Page 10 of Isla

“Fine,” I bite out, fanning my shirt away from my body.

He points to the laptop cradled in his arms. “I thought we could go over numbers sometime today and maybe even procedure if you have the time.”

“What time is it?” I ask, completely turned upside down. This morning could have been thirty minutes or eight hours.

Dylan pulls his phone from his pocket. “Almost 9:30.”

Fuck. I normally finish up at the gym right about now. “Meet me at the pub in an hour?”

"Do you want to drive together?”

“Are you going to stay the whole night?” I ask, realizing I have no clue how this arrangement will work now that I’m not the one taking the bar over.

“Areyou?”

I sigh. “I guess we probably have a lot more to talk about than numbers and procedure, don’t we?” Henry chooses that very inopportune moment to appear in the doorway, averysmall towel the onlything covering him. My gaze dips below the hem of his towel, taking in the perfection of his thighs. Fucking hell. I clear my throat. “This is NOT what it looks like,” I tell Dylan, taking a step away from Henry.

“Of course not,” Dylan says, pressing his lips into a hard line. I panic, thinking he's disappointed, but then I see the wink he throws Henry. What the hell?

“I’ll meet you up at the house in an hour,” I tell Dylan, watching him walk up the path until he’s almost at the house before I spin around to give Henry a verbal lashing.

“I thought we were going to the gym,” Henry asks before I can start my lecture. He's holding the towel loosely, and I'm having a tough time not focusing on how it dips–

"Isla?"

My gaze snaps up to his, and I clear my throat. “Can I get a rain check?”

“Sure. Speaking of the pub, what's the slowest time of the day?”

“Around three, usually.”

“Perfect. I have a meeting at the visa office in an hour, but if I get done early, maybe the four of us can hammer out this agreement today. I want to make sure we’re all happy with it.”

“Fine. Now please go get dressed.”

“Anything for you, my prickly pear.” He turns and saunters into the cottage. I watch slack-jawed as his muscles shift with every step, and fuck if I don’t want to trace them with my fingertips. With my tongue. With my teeth. This summer is going to kill me.

5

Ishoo Henry out of the cottage the second he’s dressed, not trusting myself with him for a moment longer. My body is in overdrive. These are three men I shouldn’t be able to stand to be around. I should hate them, just like Henry said. But now I have a total infatuation with Henry. And I wasdisappointedwhen I thought Dylan was upset over Henry being naked in the cottage. Why should I even care what Dylan thinks? I barely know the man! And then there was last night. Planting the sunflowers with Theo was—well, it wasn’t awful. I still don't like him, but I can’t stop thinking about him. I give myself a pep talk in the mirror as I’m getting ready, reminding myself that these menstolethe pub right out from under me and then refused to sell it back to me. Theo’s explanation niggles at the back of my brain, but I ignore it. I need to stay emotionally detached. I need to become the Ice Bitch of Harris.

Smirking, I pull my hair into a ridiculously messy bun—I should be embarrassed, honestly. I wiggle into ripped black jeans, an old ripped band tee, and my jacket, running back to the bathroom at the last second to fasten my biggest pair of gold hoops to my ears. I sit on the couch and lace up my trusty boots. This pair has been with me for three years, but I’ve been wearing the same style for ages. They’remy safety blanket. All I need to do is look down at them to feel like a bad bitch. Although anyone who knows me knows that if my shoes matched my personality, I’d be wearing Dorothy’s red sparkly slippers. I snort at the thought. I debate between my car or the motorcycle on the way up to the house, but I don’t think I have the guts to make Dylan sit behind me on the bike. Arms around my middle. Chin on my shoulder. Thighs–I pull myself out of my daydream when I see Dylan waiting for me by the garage.

I thought he was kind of dorky that first night in the pub, but that first impression was horribly wrong. He’s dressed in all black, slim jeans and bomber jacket, making him look like he just stepped out of a cologne commercial. He’s wearing his glasses, but whatever the opposite of nerdy is, they’re that.

“Hey,” he greets me softly, a huge smile on his face.

“We’re twinsies,” I laugh.

“I like it.” His gaze sweeps down my body and back up, catching on my lips.

Sweet baby Jesus. I’m in so much trouble.

“Everything okay?” he asks, studying my face.

“Yeah, just having an existential crisis.”

“Do you do that often?”

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