THE GUY FROM THAT ONE SUMMER

  CC MONROE

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Also by CC Monroe

  About the Author

  To all the booktokers who like it a little nasty. This is for you.

  Thank you for the last few years!

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE FALL OUT AND MY SEXUAL AWAKENING

  That arrogant, glib, self-centered bastard. I gave it all up for him. My dream job, dream school, dream city…

  And even my damn orgasms.

  Yes, I spent three years with a man who could never get me to come. It was a chore for him, one he couldn’t manage to even attempt to master. So, I mastered it myself—as in masturbation.

  But where did that get me?

  Left at the altar, in a three-thousand-dollar dress, and a hundred sets of eyes looking at me—some with pity, others with shock, and one shithead teenager laughing.

  Which reminds me, I need to tell my aunt, Martha, that my cousin needs a nice slap to his acne-filled face.

  But back to the self-centered asshole.

  Damon.

  The man I gave it all up for, who got me to say yes, and when it was his turn to say “I do,” it looked like he’d seen a ghost—or even his grandmother naked and participating in nefarious activities. I shook him a bit, making sure he wasn’t falling ill and about to be sick.

  Nope.

  He’d just been falling into some other woman’s vagina for a while.

  He turned, looked at some brunette with green eyes and breasts the size of my head, and told her, “I can’t marry her. I want you.” Then he took her hand and ran off into the merry ole sunset, with all but a white horse, like some Julie Roberts movie. And I was left standing there like I was in an episode of Punk’d.

  “She’s just a friend from high school” my ass.

  What an absolute prick. I hid my tears, my mother coming to wrap me up and walk me off the altar, and my father ran after Damon, screaming all sorts of obscenities. I just wanted a bottle of tequila—to drown my woes and embarrassment in… and the actual glass bottle, to take to Damon’s head.

  How could he do this to me? I really thought we would have a life together. I wasted so much time with him. Do I love him? Yes, at one point. Sure, we didn’t have all the physical chemistry, but we did care for one another.

  Didn’t we?

  I did, but clearly, he lost all love and respect for me.

  When damage control by my parents was in full gear, then the dust settled, I somehow lost the following twelve hours.

  And by the time I really process what happened, I’m now in my car, on my way to the Hamptons to stay at my parents’ beach house. We were going to honeymoon here. Yeah, a honeymoon. One I should be on right now. But I’ll be knee-deep in alcohol, while Damon is balls-deep in another woman and a new life without me.

  How could I have been so blind?

  I could have prevented this. When I realized I loved him but wasn’t all head-over-heels, tripping blindly over all his charm—which, believe me, he once had—I lost being in love. But it doesn’t give him the right to cheat or leave me at the altar. He could have saved us the money, embarrassment, and earth-shattering devastation if he would have just told me before we were moments away from putting a law-binding contract to one another.

  Now, in hindsight, I wonder, Did I see this coming?

  Am I embarrassed, or heartbroken? Or both? I don’t know anymore

  That afternoon at the church moved in slow motion. After the one-hundredth call and millionth text—I swear, I turned off my phone, packed my shit, and got in my car.

  All I knew for sure was tequila, plus my parents’ house in the Hamptons, equaled the only thing I wanted to do. Period.

  Avoiding all songs that are remotely close to romantic, I blare hate music. Rage songs. Songs that make you want to not only slap a man but take his balls and grind them up in a blender. The imagery somehow brings me peace.

  How could he have been so cruel? At our goddamn, fucking wedding!

  If I were speaking my thoughts out loud, I’d say excuse my language to the women who care so much about their appearance they steam their dresses free of every wrinkle and wouldn’t dare try anal.

  “I’d try anal,” I say aloud with a shrug.

  Yup. I need to drink. I’m starting to sound like a maniac fresh out of her straight jacket.

  When I pull up to the house, it’s already dark out, and the only light is coming from my headlights. If there’s a serial killer lurking in the bushes, it’s all free range at this point.

  Have at it, sir. Or miss. I don’t discriminate. I will take either just swimmingly.

  I turn off my car, open the back door, and grab my suitcase. I packed enough booze, swimsuits, and sundresses to get me through the week. But the amount of the tequila may be overkill, and I might be in over my head, according to its weight. Plus, I have to wheel it through the sand, all the way up the driveway, and then the stairs.

  Can we say fuck me?

  I start to make the trek, and just when I’m in the clear, heaving and panting, with sweat dripping from my forehead, the front of my sandal folds over, and I trip, falling face-first into the still-warm-from-the-sun sand. My mouth becomes literal sandpaper.

  “That was brutal yet entertaining to watch,” a thick, deep Australian accent comes from behind me, and I hurry to stand, righting my dress and throwing my long, curly brown hair over my shoulders.

  I don’t need a mirror to know I’m absolutely covered in sand. But squaring my shoulders, I carry that fall with grace and what little dignity I have left. My pale blue eyes meet the tall, shadowy figure standing beside my car. “Glad you enjoyed the show, creep.”

  I can tell he’s built from his shadow in the moonlight. So, if he plans to take me, I might as well lay down and die. Wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me.

  “You need some help?” He ignores my rudeness, and I shake my head at his question, his rich accent making the spot between my legs damp.

  I can’t even pretend the voice, the shadow, and the thrill of danger doesn’t excite me. I’m only human. “No. I would like to live, thanks. I already had a shit day and can’t handle much more. I’ll save getting axed by a stranger for another time.”

  He laughs, and it comes from deep in his chest like a growl—and holy shit, I have to rub my legs together. That was incredibly sexy.

  “I’m not Ted Bundy. I live next door. Well, I own it and visit. I was out for my nightly run, when I got this show and a full view of your ass.”

  I see him shrug, and I blush, even more mortified. My dress must have flown up when I biffed it. Great.

  “You couldn’t have seen much. It’s too dark out.” I cross my arms, and he starts to move closer, his face coming more into focus when my eyes adjust as he steps out of the shadows.

  “Your pale skin in the moonlight showed me all I needed to see,” he growls, and I step back.

  “I will knee you in the balls,” I warn, but he just laughs and moves suddenly, and I react, punching him right in the nose.

  He grumbles, “Fuck,” and then straightens, and that’s when I realize what I just did. He was reaching for my bag to help me, and I punched him.

  “Hell of a right hook, daisy.” He shakes his head, and I tilt mine.

  “Daisy? My name isn’t daisy,” I tell him. “I’m sorry. I just thought you were going in for the kill. Are you all right?” My question is cautious, still heeding the fact that he could be a killer or criminal of some sort.

  “No, but I can smell your scent from here. You smell like daisies.” He puts his hands up in warning. “I’m going to lean in and grab the bag, not attack you. We are good.” His handsome face, thick accent, and the comment about my scent have me flustered. He may be the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  Suddenly, my body lights up, and I see a brief premonition—of me being laid out on a kitchen counter, sweating, and moaning loudly while he takes me in the heat of passion.

  Our skin slapping against one another’s, the sound echoing, his grunts going straight to my core as I orgasm.

  Our bodies a mess of sweat, heavy breathing, and euphoria.

  I come out of it fast and shake my head. He’s eyeing me suspiciously, but there is a sly grin I don’t miss, and I feel like he just saw what I was seeing. Even though I know he couldn’t have, I can’t help but feel a bit scandalized by it.

  “Words, daisy. We good? I promise to not do anything you wouldn’t want me to.”

  “Wh—what?” I choke out. Did he just say that?

  “You heard me. My name’s Finn. What’s your, gorgeous?” he asks, and I stumble over my words, not sure what he meant other than exactly what he said.

  “Oh, sorry, I’m Remy.”

  “Unique name, and for such a unique woman,” he says, lifting the bag, and I would respond, but he beats me to it. “Good heavens, what do you have in this thing? A dead body? And you think I’m the one to fear? How do I know I’m not your next victim?” He starts to head to the house, and his questions make me laugh and feel a bit more at ease.

  But I won’t let my guard down too much. He could flip in a blink. That’s what all crazy people do.

  “It’s alcohol. I plan to be so drunk this week that I forget my own name. Feel free to join me.” The end of my response is meant to be taken lightly. I don’t really mean for him to come in and drink with me. But Finn, on the other hand, takes my words at face value.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  I stop in my tracks and look at him with narrowed eyes. Did he just invite himself in?

  No, not really. I was the one who said something about it first. Foot, meet mouth.

  Well, here we go.

  He looks at me and nods to the door. “The door, daisy?”

  “Remy,” I tell him, and he smiles.

  “The door, Remy? I could use a drink, and we need to figure out what makes a woman drive to the Hamptons at night with a suitcase filled with alcohol. Sounds entertaining.”

  I scoff and push past him, trying to ignore the way his thick arm feels against my thinner one. He must be six four, and I’m only five-foot five. It’s a drastic difference.

  “You know what? You seem to have taken my invite in the literal sense, and I was just joking.”

  “You thought that joke was going to end with me not wanting a drink? You offered, and I need details. Besides, daisy, you look like you could use all the company you can get.”

  I roll my eyes. I’ve never been in the company of such a cocky man before. Stuck up, yes. Self-centered, most definitely. But never this cocky and self-inserting. Or is it just confidence?

  “You’re just going to walk into someone’s home. In the middle of the night. Like some sociopath? I could be a crazy woman.”

  “Really? I thought I was the crazy one. I think I can handle you.” He looks me up and down, and I gulp loudly. I’m sure he can hear it. Because the way he looks me up and down, like I’m a meal, is intimidating, worrisome, and—dare I say—exciting.

  “Jaw is on the floor, babe. Pick it up, and let’s get a drink.” He finds the switch and flips on the light, and that’s when it happens.

  I am met with something better than I ever thought possible, a vision I couldn’t have made up in my head. He looks like the guys in movies who would eat you alive and spit you out. He has a fresh tan—either from the sun we get here in the Hamptons or wherever he’s visiting from—and his eyes are a stunning green. But his mouth… God, those lips. They are full and thick with a wall of white teeth behind them.

  He’s tall with a lean yet muscular frame. His hair is short and a medium-brown color. He looks like he walked out of an Armani commercial. You know the ones—where they climb out the water, get on some expensive yacht in outline-revealing shorts as they slick their wet hair back.

  Yeah, one of those men. An actual fucking dream boat. He looks me over and appreciates what he sees too, and I’m not too naïve to miss it. He stares at my face for a long moment, then slowly lets his eyes travel down the length of my body. I feel that perusal in every part of me. As if it’s a physical being and hits all my major nerve points.

  “Um, let’s go to the kitchen,” I say, but before we do that, he opens the suitcase and grabs a few different bottles. The wine and vodka I brought as backup, and my beloved tequila. I need to say something else, but those are the only words that find their way out. I just let a stranger in my house, and he’s clearly enjoying the view.

  As am I.

  Which he obviously notices.

  And now, I’m intimidated with a dash of anxiety-laced embarrassment.

  I get into gear, moving toward the kitchen, turning on lights as I go, hyperaware of the situation. Feeling him look at my back side, I would be lying if I said I didn’t like it. And even while I’m freaking the hell out, I admit that—though I’m no seductress of any sort—I let my hips sway with more emphasis.

  I was just left at the altar, and there is a hot god-like man in my house who has an Australian accent that could probably remove my panties by itself. No one is allowed to persecute me.

  “So, what is your drink of choice?” I question, rounding the counter and facing him. Goddamn, that is a face I’d want to make a cozy yet orgasmic chair out of.

  “Tequila,” he answers, pulling the bar stool out and making himself at home. Finn is the embodiment of self-assured, a man without pause, and I envy it. I always try to throw caution to the wind, but then stop myself and think before I fall headfirst. What would it be like to feel so carefree, as if life is meant to be yours for the taking, risks be damned?

  “Same. Straight? Iced? Margarita?” I lean over and reach across the kitchen island to grab one of the tequila bottles we set out.

  “Straight, and only a little bit. I don’t want to get too drunk. Can’t have you taking advantage of me, Remy.”

  My eyes shoot up to him, and he has a sly grin splayed across his ridiculously handsome face. “Speak for yourself. I’m the one at a disadvantage here. You could overpower me in seconds.” I undo the cap, pour him a few sips worth, and pass it to him.

  “Something tells me you can handle yourself just fine.” Our eyes meet, and there is an edge to his, one that screams innuendos and lust.

  “Really, and what makes you think that?” I challenge, enjoying the banter.

  “You know what I mean. Now, why don’t you tell me what happened to make you drive here at night with enough alcohol to kill a horse?”

  For a brief moment, I debate addressing his first remark but decide against it. I’m lonely, vulnerable, emotional, and staring at a man who’s made me horny as hell within minutes of meeting him. Let us not tempt ourselves anymore.

  “I was dumped at the altar. Cheers!” I lift my glass into the air then, his face stunned. But he meets me in the middle, our glasses clinking, and instead of shooting his drink, I’m left to do so by myself as he watches me like some exhibited animal at the zoo.

  The burn of the tequila has my face bunching and eyes closing. When I open them, they water, but I can still see clearly, and he hasn’t moved.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Fuck me, darling. Are you all right?” he asks.

  I wave him off, but my insides are still burning from the shot and heartbreak, and I do a terrible job at faking I’m okay. “I’ve had the worst day, but unloading on you, a stranger, isn’t going to make it better. In fact, it just makes this whole situation even more pathetic.”

  “Pathetic? Remy, that is beyond messed up. What the hell was this bastard thinking?”

  “About some other woman and her magical vagina, I guess,” I respond sarcastically, trying so very hard to hide my hurt.

  “He left you for another woman?”

  “Yes. Three years wasted on a man who left me behind like I was yesterday’s garbage. I didn’t even want to marry him in the first place.”

  Finally, Finn takes a sip.

  “Why didn’t you want to marry him? Besides the obvious fact that he was a coward.”

  As I shrug, a small giggle escapes me. It’s not one of those “he-he, how cute” giggles, but more so an incorrigible, “you’re asking me?” type. “I loved Damon. I did. But he and I were more like really good friends, great roommates, and maybe that’s what really hurts—the betrayal of a friend, maybe?” I shrug again, pouring myself another shot.

  “I don’t blame you for hurting. So, you loved him. If he came here, would you take him back?”

  My eyes shoot up to his, and my head tilts as I eye him quizzically. “What?”

  He stands now, slowly rounding the island. “Daisy, I asked, since you said you loved him, if you want him back,” he growls this time, gaining on me.

  And suddenly, the knowledge that he’s a complete stranger I just let into my house comes back with a vengeance, ringing bells and sounding whistles and alarms.

  “Finn?” I move back, my eyes darting around the kitchen for any sort of weapon I can use. Because those eyes are dark and honed in on me. There is an ominous yet intoxicated look in his eyes that has nothing to do with tequila.

  Oh my fuck. He’s a killer. He’s going to kill me right now. I got left at the altar and murdered all in one day. I’m oh-for-two. I must not be able to spot bad when it’s literally staring me in the face.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, baby. I’m going to numb your pain and make you forget it all.”

  I gulp, hitting the kitchen counter along the wall. “W-What?” I stutter, chills breaking out all over me, a tingle making its way from top to bottom of my spine.

 

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