Page 67 of The Beach Trap

“No,I’msorry,” Noah says, taking my hand. “And I don’t blame you if you’re angry with me.”

I bite my lip, assessing him. He’s shirtless, his face scruffy and unshaven, hair messy. There’s a softness about him, a vulnerability that makes my throat tighten. I spent hours exploring his naked body last night, but this is the first time I feel like I’ve actually seenhim.

Over the past year, he’s been stripped of everything that made up his identity. It’s obvious he still carries the weight of all the countless workers who were mistreated in Rooney factories, who later lost their jobs. He blames himself. Deeply.

I want to reassure him that he may have made some mistakes, but he should be proud of himself for acting with integrity. But I suspect he isn’t ready to hear that yet. There’s only so much vulnerability that can be crammed into one morning.

Instead, I squeeze his hand. “I’m not angry. Although part of my reaction may be related to the fact that you gave me several excellent orgasms last night, and I would like more in the near future.”

His shoulders drop with relief. “Theverynear future,” he says, leaning in to kiss me.

“Wait a minute,” I say, as something occurs to me. If Noah’s full name is Noah Jameson RooneyJunior, that means— “You’re the boy Kat had a crush on when we were twelve!”

He rolls his eyes. “Did she? Weird. She always seemed like an extra little sister.” Then he wraps his hand behind my neck andpulls me toward him. “I’d rather not talk about her right now—I’m too distracted by the beautiful woman in my bed who’s wearing nothing but my T-shirt.”

I grin and yank the shirt over my head. “Is this less or more distracting?”

He laughs and pulls me into bed with him, and within a few minutes I’m so happy I could float away.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

KAT

It’s hot as balls outside, and even though there are plenty of empty air-conditioned rooms inside the Peachtree Boys’ and Girls’ Center, the girls want to hang out at our usual spot in the courtyard. I managed to grab a seat in the shade, but my skin is still crying sweat, desperate tears sliding down my thighs. But the girls look happy, painting their nails a rainbow of my favorite OPI colors.

In Chelsea’s case, she’s painting a literal rainbow, from Relentless Ruby on her pinky to Turn on the Northern Lights on her thumb—she skipped yellow because I didn’t have it, and she’d need twelve fingers for a full rainbow.

“What do you think, Miss Kat?” she says, holding her hands out for me to admire.

It’s a little extra for my taste, not that I’d ever tell her that. Chelsea cares too much about my opinion—more than she probably should. I’ve noticed lately, especially in the last few weeks, she’s been asking what I think about everything from the way she should part her hair (middle) to the way she should wear hershirt (French tuck) and how many pins to put on her backpack (less is more).

At first, I was flattered, but now I’m wondering if it’s a bit excessive. A sign that her self-confidence could use a boost.

“What I think doesn’t matter as much as what you think,” I tell her.

Chelsea frowns and looks down at her colorful hands. When she looks up back up, her eyes are shining. “You don’t like them?”

“No,” I say, backtracking. “Of course I do. How could I not—they’re all my colors.”

Chelsea smiles, and I’m relieved she was convinced so easily. I make a mental note to do some googling on ways to improve self-confidence in teenage girls.

“No way,” Luna says, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “I don’t buy that bullshit.”

The girls’ eyes grow wide and they look between Luna and me. Cursing is not allowed at the center, but I know she’s just testing me.

“Why do you say that?” I ask, keeping my tone light the way they taught at volunteer orientation. Kids pick up what you’re putting down, the program director told us. If you keep calm, chances are they will, too.

“Pshaw,” Luna says. “They might all be your colors, but you’d never wear them all at the same time like that.”

“Not true,” I say, even though it’s most definitely true. But I figure this is one time where honesty might not be the best policy.

“I saw your story about matching colors on your fingers and toes,” Luna says. “You like yours to match.”

I cringe and resist the urge to look down at my feet, wishing I’d worn closed-toe shoes that would hide the Cajun Shrimp polish that does in fact match my fingernails. I could tell her thatfashion and style evolve, but the post was pretty recent. Three months and four days ago. The day of my dad’s funeral.

At the time, I explained away the need to post as wanting to control something in the middle of the chaos, but now I wonder if I was trying to cling to an idealized version of my life that didn’t exist.

Luna takes my lack of response as victory. She sits up straight and holds her head high as she tells the girls, “Life is a fashion show, ladies.” There’s admiration in her voice, but hearing my brand mantra in this context makes me want to take the words back.

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