Page 42 of The Beach Trap

“That’s not—I didn’t—” I shake my head, exhaling. “Oh, fine.”

And I lean forward and press my mouth against his.

He gives a small, surprised grunt. I’m flooded with embarrassment and pull away, my heart pounding. But then his hand comes up to cup my face and he draws me back in.

It’s a gentle kiss, like a question, his lips soft against mine, testing the waters. His fingers skate along my jaw, sending goose bumps racing along my neck and shoulders.

I lean into him, answering the question by deepening the kiss, parting my lips, letting my tongue meet his. He tastes exactly like ice cream eaten on a beach, sweet and a little salty. I run my palm against his cheek, feeling the rough stubble, then slide my hand up into his wavy hair. He hums in appreciation and his hand tightens on my neck, like he’s holding himself back from doing more.

When we part it feels too soon, but wearesitting on a public beach. The dog lays his head on my lap, and I stroke his fur absently.

“I want to make something clear,” I say, and Noah tilts his head, listening. “I wasn’t being superficial when I made that comment about your bushy beard. I was genuinely concerned about what could be hiding under it. Like, yesterday’s breakfast? A family of field mice? A contagious skin disease?”

He throws his head back and laughs, and I’m convinced that Noah’s laughter is my new favorite sound in all the world. When he catches his breath, he interlaces his fingers with mine.

“Let’s do this again sometime,” he says.

I smile, my chest warming. “I’d like that.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

KAT

The drive from Atlanta to Destin never used to bother me—but I’ve never driven there and back every other week. And it’s getting old, fast.

What kills me is that I’m pretty sure Blake feels put out by having to stay at the Rooneys’. She has no idea how good she has it, having to move less than a mile down the road. Sure, she has to do some light housekeeping, but the Rooneys’ place is always spotless, and she gets to spend all summer at the beach.

I mean, I wouldn’t want to do it—but she obviously doesn’t mind doing dirty work. Besides, I have responsibilities back in Atlanta. My mom, for one. She looks forward to our weekly dinners like I’m the light of her life. And I look forward to my afternoons volunteering at the Peachtree Boys’ and Girls’ Center like they’re the light of mine.

Last week, I accidentally told the girls about the Worthington application. I usually make an effort to keep the conversations focused on what’s going on in their lives, not mine—but they got so excited, I’m glad I told them.

Luna had a good idea about creating a time lapse for eachroom as it evolves, and when I said I was going to do it and give her credit in the post, her face lit up. I can’t remember the last time I saw her genuinely smile. I know all her problems will still be there when she goes home, but for an hour, she was happy.

When I finally pull up to the beach house, I’m thrilled to see that the only car in the driveway is a blue truck with a Helping Hands logo on the side. I haven’t seen Henry since the day at the bank, but we’ve been texting since he agreed to take on the job helping Blake.

I unfold the visor and look at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a mess from having the windows down, so I run my fingers through it and apply a quick layer of my Hourglass sheer lip gloss.

I’m not trying impress him or anything—if I was, I’d put on lipstick, not gloss. Henry’s a great guy and he’s not bad to look at, but I’m more into white-collar men than blue.

Still, I’ve got to stay true to my brand and treat every walk like it’s a #KatWalk. Even if that walk is through a house that’s “going to look a lot worse before it gets better”—which is what Henry said when I told him my theory about Blake sabotaging the project. I’m trying to be chill and trust the process as if I haven’t been burned before. But I have been burned, and I’ve got the scars to prove it.

After the shock of walking into the shitstorm last week, I’m a little nervous about what I’ll find inside. Hopefully things aren’tthatmuch worse. I’m getting some of the new furniture delivered this week from a few of the product placement deals I secured back in Atlanta. I might be crazy trusting Blake not to damage it in the renovation process, but my ass can’t handle another week of that wicker furniture.

As soon as I’m out of the car, I hear music drifting through the open windows of the house. Classic rock. Tom Petty?

I let myself in and follow the sound to the kitchen, where Henryis standing on a ladder, singing along to “Free Fallin’.” Not the wisest lyrical choice when you’re standing three feet off the ground.

His arms are up, fiddling with lights on the ceiling, and my eyes are drawn to the taut muscles peeking out between the top of his jeans and the hem of his plaid shirt. The baby fat is long gone, and somewhere over the last decade, Henry got buff.

I’m about to knock on the doorframe—which is now missing the door—to get Henry’s attention when he looks down. He startles at the sight of me and almost topples off the ladder.

“Hey,” he says, stabilizing himself, brushing a lock of brown hair behind his ear. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt the jam session,” I tease.

Henry steps down off the ladder and lowers the volume on his old-school boom box. Someone needs to get that man into the twenty-first century. Bluetooth speakers that connect to his phone would be a lot less cumbersome to cart around, and the sound quality would be much clearer.

“Helps the time go by,” he says. His cheeks are flushed, and for a brief moment, I see him so clearly as the boy I used to know. It’s strange how he can seem so familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

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