Secrets We Keep (Thistle Cove 1)

“Secret? Jessica said Bryant’s cousin saw her in East Point last month going in a hotel with some guy.”

“Poor Finn.”

“Poor Finn? Lucky us. After all these years, he’s finally back on the market.”

“Coming through!” a voice calls, interrupting the gossip.

Bridget Flannery’s boyfriend Josh pushes her toward the bathroom. Her face is so pale and green there’s no way I’m going in after her.

I slip out of the line, but not before I hear a gag and vomit splattering on the tile floors.

I vaguely recall from the last time I was here that there’s a bathroom through the French doors off the pool. I walk down the sidewalk and try the door knob. It’s unlocked.

I step inside the dark room—suite is more accurate. There’s a small kitchenette and a sitting room. Two doors flank the back wall. One leading, I assume to the bathroom, another to a bedroom. There’s a thin light coming from under the bathroom door and I hear the sound of the faucet running. Someone else had the idea to sneak in here, too. I figure I’ll wait—at least there’s no puke.

I cross the room and open the refrigerator, hoping to find a water bottle, but there’s nothing in it but a bottle of green tea. I do find a glass in the cabinet and fill it with tap water. Anything to get the sickly-sweet taste of punch out of my mouth.

I continue to poke around the suite, checking out the flat-screen TV and updated speakers. On top of the TV cabinet is a framed photo. It’s a group shot out on the water; the Wallers, Holloways, & Chandlers all huddled in the frame. Ezra is in the middle. It looks recent—probably this summer out on Mr. Baxter’s boat.

I’d spent the day lifeguarding and watching fireworks with Alice after she got off work from the ice cream parlor.

I study the picture; the bright smiles and tanned skin. Coach Chandler’s long arms around everyone. He’s shirtless and more buff than I’d expect. I know my dad doesn’t look like that with his shirt off. The gold championship ring shines on his finger.

Whoever is in the bathroom is taking their sweet time, so I continue my tour in the next room. The bedroom, complete with a king-sized bed filled with big pillows and a soft comforter.

I walk over to the dresser and open the top drawer. I expect it to be empty, but it’s not. There’s one item inside; black lace panties.

“Ew,” I say to myself, shutting the drawer. I don’t want to think about who left those here. Either someone with Ezra or his dad. The first makes me a little jealous. The second icky. Especially after hearing about that SugarBabies site and seeing all the filthy messages those men like to send.

I exit the bedroom like my feet are on fire and just as I step in front of the bathroom door, it opens.

“Holy shit!” I shout, jumping straight in the air. I’m struck by three things.

The bright light streaming through the bathroom door, the warm, clean smell of soap and shampoo, and Finn standing in the doorway with only a towel wrapped around his waist.

I stumble back, half out of surprise, half out of shock (okay and maybe a little bit from that punch.)

Finn reaches out for me and catches my arm, holding me upright.

“You okay?”

“I’m, uh,” I divert my gaze from his sculpted chest, abs, and the fine trail of hair that vanishes below the towel. “I was looking for the, uh, bathroom.”

“Well, you found it. Let me grab my stuff.”

He walks back in the bathroom, giving me the opposite amazing view of his back. The ripped cords of muscle flex and twist as he bends down and grabs a purple duffle bag off the ground. His number is stamped on the side. He walks back out, brushing past me to toss the bag on the couch.

Holding my breath, I walk into the bathroom, shutting the door between us.

Jesus Christ.

I take my time. Peeing. Washing my hands. Adjusting my ponytail. Using the lotion that’s part of a nice supply left for guests on the counter. It’s only when I think I’ve gotten my shit together that I open the door, and step back into the room. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that Finn has clothes on. Not that it makes him any less sexy. Now he’s in a tight-fitting gray T-shirt that more than hints at the perfect body underneath and jeans that hang low on his hip.

“Sorry about that. I smelled awful after the game and don’t like to use the locker room showers. The hot water runs out.”

“Sure. Yeah, totally understandable.” The words come out in a rush. I obviously do not have my shit together.

“Listen,” he says from the couch where he’s tying his shoe, “can we talk about the other night?”