Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)

by Christina Lauren

  I reluctantly nod. “But I don’t want to hear about it when I freak out and end up riding the stupid thing in your lap.”

  Luke grins. “It’s cute that you think I would complain about that.” He holds out a hand to shake and I take it, ignoring how much bigger it is than mine, and that I know exactly what it feels like on my body.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, pulling away from his grip and shaking my fingers where I hope he can’t see. “Deal made. Now, let’s get back to surfing so I can see you punk out and I never have to step foot inside that godforsaken amusement park.”

  “You’re really hot when you get all worked up,” he says, and I punch him in the shoulder.

  I have him lie facedown on his board and we go over the basics of paddling out. One look at his broad, tan back, and I realize I’ve made another mistake.

  “You can spot a beginner because they paddle out with their legs open and that drags in the water,” I tell him, and tap his ankle with my foot. “Legs together.” I point out a group of guys running out into the water, and I show him how to read the waves, how to tell which direction they’ll break. “See that guy right there?” I say. “That’s how you want to pop up. Do what he’s doing.”

  Luke mimics his position and lies on his board again. “Pretend there’s a beach ball under your chin. Yeah, just like that,” I say, and move around to the other side and lie down in the sand next to him. “So you’ll see the wave . . .” I start, becoming distracted by the way his gaze flickers over my body, down along my curves and back up again, not even remotely subtly.

  When he makes the full circuit and meets my eyes, he breaks out in a huge smile. “I was just checking your position,” he says.

  “Sure you were.”

  “What? I like to be thorough. This is the only part I’ll be good at, okay? Once we get in that water all bets are off; let me keep my manhood for just a little longer.”

  I grin up at him, finally pulling my bottom lip between my teeth so I don’t let it slip how fucking adorablehotsweet he’s being.

  “So I’ll feel the wave . . .” he says, and waits for me to continue.

  Nodding and getting my shit together, I say, “You’ll feel the push, take two extra paddles to make sure you’re actually in it, hands here, under your chest. With your head up you’ll roll your body and pop up, knee under your chest, feet under you and into your stance, ready to hula-hoop.”

  He doesn’t look overly confident but he tries it a few times.

  “Good! And if you did everything correctly, you should be able to do it in reverse, too,” I say, and show him, kneeling down, pushing my legs back behind me until I’m lying on my stomach again. “And just do it until you feel comfortable.”

  “Comfortable?” He looks less than convinced. “I don’t think that’ll ever happen,” he says, bringing his knees to his chest and popping up.

  “Yes it will, look how good you’re doing already.”

  “Yeah, on the beach.”

  “All in good time,” I tell him, rubbing my hand over his warm shoulder. He looks down at my hand, I stare at my hand, and we fall into a heavy silence before I pull it away completely. “You ready to hit the water?”

  Luke shakes his head, eyes playful. “Nope.”

  I tilt my head and wait.

  “Okay, yeah. I’ve got roller coasters to get you on, and I’ve lived a good life already anyway,” he says, and we head down to shore.

  The water is cold and it takes us a few deep breaths to work up the nerve to dive in together, but eventually we do, surfacing with shouts and laughter. We swim out, stopping where the waves lap just at our waist. Luke has his leash strap hooked around his ankle, and hasn’t stopped looking in the frothy water, as if a shark might materialize at any moment and take him down.

  “Can you get up on your board?” I ask, and he nods, gingerly climbing up, eyes darting at every little ripple next to him. He’s terrified, and a part of my chest squeezes with fondness that he trusts me enough to even do this.

  “The waves are that way,” I tell him, and he looks up from the water. “You can look at my boobs if you need the distraction.”

  “Don’t think I won’t hold you to that,” he says.

  We work on getting him balanced on his stomach on the board. He slides around a little, complaining good-naturedly, and we talk more about spotting a wave. I quiz him on which direction they’ll break. I teach him how to duck-dive and punch through the smaller waves on his way out, and though he never actually looks any less tense, he listens and does everything I ask.

  “As the wave comes, you want to push the nose of the board down, sinking it. Arms straight, hands on the rails, deep breath before the wave breaks over you—”

  “Why do I need to take a deep breath?” he asks, eyes wide and panicked.

  “Because you’re going to be underwater.”

  “Under?”

  “You’ll be fine,” I tell him.

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Luke.”

  He has goose bumps up and down his skin and I’m a pervert for even noticing this right now, but I can’t look away from his chest, at the drops of water that cling to it and the way his nipples are pert and hard. I want to flick them with my tongue. God, he has great nipples.

  “Will you hold my hand on Goliath?” he asks, and I have to blink back to what he’s saying.

  “What?”

  “I think you heard me, Logan.” He ducks his head, adding, “My eyes are up here, by the way.”

  I snap my attention to his face, biting back an embarrassed laugh. “Fine. Yes, I’ll hold your hand on Goliath.”

  “Okay, good. I can do this,” he says, and takes one last look into the water. “Show me this duck bill thing.”

  “Duck-dive.”

  “Whatever. All I care about is surviving. I’m listening.”

  I shake my head and reach for the nose of his board. “So your board is under, you take a deep breath, and the wave goes over. You’ll pop right back up and be ready to keep paddling. It takes some time to get but it won’t take long to feel when you get it right. And you don’t have to go deep. Just enough to get under the wave. Deeper isn’t always better.”

  He snorts. “If that’s true then you wouldn’t have—”

  I slide my hand over his mouth to get him to stop talking, and we both look up at the same time, our attention snagged by something to our right.

  A huge set comes up, and we watch another surfer paddling out. “See how he’s going right through those?” I point to the smaller swells. “When you paddle out you want full steam because that wave is stronger than you and if you’re not working to move through it it’ll knock you on your ass. Watch how he pops, look at his stance . . .”

  As we watch the other surfer, Luke eventually lets out a “Man, he’s good,” clearly impressed.

  “You could be that good,” I tell him. “You’re definitely strong enough and a great swimmer. It’s all technique and practice. You’ll have the small waves down in no time.”

  “And the big waves?”

  “I don’t think you’re ready for a big wave yet, Blue Crush.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it and then it’s your turn. Deal?” I ask.

  He nods and I paddle out, watching the wave. Three more strokes and I tilt my board under, letting it roll over me. I pop back up and do it a few more times before I catch the edge of a larger one.

  It’s short, and I barely have enough time to pop up and ride before the wave falls apart under me. When I break the surface again, I climb back up on my board and paddle over to him.

  “See?” I say, squeezing the water from my hair. “You can totally do that.”

  “Your confidence in me is impressive,” he says, looking out over the water.

  “I know you can do this, Luke. Come on, up you go.”

  He looks terrified but lies down and starts paddling out. He looks back at me a few ti
mes but keeps moving forward. I stay as close as I can, watching as the smaller waves rush over him, one of them knocking him off his board. Protectiveness surges tight in my chest. He pops back up—looking a bit shaken—but doesn’t let it stop him and tries over and over again.

  A wave forms off in the distance and I see him size it up before paddling toward it. Butterflies form in my stomach as I watch him, already cheering him on. “Keep going . . . Nose down, hips forward, deep breath! Yes!” I shout, even though there’s no way he can hear it.

  He disappears momentarily under the water. Then, head turning frantically side to side, he breaks the surface again.

  When he spots me, he breaks into a huge smile. “Holy shit. I think I did it!”

  “You totally did it!” I say, laughing at how excited he is. “Think you can try it again?”

  He nods and climbs back on his board, pushing his hair back from his face before looking out at the water.

  Watching Luke as he paddles forward, warm from the sun and wet, twitching with exertion . . . I’m sure I’ll never forget this sight. He spots a wave in the distance and aims his board forward. I hold my breath as he dives through the smaller waves and breaks the surface again, before finally popping up to his feet on the last one. He doesn’t stay up for long before he’s knocked off and it certainly wasn’t pretty, but he did it, and I feel wildly, fiercely proud. I try not to stare as he comes back over to me, because I know my adoration would show all over my face.

  * * *

  “I TOLD YOU,” I tell him for the tenth time as we paddle back to the shore something like an hour later.

  Luke is exhausted but he hasn’t stopped smiling. “Now I know why you’re in such amazing shape,” he says, looking appreciatively at my body. “That kicked my ass.”

  “But you still did it,” I say.

  We reach the shore and Luke collapses in the sand, chest heaving. “I did.” He closes his eyes and stays there, trying to catch his breath. “My dad’s going to flip when he hears about this. He tried to get me out there with him when I was little, but I’d never go. My sister will never believe it.”

  “Want me to call her? I can text if that’s easier—”

  “No. You’re not getting her number, ever,” he says, tilting his head to look at me. “The two of you together are dangerous.”

  “I like your sister.”

  “And she loves you,” he tells me, still catching his breath. “The idea of you two hanging out on a regular basis scares the hell out of me.”

  He squeezes his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and I wonder if he’s recovered yet from a recent roll that got salt water up his nose.

  “You okay?” I ask him, reaching out to brush some sand from his back.

  He stills before turning his head to look at me. “Yeah. Just stings a little still.”

  “I hate it, too. It’s why I could never imagine snorting anything on purpose.”

  He laughs. “God, I tried coke exactly one time, in some blur of parties sophomore year. I knew immediately I would want more, so I never—” He does a double take, noticing my shocked expression. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “But that’s gross.”

  Luke laughs. “Why did you bring up snorting things if you were going to be all weird about it?”

  I shrug. I realize it’s odd in some ways that I’m a bartender and so uptight about harder drugs, but I am. I’ve seen too many people turn into complete messes when they play around with cocaine. “It just seems like really bad judgment for an athlete.”

  Luke barks out an amused laugh, saying, “You think?”

  This makes me laugh, too. “Sorry, yeah, just had a knee-jerk reaction to it.” I have such a hard time imagining healthy, together Luke doing something so stupid.

  “I mean, let’s be real,” he says, nudging my shoulder with his. “I’m not really known for impulse control.”

  I giggle as I pick up a rock and start drawing in the sand.

  “Try not to agree with me so gleefully.” He leans in, voice playful but hiding something tighter beneath when he adds, “Are you slut-shaming me, Logan?”

  The words burst out before I’ve realized I’ve actually had the thought: “Isn’t it ever lonely?”

  And goddamnit. What have I said? I’ve opened up this door, and I absolutely, one hundred percent do not want to step through.

  My frank question seems to surprise him: “Totally. I’m sick of it, actually.”

  “So why don’t you . . . ?”

  “Commit?” he asks.

  Shrugging, I say, “Yeah.”

  “Because the first girl I’ve really wanted since I was nineteen thinks I’m an impulsive man-slut.”

  I go still. Blood riots in my ears, hammers through my veins. “I’m serious.”

  “Me, too,” he says, blinking away and staring at the sand. “I like you. But I also like you. I would commit to you.”

  Silence engulfs us, and slowly I relax enough to notice the crashing of the waves, the cry of gulls all around us.

  Luke nudges me again. “I made it awkward.”

  “Totally awkward,” I tease, nudging him back. I knew he was attracted to me, but I didn’t realize it was a thing.

  A committing-to-London thing.

  A crush, feelings, something more than just good sex.

  My thoughts are tumbling from the storm cloud inside me, pouring down. I like Luke, too. I’m attracted to Luke. I have fun with Luke.

  I just don’t trust Luke.

  And even if I did, I can’t have him.

  We watch a surfer catch a pretty amazing wave, and turn to smile at each other in unison.

  “I have to admit,” he says, shaking his head a little, “it is pretty cool being out in the water. Learning the rhythm of the waves.”

  He bends his knees, propping his elbows on top of them, and we’re both silent, watching more of them crash against the shore.

  “Thanks for bringing me out here,” he says. “I know you didn’t really want to, and I appreciate it.”

  “It’s not that I didn’t want—” I start to say, but he holds up a hand, cutting me off.

  “And it’s fine, you know?” He picks up a shell near his leg and brushes the sand off with his thumb. “You know I would never refer to you that way, right?”

  I tilt my head, confused. “What?”

  He swallows. “At Bliss that night. I know you heard what Daniel said.”

  “Oh,” I say, finally understanding. “I did hear, yeah.”

  “Is that why you stopped wanting to see me?” He says this in a way that tells me he already knows the answer.

  “It’s one of the reasons.”

  “Daniel’s an asshole—”

  “He’s not the problem. I mean, he is but . . .” I pull in a breath, trying to organize my thoughts. “The single-serving thing was gross. Guys are disgusting sometimes, but the concept, I get. You and I had a casual thing, a couple of nights that were fun and—”

  He turns toward me. “They were fun.”

  I give him a play-exasperated eye roll. “My reaction to that comment wasn’t because I didn’t have fun. I’m not angry that he said it about me, or that you have one-night stands or even that you agreed with Daniel. I mean, it embarrassed me, yeah, but I got over it.” He winces apologetically, and I lower my voice so he doesn’t feel berated. “I’m annoyed that guys talk about women like they’re snacks. Like they’re disposable or easily replaceable when something more appealing comes along. So yeah, things between us stopped after that, because I don’t even want casual sex with someone who has such prehistoric views on women. But I hadn’t expected it to turn into more anyway.”

  Pink colors the apples of Luke’s cheeks and he looks down, nodding. “Well, you’re not replaceable,” he says. “I just want to make sure you know that.”

  Butterflies invade my chest, and I swallow, struggling to push them down. “I appreciate that, friend,” I say.


  The word elicits a wry, perhaps wistful smile from Luke, but after a second he says, “What were the other reasons?”

  I blink, having lost the beginning thread of the conversation.

  “The other reasons why you didn’t want to see me—romantically,” he clarifies.

  “I mean, that’s the main one,” I say, drawing a spiral in the sand with my fingertip. “I’m not sure I want anything right now. I’m sort of distrustful in general, and you’re not exactly easy to trust . . .”

  He’s quiet beside me, picking up another shell and turning it over in his hand, looking at it. Waiting for me to continue.

  “Harlow freaked out a little when she found out that we . . .” I trail off.

  “I could tell.” He drops the shell and brushes the sand off his hands. “She’ll get over it.”

  Looking at him, I ask, “Why does everyone say that?”

  “Because it’s true.” Luke shrugs. “It’s just Harlow. She burns like paper, not wood. The fire will be out before you know it.”

  His casual confidence is exponentially more reassuring than a roomful of nervous Lolas, Olivers, Finns, and Ansels. “You sound pretty confident.”

  He smiles over at me, but it’s actually a little sad. “I was with Mia, but Harlow and I were really close. Lola, too,” he adds, “but my friendship with Harlow was different. Tighter. Lola was a little more reserved emotionally. Harlow”—he laughs—“Harlow not so much. I was more brother than friend to her. I wonder whether part of her feeling prickly about this is because it makes her realize we aren’t all that close anymore, and haven’t been for a while. It’s certainly the way I felt when I found out they’d all gotten married and I had no idea.”

  I’m not entirely sure what to say in response to this, so I just nod, listening.

  Luke squints as he looks out across the water. “Anyway, I assume she worries Mia is fragile about anything related to that time. And she probably is, but I bet not as fragile as Harlow suspects. Harlow is a Mama Bear.”

  “It doesn’t bother you?” I ask him. He turns and looks at me. “That Mia knows we slept together?”

  His eyes narrow in a way that tells me he thinks I’m being a little silly. “No . . . ?”