Page 21 of Late to Love

Interesting.

“Are you going to be here tomorrow?”

I shrug, realizing that he’s been getting a really impressive view of my cleavage this whole time.You’re welcome, Mr. Hall.“Probably.”

“Probably?” he repeats.

“Yeah, probably,” I volley back. “Won’t know till I wake up and see how I feel. And quit giving me shit. You have no idea what I’m doing after I’m done at your place. It’s not like I’m going home to eat bonbons.” Whatever the fuck those are.

“What the fuck are bonbons?” he grouses.

I chuckle, because what are the odds? “I don’t know. I’ve just heard the saying.”

“Are you there with anyone else?”

“Seriously? It’s literally none of your business.” What the hell is it with the men in my life and their overprotective natures? I continue, “When have I ever given the impression that I need looking after, Anthony?” There’s no disguising the way my voice tightens.

He must hear it, because he relents. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Could you say that a little louder? I didn’t hear you over the shock.”

His lips curl infinitesimally, and the feeling is like being at the top hill of a roller coaster about to dive into the loop. “I’m sorry, Miss Belle. Better?”

I grin, the swoop of the fall sweeping through my body.Miss Belle.“Much.”

“See you tomorrow?”

My grin widens. “Maybe.” I click off before he can say anything else.

“Um, excuse me, but what in the banter was that and I need you to start explainingimmediately.” Beside me, Amanda pulls up into a seated position and unscrews the top of a water bottle.

“Eh, it’s nothing.” I sit up as well and open the container of watermelon. There is no better place than to eat watermelon than the beach, and I will stand on that hill.

Amanda pulls her glasses to the top of her head and pins me with her brown eyes. “Bullshit. You like him.”

“I don’t,” I protest.

“Again: bullshit.”

I shove a piece of watermelon in my mouth and use it as an excuse to keep quiet.

She raises an eyebrow, waiting, but I keep eating. In front of us, a group of guys around our age start a game of volleyball around the net they’ve spent far more time than necessary putting up. They’re cute in that typical Alabama way: friendly faces, hair swooping just enough over their forehead that they’ve got to do that head-jerk thing to get it out of their eyes, and they probably all own multiple pairs of khaki shorts and tech polos with either University of Alabama or Auburn colors. Of course, they all have the usual blue patterns they consider to be their “nice” polos—they’re the ones they’ll wear to church when they peel themselves out of bed from drinking too much the night before.

And listen: no shade to them. Most of them have hearts of gold, and most of them can be trained on who to vote for and easily put in their place if they decide to try to be assholes to the women in their life. But as I look at them now, all I can think is…no, thanks.

Which is wild. I was never attracted to the vanilla guys anyway, but it’s much more obvious now that I’ve spent time around Anthony. Anthony, with his full beard and Wayfarers. Anthony, with his tattoo sleeves and thick thighs and chest hair. And laugh lines around his eyes that probably aren’t from laughing, which does something to my heart that I can’t bear to think about. Anthony, who at seventeen years older than me, could probably fuck me at least ten different ways that I don’t even have the imagination to think about.

“Um, hello?” Amanda waves her hand in front of my face. “Where did you go? Because you’re staring at those guys and they’re about to come over here and start flirting if you don’t watch it.”

I blink and look at her. “You’d eat those guys for lunch.”

She throws her head back and cackles. “You’re right. They can’t handle all this.”

All thisis a thick body that won’t quit, with tits and ass and belly and hips and legs that go for days—a fact that Amanda refuses to hide behind mounds of clothing. She’s flawless and bold and usually has a line of men lined up to take her on dates and worship her afterward. She never keeps them around very long, though. Come to think of it, maybesheneeds an older man.

“Damn right they can’t,” I confirm, then put the lid back on the remaining watermelon. “Time for more sunscreen? We can give those poor, unsuspecting boys a show.”

“Definitely. Because that big guy is beyond hot, and I wouldn’t mind a little more of his attention.”

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