Page 27 of The Beach Trap

It’s a huge, gorgeous place—and it’s also a total mess. So muchworse than I imagined. There’s sand scattered on the travertine floors, wet towels draped across expensive-looking furniture—which explains the hint of mildew I smell.

When I walk into the kitchen, I gasp in horror. The sink is full of dishes; the counters are covered with empty wine and liquor bottles; the trash cans are overflowing. The smell is worse in here, and it makes me wonder if some animal crawled in to munch on the trash, got poisoned, and died.

For an instant, rage boils inside me, hot and liquid as lava, and it’s all directed toward Kat. She’s the reason I’m here, having to clean up after the underwear royalty, when I have a perfectly adequate beach house just a short walk down the road. My fists clench and I consider storming out and telling Kat she’s just going to have to deal with me staying with her because there’s no way I’m going to clean up this disaster.

But then I take a few breaths and stifle the rage. There are three things I need to keep in mind: (1) I don’t actually want to be around Kat; (2) I need the extra money; (3) my grandparents raised me to never be afraid of hard work. And even though it’s going to be a hell of a job to get this all cleaned up, once it’s done, I won’t have to do much other than occasionally dust.

“All right, Maximus—I mean Max,” I say, looking at the dog. He nudges my hand with his wet nose, like he wants me to pet him. “Yeah, we’re not gonna go that far. But you can hang around me if you don’t get in my way, okay?”

In response, the dog tilts his head, and I take that as a yes. When I head down the hall to find the cleaning supplies, he follows, and I have to admit it’s nice to not be alone.

•••

It takes mefour days to get the Rooneys’ vacation home in order. I run countless loads of laundry full of towels and sheets.I scrub the kitchen, vacuum the rugs, polish the countertops, straighten and dust knickknacks and picture frames. Every so often, my rage at Kat threatens to boil over, but I tamp it down and focus on the task at hand.

I distract myself in the evenings by doing some online digging about the Rooneys. When I was growing up, Rooney underwear was mostly sturdy, supportive stuff my grandma wore, identified by their signatureRon the tag. But a few years ago, they launched a new line called UnderRooneys, with trendy, affordable pieces for people of my generation. I own several items, in fact; my favorites are a matching bra and boy shorts featuring smiling pineapples on a hot pink background.

But about a year ago, according to an article I found on Forbes.com, a huge scandal erupted when it was revealed that their underwear was made in sweatshops in underdeveloped countries with unsafe conditions for workers. After that, Target stopped carrying the brand and several other distributors followed suit. There were boycotts, too, which I probably would’ve known about if I paid attention to business-related news.

I guess I should stop wearing my pineapple underwear—or maybe not, since that would mean those workers’ efforts went to waste. It’s not like anyone else has seen my underwear in many, many moons. Anyway, the whole mess is a reminder that wealthy people are willing to walk over anyone to get what they want—so it makes sense that Kat’s family has been friends with them for years.

By Thursday, the house is sparkling clean and I’m exhausted. Finally, I get to turn my attention to my real project for the summer: renovating the beach house.

It’s evening, and I head out to the beach in front of the Rooneys’, where I’m planning to sit and make a list of all the projects I want to tackle next week. I’ve decided to start withpainting the kitchen cabinets. Not only will it make a huge positive difference for a relatively small expense, but it’s also something that I feel confident doing.

Max follows me, and when he bounds away, I’m pretty sure I know why. Yep, there’s Noah, the groundskeeper, parked in a lounge chair. It’s become apparent over the past several days that this is his routine: he does a few hours of work on the grounds every morning, then spends the rest of the day lounging on the beach or next to the pool with a bottle of beer or four.

We haven’t talked much since that first day, except for him chastising me for ogling him—which I am not doing right now, by the way. He’s just... a striking figure, his long, tanned legs stretched across the lounge chair like he owns the place. If he weren’t sitting in front of a multimillion-dollar beach house, he might be mistaken for a passed-out homeless guy.

When Max runs up to Noah, he puts down his beer and hauls himself upright, and they greet each other like they’ve been separated for months, rather than just a few hours.

“Hey there, Maxie,” Noah says, scratching the dog’s ears, chest, and then belly when the dog rolls over. “Such a good boy, little Maxie-Waxy. Wax on, wax off, wax on, wax off.”

He’s doing the wax-on-wax-off motions as he rubs Max’s belly like Daniel LaRusso on Mr.Miyagi’s car. I press my lips together to stop myself from grinning. He’s ridiculous, which makes it even more irritating that he also manages to be so attractive. At least, from the shoulders down; the whole scruffy-caveman/neck-beard thing doesn’t do anything for me.

Although he might just seem attractive because he’s very,verytall—around six foot five, I’m guessing—and there’s something interesting about his body, all lanky and angular. His clothes never seem to fit him; his ratty old T-shirts aren’t long enough to cover his torso, and his shorts are always sliding down his hips,which feels quasi-obscene whenever he bends or reaches for something.

Like now, as he picks up Max’s slobbery tennis ball, my gaze is drawn, against my will, to his exposed lower back, the muscles alongside his spine, the jut of a hip bone, the dimples above his waistband. He stands and tosses the tennis ball down the beach, sending Max chasing after it.

Noah hitches his shorts up, then turns and gives me a side-eye. “Can you dial down the staring? I mean, I know it’s probably difficult for you, since I’m out here looking like a snack.”

That last part is delivered with a cheeky wink, and I shake my head as I sit, cross-legged, on the soft, white sand. “My idea of a ‘snack’ isn’t a guy who wears T-shirts so worn-out even Goodwill wouldn’t want them.”

“I like my clothes broken in,” he says.

“Yeah, well, that shirt is so broken in it’s practically see-through.”

He runs a hand over his scruffy beard, narrowing his eyes. “Maybe you should stop trying to see through it.”

“Maybe you should buy yourself a belt,” I fire back, then realize, too late, what that comment just revealed about me.

He grins, giving me a flash of white teeth. “Watch it, perv. Or I’ll report you for workplace harassment.”

“Right, because our employers seem so concerned about what we do here. Do they realize you spend most of your day lounging in the shade, drinking beer?”

“Doyourealize you killed yourself cleaning a house that’s just going to get trashed again when they come back?”

Max returns with the tennis ball and drops it at Noah’s feet, and he lazily picks it up and sends it flying with a flick of his wrist.

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