Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Once our other friends arrived, we added pot, sex, and louder music to the mix, and I became an expert on mixing strong margaritas.
It was heaven on Earth.
Until Kit showed up.
“Robbie, may I have a word?” His calm, cool voice calling across the kitchen startled me so much I almost dropped the blender jug on the marble countertops.
“Kit!” I squeaked. “You’re here.”
His eyebrows rose, but otherwise, his expression remained neutral. “A word. In my office, please.”
He didn’t wait for a response, only turned around and made his way down the hallway that led to his private rooms, a part of the house that was strictly off-limits and I’d only ever seen once, despite visiting the Rabbit Island house many times over the years.
“Shit, man,” Deke said as I walked by the sofa, where he lay draped over his girlfriend, Hilary. “You in trouble with the old man?”
“Definitely not,” I said, acting more sure than I was. “He’s not my dad. And he said I could have a house party with everyone to celebrate graduation.”
In fact, Kit had been the one to encourage me to let loose, to have some fun.
So why was he here? We’d adhered to all the rules about noise curfews and beachside lights for turtle nests, so what was the problem?
As I followed him down the dimly lit hallway and into his private office, the only thought in my head was that I wished I were a smidge more sober for this conversation. As it was, there were multiple tight asses in flawlessly tailored suit pants wavering in front of me as we walked.
When we got to the office, Kit turned to face me. “Close the door.”
I closed the heavy wooden door and stood with the cool, dark wood at my back.
Kit’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t speak at first. So I did.
“W-what’s the problem? Did I do something wrong?”
His face softened. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong. I brought you something.”
Excitement—unreasonable, disproportionate, and not entirely related to alcohol—bubbled through me. “Yeah?”
From the front pocket of his shirt, Kit drew a delicate turquoise glass bird, maybe an inch long, and set it on his broad palm. “I was at an interminably long business dinner in Vienna, and these were scattered around the table as decorations—which was possibly the most interesting thing about the whole tedious evening. But it made me think of you.”
I was probably about seven or eight when this tradition had started. Kit had given me a pretty seashell he’d collected on some foreign beach that had reminded him of how much I loved shell hunting on Rabbit Island.
I’d immediately declared, with all the confidence of a little kid, that this was a treasure. I’d even found a big glass jar to put it in, along with the broken wishbones I’d kept from my mom’s and my Thanksgiving tradition. After that, Kit would often bring me some small thing—a bottle cap from my favorite soda in a foreign language, a stone “perfect for skipping,” a poker chip embossed with the number 7, which was my jersey number back when I played soccer—to add to my hoard.
Kit poked the glass bird with one blunt finger, making it glimmer in the light. “See how its wings are unfurled? Made me think of my Magpie, spreading his wings so he can take on the world.”
I nodded… which had the unfortunate side effect of making the whole world waver like I was underwater. I leaned more heavily against the door. “Thanks, Kit.”
Kit laughed lightly, closing the bird away in his palm. “C’mere and sit down before you fall over.”
I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep breath, trying my very hardest to act sober. I walked soberly toward one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. Paused there… soberly. Then sat soberly in the chair… which unfortunately almost tipped over in a very un-sober way.
“Sorry,” I said to the chair, though it was clearly the chair’s fault.
Kit propped his tight ass—stop thinking of his ass, Robbie—against the front of the desk and crossed his arms. The way his business shirt was rolled up over his forearms was incredibly distracting.
“You have, um… professional arms,” I said, nodding toward them.
He paused. “Professional arms.”
I nodded. I’d said professional to keep from saying sexy. Professional was the opposite of sexy, so Kit would never know what I really thought. “Tha’s what I said.”
He sucked in a loud breath through his nose. “You’re drunk.”
“No! Not me. Not at all. I’m…” I scrambled for a word that would mean the opposite of drunk. “Professional.”
That didn’t sound quite right, but it was close enough.
He scraped his upper lip with his bottom teeth. “I see.”
“You said I could,” I said stupidly. “You said for me to go to the beach house and get…” I lost track of my thought.