Swing and a Mishap (Summersweet Island 2)

Did I overwhelm her? Have I been coming on too strong?

I check my phone on the table for the tenth time since I sat down and tried to tune out the two men across from me, but there still isn’t a reply to the text I sent Wren this morning when I woke up. Just a simple, Good morning, beautiful. Have a good day at work. Text me if you need anything. Maybe she hasn’t needed anything and she thinks she doesn’t need to reply until she does.

Or maybe she looked up what the purple rose means and blocked your ass because you freaked her the fuck out—goddamn Pinterest.

“Well, if it isn’t the Golden Girls, sitting around gossiping over lattes.”

When we hear Murphy’s sarcastic voice, we all look up from our coffees we’re sipping to find him standing right next to our booth. Well, Bodhi looks up from his plastic cup of chocolate milk with a lid and a straw.

“Which Golden Girl are you?” Bodhi asks him.

“I am neither golden nor a girl.” Murphy crosses his arms and glares at him.

Bodhi just leans forward in the booth, resting his elbows on the table, taking a loud, slurping drink of his chocolate milk before he replies. “Yeah, but there are four Golden Girls. There’s only three of us,” Bodhi reminds him. “You’re definitely Sofia. Old and mean, barking at everyone to get off his lawn.”

“People need to stay the fuck off my lawn,” Murphy mutters while Bodhi continues.

“I’m clearly Blanche, Palmer is Rose, and Shepherd is Dorothy.”

“I am not Rose,” Palmer complains. “You’re Rose. You are definitely the naïve, gentle soul, and I’m Blanche, fun-loving and spontaneous.”

“You don’t have the balls to be Blanche. Take it back!”

“How in the hell did any of you dipshits actually find women?” Murphy interrupts the two men arguing across from me.

“It’s a goddamn miracle, Murph,” Bodhi tells him with a serious nod before slurping more of his chocolate milk through the straw.

Murphy doesn’t even say goodbye. He just walks away from us with a bunch of muttered curses under his breath, grabbing a bag of takeout food from the lunch counter next to the register then disappearing out the glass front door.

“All right, can we get back to what we were talking about before the Golden Girl interruption, Rose?” Palmer asks Bodhi with a smirk.

“Fuck off, I’m not Rose. And I think my dude just needs to go with the flow and be in the moment. Do what feels right,” Bodhi says with a nod in my direction as I wipe my mouth off with a napkin and sit back in the booth. “I mean, I asked Tess to marry me last night, so YOLO!”

“What the fuck?” Palmer shouts, giving an apologetic wave and smile to the other patrons eating breakfast at the diner before lowering his voice. “You? Marriage? Is that even legal? I feel like several states and countries would have put you on some sort of list by now.”

I have to laugh at what Palmer says. I haven’t known Bodhi very long, but you don’t have to know him long to realize he is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Just so laid back and happy all the time without one single care or responsibility in the world, never satisfied doing the same thing or being in the same place all the time, and someone who never, ever wants to be tied down. He’s a free spirit, and the fact that he’s been here on Summersweet Island for so long and in what seems to be a very committed relationship with Tess is just mind-boggling to everyone who knows him.

Palmer told me when Bodhi excused himself to go to the bathroom right when I got here that it’s only a matter of time before something starts calling to Bodhi from far, far away, enticing him and bringing back that constant need to see it all, go everywhere, and experience everything. It made me a little sad for badass, fire-starting Tess, but then I remembered she probably knows many ways to kill a man like Bodhi and make it look like a surfing accident, so she’ll probably be fine. And anyway, I have my own shit to worry about.

Like whether or not all the dirty, dirty thoughts I’ve had about Wren since she whimpered into my mouth and rubbed that sexy-as-hell body all over me on the beach last night are appropriate thoughts to have about someone’s mother. Is it proper etiquette to think about how it would have only taken a few more rough jerks of my cock between her sweet thighs before I could finally know what she sounds like when she comes? Was it wrong to go inside my cottage after she drove away, close and lock my door behind me, and then pull my dick out of my pants right in the entryway? My balls were so fucking heavy with the need to come after that make-out session with Wren that I couldn’t take one more step without getting some relief. It was probably definitely a no-no to stand there slumped against the door in the pitch dark of my house with my head thrown back and my eyes squeezed closed while I relived every single second of that kiss.