self-awareness to realize the choices she’d made were partly responsible for that, she was also more than happy to lay most of the blame where it really, truly belonged.

At Reed Walsh’s feet.

Reed, with his dumb smirk and sexy tattoos and handsome face.

Reed, with the way he looked at her—with equal parts longing and fear. Like she was something rare and precious he shouldn’t want but did anyway.

Reed, who stood a few feet behind McKenna in the picture in a pair of faded jeans and nothing else.

Yeah. Not subtle at all.

Me and McKenna don’t date, he’d told her during their one and only text conversation. We hook up whenever one of us gets the itch.

Guess they’d had the itch last night.

Verity rubbed a hand over her aching chest. She was such an idiot—her new motto when it came to anything and everything Reed Walsh related. So freaking stupid to even be thinking about him.

To let it hurt this much.

She’d thrown herself at him at the lake two nights ago. She’d asked him to give them a chance. Had admitted that she liked him.

God, she’d practically begged him to kiss her.

And he’d rejected her.

You’re not worth it. Not to me.

Face burning with remembered humiliation, she stared at Reed in the photo. His hands were in his front pockets, his hair loose and wild as if the wind—or McKenna’s hands—had mussed it. His head was tipped back slightly and that same wash of sunlight that backlit McKenna touched him with a warm glow. Illuminating his bare chest and torso. Turning his skin a burnished gold, softening the ink decorating him.

As always, his expression was hard. Unreadable. There was no satisfied smile on his handsome face. No lingering, relaxed post-sex contentment in the set of his shoulders. The line of his jaw was sharp. Tense.

He seemed… isolated. As if he no longer noticed the beautiful, half-naked girl he’d just hooked up with standing a few feet away.

Unlike McKenna, he didn’t look like he’d just gotten laid.

He looked lonely.

And since that thought deserved nothing short of a truly epic eye roll, Verity gave herself one.

He wasn’t lonely. Anytime he wanted companionship, all he had to do was snap his fingers and any number of girls came running, eager to give him an hour or two of sweaty, sexy fun.

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