Page 4 of Forever Yours
But the color creeping up her cheeks suggested otherwise.
Fine with me. Preferred, even.
Last thing I need is temptation tied up in a neat little bow.
Even so, that didn’t stop me from watching her jet out with her coffee. Or from clocking the bag she’d forgotten, her name scribbled across it.
Cami.
The dark-haired, blue-eyed smoke show I collided with two nights ago. I’d just arrived from Manhattan and gone for a jog along the beach when, out of nowhere, she barreled into me—naked, wet, beads of water dripping from her long, raven hair. As she stumbled back, I bracketed her waist to break her fall,and she peered up at me, starlight catching in stormy-blue eyes, sharp and bright. I’m not the guy who remembers eye color at first sight. But hers stuck. So did the perfect set of tits and the perfect ass I caught a generous glimpse of as she scurried inside, a snapshot of those curves playing on repeat ever since.
I scrub a hand down my face, cursing the fact that she’sstillin my head. Even hours later, I’m replaying her defensive, mouthy spiral, damn near biting my head off like I’m the villain in her reality TV show,The Real Drama of Crystal Cove.
My phone rings, hauling me back to the present.
Mont.
Sending it to voicemail will only make him call back a second later, so I answer on the first ring.
“You free for a quick one?” he says, bypassing small talk. “I’ve got eyes on a boutique fitness chain in Jersey. Solid growth, decent EBITDA, but something smells off in their lease structure. I’m sending over the docs. Need your take in a few days, if possible.”
“Yeah. I’ll take a look.”
Silence hums on the line before he casually spills, “You get laid yet, or what?”
I snort. “Not even close.”
Mont grunts like my recent dry spell is a character flaw.
“Well, don’t come back here till ya do.” His command is low and guttural, like a Mafia boss ordering his hitman to strike.
If I want casual sex, Manhattan has no shortage of hot-as-hell women. Besides, Crystal Cove—the small town for big-hearted families—isn’t the place for random hookups.
It is, however, an escape from the hell I’ve been living in.
A place to simply be.
And hopefully, by summer’s end, the image of my wife taking it doggie-style from a twenty-something fuckwad with pierced nipples and a neck tattoo will finally be erased from my memory.
“Not here for hookups.” I set my phone on the granite counter and hit speaker. “Just need a place to chill until she vacates the penthouse.”
“That two-timing witch is lucky you gave her three whole months. If it were me who caught my wife cheating?—”
“Ex-wife now,” I cut in, thankful my so-called marriage is finally severed after six brutal months of court mediation.
“She should’ve been out on her ass the day you came home to find her fucking some other dude. In your newly renovated kitchen, no less.”
Mont’s sentiments one thousand percent echo my own, but I did agree to give Jenna The Ex three months to move out in exchange for my freedom.
“Well, thanks to our prenup, and Jenna wanting to keep chatter of her infidelity off social media,” I explain, “she’ll only have this summer to vacate, plus the measly two hundred grand she had in her bank account when we married ten years ago.”
“And the vacation-rental empire you started?”
“Safe.” I open the fridge, snag a cold one, and pop it open with the drawer handle, a hiss escaping before my first sip. “Turns out, since our separate business entities are doing equally well on their own, we’ve been awarded a clean break.”
I pluck my phone off the counter and step onto the deck, my gaze catching the last slip of daylight. Sunsets in Crystal Cove are nothing short of perfection. For a split second, disappointment swirls in my chest at the thought of witnessing them all alone. “What’s mine is mine, and what’s hers is hers.”
Mont remains quiet for a beat before finally saying, “All the more reason for you to put yourself out there. Go hit a bar, grab a drink, maybe some fresh seafood—though me, I don’t touch the stuff. Celebrate. Get some pussy while you’re away.”
