Page 20 of The Wrong Move

I suck in a breath. “The school game when you missed the foul that would have put us in the finals for a second year running.”

His face falls. “Why were you thinking about that game? It was my worst moment.”

He doesn’t get it. “It’s when I was closest to you. When you started opening up to me, and we started to talk to each other. Really talk.” We were friends first.

He stares at me for a moment too long, then shifts his focus back to the painting. “So I can keep this?”

“It’s all yours.”

“Good, because this reminds me of a time when I thoughtweunderstood each other.” He walks over to me and takes my hand in his. “We had some good times, Gi.”

“We did,” I murmur. His beautiful blue eyes hold mine captive, and I sense he’s going to kiss me.

“Why don’t we head down to the beach for a swim this afternoon?”

“Sure,” I say without thinking. “I can meet you there. I need to do a little more to this piece before I finish for the day.”

“I can swing by around four? Does that work?”

“It works fine.”

He tucks the beach painting under his arm. “See you then.”

After he leaves, the realization hits that Byron hasn’t seen me in a bathing suit since high school. I’ve changed in more ways than one. Genetics hasn’t helped, but I also fell in love with Italian wine and pizza.What the hell was I thinking?

A minute before four o’clock,Byron pulls up out front.

I kiss Mom on the cheek. “I’ll call you later.”

“Will you be back for dinner?” Her eyes tell me she doesn’t expect me to be.

“Maybe not. Bye, Dad,” I call out. I’m out the door before Byron reaches the garden gate.

“Your garden is stunning.” He opens the door of his black Porsche for me.

“It is. My dad spends countless hours pruning and nurturing.” I wave to my mom, who is peering through the blinds.

“Your dad has retired? He looks so young. Mine is retired, but I have a brother twelve years older than me.”

“He has the beginnings of dementia. He had to retire in my second year of college.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

I stare out the window at nothing in particular. “It’s fine. We didn’t stay in touch.”

“For that, I’m also sorry. There are no excuses for my behavior other than being selfish and loving the limelight.”

“I also know the real Byron.”

“You’re one of the few people who do.”

It’s why we clicked. I didn’t have many friends at school, and neither did Byron. We formed our little group and kept to ourselves. Byron trained on the courts every lunchtime and sometimes before and after school. He was never a main player until the last three years, and that’s when he stepped up as he wanted a college basketball scholarship. He could have gone to any college based on his grades, except he hated being the smart geek. He wanted to be recognized for his basketball talent, something I remember his father not being happy about.

Byron finds a parking space, and we grab our bags and walk the path to the sand. We find a spot on the crowded beach to spread our towels. Byron removes his T-shirt, and I can’t stop ogling his abs. I force my eyes away only to notice the teenage girls surrounding us also ogling him and whispering.

Oh shit. They recognize him.

I sit on my towel, leaving on my top and sarong.

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