Page 3 of The Guy from that One Summer
“Unique name, and for such a unique woman,” he says, lifting the bag, and I would respond, but he beats me to it. “Good heavens, what do you have in this thing? A dead body? And you thinkI’mthe one to fear? How do I know I’m not your next victim?” He starts to head to the house, and his questions make me laugh and feel a bit more at ease.
But I won’t let my guard down too much. He could flip in a blink. That’s what all crazy people do.
“It’s alcohol. I plan to be so drunk this week that I forget my own name. Feel free to join me.” The end of my response is meant to be taken lightly. I don’t really mean for him to come in and drink with me. But Finn, on the other hand, takes my words at face value.
“Sounds good to me.”
I stop in my tracks and look at him with narrowed eyes. Did he just invite himself in?
No, not really. I was the one who said something about it first. Foot, meet mouth.
Well, here we go.
He looks at me and nods to the door. “The door, daisy?”
“Remy,” I tell him, and he smiles.
“The door, Remy? I could use a drink, and we need to figure out what makes a woman drive to the Hamptons at night with a suitcase filled with alcohol. Sounds entertaining.”
I scoff and push past him, trying to ignore the way his thick arm feels against my thinner one. He must be six four, and I’m only five-foot five. It’s a drastic difference.
“You know what? You seem to have taken my invite in the literal sense, and I was just joking.”
“You thought that joke was going to end with me not wanting a drink? You offered, and I need details. Besides, daisy, you look like you could use all the company you can get.”
I roll my eyes. I’ve never been in the company of such a cocky man before. Stuck up, yes. Self-centered, most definitely. But never this cocky and self-inserting. Or is it just confidence?
“You’re just going to walk into someone’s home. In the middle of the night. Like some sociopath? I could be a crazy woman.”
“Really? I thoughtIwas the crazy one. I think I can handle you.” He looks me up and down, and I gulp loudly. I’m sure he can hear it. Because the way he looks me up and down, like I’m a meal, is intimidating, worrisome, and—dare I say—exciting.
“Jaw is on the floor, babe. Pick it up, and let’s get a drink.” He finds the switch and flips on the light, and that’s when it happens.
I am met with something better than I ever thought possible, a vision I couldn’t have made up in my head. He looks like the guys in movies who would eat you alive and spit you out. He has a fresh tan—either from the sun we get here in the Hamptons or wherever he’s visiting from—and his eyes are a stunning green. But his mouth… God, those lips. They are full and thick with a wall of white teeth behind them.
He’s tall with a lean yet muscular frame. His hair is short and a medium-brown color. He looks like he walked out of an Armani commercial. You know the ones—where they climb out the water, get on some expensive yacht in outline-revealing shorts as they slick their wet hair back.
Yeah, one of those men. An actual fucking dream boat. He looks me over and appreciates what he sees too, and I’m not too naïve to miss it. He stares at my face for a long moment, then slowly lets his eyes travel down the length of my body. I feel that perusal in every part of me. As if it’s a physical being and hits all my major nerve points.
“Um, let’s go to the kitchen,” I say, but before we do that, he opens the suitcase and grabs a few different bottles. The wine and vodka I brought as backup, and my beloved tequila. I need to say something else, but those are the only words that find their way out. I just let a stranger in my house, and he’s clearly enjoying the view.
As am I.
Which he obviously notices.
And now, I’m intimidated with a dash of anxiety-laced embarrassment.
I get into gear, moving toward the kitchen, turning on lights as I go, hyperaware of the situation. Feeling him look at my back side, I would be lying if I said I didn’t like it. And even while I’m freaking the hell out, I admit that—though I’m no seductress of any sort—I let my hips sway with more emphasis.
I was just left at the altar, and there is a hot god-like man in my house who has an Australian accent that could probably remove my panties by itself. No one is allowed to persecute me.
“So, what is your drink of choice?” I question, rounding the counter and facing him. Goddamn, that is a face I’d want to make a cozy yet orgasmic chair out of.
“Tequila,” he answers, pulling the bar stool out and making himself at home. Finn is the embodiment of self-assured, a man without pause, and I envy it. I alwaystryto throw caution to the wind, but then stop myself and think before I fall headfirst. What would it be like to feel so carefree, as if life is meant to be yours for the taking, risks be damned?
“Same. Straight? Iced? Margarita?” I lean over and reach across the kitchen island to grab one of the tequila bottles we set out.
“Straight, and only a little bit. I don’t want to get too drunk. Can’t have you taking advantage of me, Remy.”
