What if Sydney’s right and my neighbor does think I’m some sort of perv ogling her every chance I get? Because that’s basically the truth, as ashamed as I am to admit it. I’m not one to ogle. I see a girl I like I go talk to her. Get to know her. Eventually get in her panties. That’s how I roll. That’s how I’ve always rolled. There’s no point in falling. No point in dating. Ultimately I won’t be able to choose the one I want so why bother?
She lifts her head and our gazes clash. I freeze in place as I stare into her dark brown eyes, the air stuck in my lungs making it hard to breathe.
The seconds tick by as we continue to watch each other but they feel like minutes. Hours. My skin tightens. My blood runs hot and there’s a dull roar in my ears. I’m fully prepared for her to glare. Maybe even to yell and tell me to fuck off.
But then she smiles. A sensual curve of full lips, a dimple appearing on the right side of her mouth just before she tosses her head and floats on her back, her feet kicking, her breasts rising above the water that gently laps at her skin.
Fuck me, she is seriously the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.
Without thought I stand, letting my gaze linger on her for one more minute before I leave the balcony.
And go claim what I want.
Her.
He’s been staring at me for weeks. The pretty rich white boy has no shame, what with the way he’s been openly spying on my afternoon swim sessions. For the last week I’ve put on an extra show just for him. Lying out on the cushy lounge chair, wearing my skimpiest bikini, one I wouldn’t dare wear out in public but knowing he’s the only one watching me?
That dark thrill running down my spine every afternoon when I feel his hot gaze on my body is incredibly addicting.
Mama would have an absolute fit if she saw me flaunting my goods. She’d throw me a towel. Or a robe. Or a blanket. Demand that I cover myself up in that don’t-you-dare-argue-with-me tone of voice she does so well. She prefers one-piece swimsuits. Would probably like it best if I never wore one at all.
She’s a little overprotective, my mama. I’m her only child and she had me when she was just a child, barely sixteen. Dumped by the boy who got her pregnant, she raised me on her own. We’re close. Sometimes too close. It feels like she’s more a friend than my mother but then something will happen and she’ll turn into that snarling mama bear that both embarrasses me and makes me proud.
I love her fiercely but I need independence. When this opportunity came about, I knew I needed to do it, despite Mama’s protests. Spending the summer at this gorgeous mansion, pretending that it’s mine, I’ve never felt so free.
Glancing up, I’m oddly disappointed to find Mr. GQ isn’t on the balcony anymore so I start to swim laps, going as fast as I can, back and forth across the pool. I need to lose weight. My curves are too…curvy. Sometimes those curves get me in trouble, causing unwanted attention that always embarrasses me.
Not from GQ though. I like the way he stares. And he’s so pretty. His entire family is pretty, unnaturally so. They look like they belong in a fancy slick magazine, like that boring ass Town & Country I found in the house when I first got here. A whole stack of them sat in a basket close to an overstuffed chair in the immaculate living room and I flipped through them, weirdly fascinated. All those perfectly polished rich people with their sparkling jewels and expensive clothes, the broad, fake smiles stretching their faces as they clutch a drink or each other.
It’s a life I both covet and despise.
After ten laps I’m breathless and I stop in the shallow end, hanging onto the edge of the pool as I catch my breath, the sun warming my shoulders. The water is cold, the air warm and the contrast makes me shiver as I lean my head in, pressing my forehead against the concrete edge. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, my inhales deep and even, slowly calming my racing heart.
I really need to get out and exercise more. I’m totally out of shape.
“You okay?”
The deep male voice startles me and I jerk away from the pool’s edge, water splashing everywhere as I push myself halfway across the pool. I lift my head to find Mr. GQ himself standing on the other side of the fence that separates our houses.
Well, it’s not really my house, but I’m thinking of it as mine for the summer.
“Um, yeah. I’m fine.” I stand straighter, barely finding my footing on the bottom of the pool. I tell everyone I’m five-foot-one but it’s a lie. I’m barely over five feet. Being so short and extra curvy, most of the time I look fat. Sort of dumpy.
I don’t like it. At all.
He leans his forearms on top of the low fence, casually gorgeous as the sun shines down on him, casting him in a golden glow like he’s some sort of god. Now it’s my turn to stare in rapt fascination, feeling a little breathless at having him so close. I never look at him for too long for fear he’ll know I’m staring—I leave that particular talent up to him—but now I look my fill.
He’s even prettier than I thought. Though it’s not fair, calling him pretty. He’s handsome. Striking. Square jaw and chin, straight nose, angular cheekbones and soft, full lips that offset all those sharp edges. I can’t tell what color his eyes are, he’s still too far away but I imagine them a bright, sparkling blue or maybe even green.
So ridiculously good looking, I wouldn’t doubt if he just walked out of a magazine ad or a fashion runway. It almost hurts to look at the guy.
“Swimming laps?” He states the obvious.